Dharma Sutra

by David Pugh

  Molefi’s Diary, Bakau, The Gambia

  ‘Molefi, nothing seems to be happening,’ Sylvia was lying naked across my bare legs, on the double bed of her bedroom in the new main house at the 4H. It had been built into the wall at the end of the two blockhouses.

  ‘Madam, are you referring to my flaccid penis or our stalemate with Mr Aboboulaye Jatta?’

  ‘Both,’ she patted the said member, ‘and when did it become OUR problem? Whose side are you on?’

  ‘On my own side, of course,’ I answered, ‘unusually for me, I am at a loss to know where next to turn. I don’t like my new friend; I think he is a homosexual, by the way,’ I thought that would grab her attention.

  ‘Really!’ it worked, ‘And what makes you say that?’

  ‘He keeps referring to me as the black Daniel Craig,’ I struck a laconic Bond pose, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, he seems to have given you a Licence to Kill!’

  Very quick of her, I thought, and alas true. ‘It’s no joke, Sylvia, I am a dangerous, unpredictable chap as you well know, and I’m guessing that you are getting a vicarious pleasure from the knowledge that you are humping your own potential killer.’

  ‘There may be some truth in that,’ she pondered, ‘Did you ever see the Japanese film, Ai no Corrida, where the former prostitute keeps trying to strangle her lover, to get a better erection out of him?’

  ‘In the Realm of the Senses by Nagisa Oshima 1976,’ my encyclopaedic memory for poetry and facts can irritate some people, while others find it charming.

  ‘Yes, she kills him in the end!’ Sylvia was one of the former, she thought of me as a show-off. ‘Back to the matter in hand,’ she was holding my penis, making disturbing sawing gestures.

  ‘Have you looked inside Bob’s scrotum sack?’ I quizzed her.

  ‘I have,’ she hesitated, ‘in no particular order, there’s his mother’s lock of hair that we knew about, the foreskin of a very small penis, I’m guessing what looks like the remains of his birth caul, a glass eye and a spent bullet.’

  ‘Well, he probably would like to put that bullet right up your vagina!’ I pushed my finger into the spot. ‘The glass eye was his father’s; he lost an eye in military service and was killed on the Casamance border, the year after Aboboulaye was born.’ I picked up on the bullet, ‘You may well have the actual bullet that killed his father, if so it is a powerful addition to the gris-gris. The foreskin is nothing unusual but the caul is quite rare, only one birth in 80,000 does the child still have the caul attached to the head.’ I hoped this statistic would be of interest and not irritate her. ‘Today’s genetic engineers could go to town, reconstructing his DNA from what there is in that little bag, I don’t suppose I could see it?’ I coaxed.

  ‘Nice try, Molefi, but as I still don’t know whose side…’ there was no need for her to finish the sentence. ‘I’m still very surprised,’ she was looking puzzled, ‘I grabbed his Gregory on an impulse; I never thought I’d have this powerful hold over him.’

  ‘Well, there are two things we can learn from this Gregory,’ I observed, ‘one is that the inclusion of the foreskin indicates that it was given to Bob after his circumcision, which is done just before puberty here in The Gambia and seems to tell us that he has a very small prick, which he wouldn’t want broadcasted.’

  ‘The odd thing is, though,’ I paused, ‘we all know that his mother is supposedly a devout Muslim but no verses from the Quran were included.’ I tried to give her my take on it. Bob was brought up by a household of women who were very protective of him, as they had lost their number one male provider. His mother was one of seven sisters, each of which had one or more daughters; he was the only boy and they all wanted to look after him. He was smothered by their love; they warned him that any little action he took could go badly wrong and kill him. Swimming he would drown, cycling he’d fall over and a lorry would run over his head, climbing a tree he would fall from the branches and be crippled for life. On and on they pointed out life’s dangers and assured him he’d be safe as long as he had his gris-gris. This is one reason why he now despises and maltreats women and yet he still deeply loves his mother. I know this because he told me some of these things when we had a few drinks together; he was trying to convince me that he was not a superstitious man. He is deeply spiritually insecure; he believes the gris-gris she made for him truly protects him from all that might go wrong.’

  ‘He has had a charmed life, the man is a criminal who has done many bad things and hurt many innocent people, some would call him evil, but I have no time for that word. Evil is a construct of the organised religions, to literally put the fear of God into people and keep them under control. Some people would actually consider me an evil man, perish the thought, I just do the sort of work that is outside the understanding of the ordinary person, who never realise how much secret killing goes on in their name and is arranged by the government they voted for. Bob believes that he has not been caught by the authorities because his Gregory is like a guardian angel, perhaps the spirit of his father watching over him. His wrongdoings have remained below the radar of this world and the spirit realm, which he believes in. He now fears some of his deeds will come to light; believe me, beneath the swagger and machismo is a small trembling little boy. Perhaps he thinks that if his mother found out about her son’s sexual ambiguities, she’d probably throw the first stone at him herself. His mind is in a very fragile state, his business brain is working well but this so-called spiritual side is in tatters.’

  ‘And where’s your spiritual side hiding, Molefi?’ she wasn’t the first woman to ask. ‘Inside a bottle of Tassenberg wine, of course,’ was a reply she probably expected; instead, I changed the subject.

  ‘Now tell me, Madam Sylvia, where is that no longer jealous husband of yours?’

  ‘Oh!’ she replied, ‘He’s somewhere over China.’

  Chapter 47: The Long Road to Lithang

  Jeffrey’s Journal, China

  The Tibetan Autonomous Republic is only a small part of what used to be called Tibet, and you don’t need a permit to visit Amdo, Deqin and Kham, which are still there, albeit renamed Chinese provinces. The majority of my Tibetan friends had taken the difficult journey from Lithang and Chinese oppression, across the Himalayas to claim sanctuary from the Indian government. I took the long road to Lithang in Kham, now part of Garzê Tibetan Prefecture, Western Sichuan Province, by bus.

  I vividly remember my dear Rinzen showing me photos of Lithang, and there was pure love of her hometown in the eyes of this remarkable young Tibetan woman. She told me stories of eating dried Yak meat and the hunting of the Yasargumba caterpillar plant, and I determined that one day I’d go there. The road from Chengdu to Lithang and on to Lhasa requires an overnight stop in Kangding, the original beginning of Tibet. At 2,600 meters it helps acclimatise one for the high Tibetan Plateau and provides the truck drivers on their way to India with some welcome distraction.

  I had heard about the pink-lit Chinese brothels here and the condemnation of them by some of my female Tibetan friends. What no one prepared me for were the numbers of freelance girls working the main street, a lot of whom were Tibetan, wearing not high heels and short dresses but traditional Tibetan costume. The drivers are prepared to pay a lot more for the thrill of having a Tibetan woman dressed in her chuba, preferably with the apron that denotes she is married. I spent several days here walking the streets; I was approached by many girls. They were under no compulsion to do the work and were freely accepted by local restaurants and shops that allowed them a fixed spot outside their premises. I have to admit that I really wanted to take one of these Tibetan women in her traditional dress back to my room and slowly remove each item of her clothing. I have one rule in life when it comes to Night Butterflies, as they are prettily referred to in Bali, they must speak some English; I need to feel I’m having some sort of relationship. I have known many Night Butterflies over the years and most are feisty, independent and usually ve
ry witty; in Kangding I had no such luck, just a bow and a smile, not so much as a Gambian, ‘You-me?’ I returned to my hotel, which had its own pink light rooms, in a mixture of feelings, mostly sexual disappointment.

  The reception was on the first floor, apparently unmanned but lots of giggling and gasps coming from behind a shutter pulled down for the night. I raised it slightly to get my key. Lying on a single mattress on the floor behind the desk and sardined together watching a porn movie were the three small but very pretty night manageresses, hands in each other’s shorts and up skirts.

  ‘Nihao,’ I said shakily, they replied, ‘Cum join, Mr!’

  Well, I thought that’s not a bad level of communication and crossed over the counter.

  Chapter 48: Love at the Lhasa Inn

  Most Tibetan people are well assimilated to life in Kangding and the younger generation is happy to have the freedom that a Chinese passport gives them. I met a young Tibetan woman who wanted to be known as Mary; she owned and ran a traditional Tibetan wedding shop. Mary had been an English teacher but very few in Kangding wanted to learn English; Chinese was the language of business. I asked if she had thought of going to Europe or America and claim asylum. She replied that she didn’t want a job cleaning Western toilets and was happy being with her family and having her own business in Kangding, which she insisted was still very much part of Tibet. All this time she had been openly breastfeeding her baby son, unselfconsciously exposing her full right breast, a sight you would never see in Dharamsala. This feisty woman had made her choice and was fighting for her country’s identity in her own way. She was wrong on one point though, she considered that Lithang was a backwater and that I’d not find anyone there who could speak English because she said, that if they did speak English, they’d leave. I was about to meet and fall in love with yet another remarkable Tibetan woman, who would turn my prejudices and Mary’s upside down.

  The bus to Lithang only leaves every other day; the road being improved and widened, when it’s completed it will be like travelling in American mountains, but I travelled up and up onto the high grasslands surrounding Lithang in a dusty chaos. After ten hours of long drops, yaks and nomad camps, I was rewarded with the view of the plain of Lithang County and the spectacular snow-covered peaks beyond.

  There was in no doubt that I was in Tibet; dusty roads, prayer flags and cowboys on motorbikes. A heavy police presence brooded over the central crossroads, where young men gathered in hope of finding work. A new public square was under construction, not far from the crossroads and near the birthplace of the 7th Dalai Lama. There are quite a few Chinese restaurants and supermarkets but most businesses are Tibetan-owned, including the Lhasa Inn, where I checked in. The Tibetan owner only had only a few words of English, but a curtain parted behind reception and a lady’s voice spoke in that familiar slightly gruff and throaty Lithang English I knew so well. I only saw her hand as she was in her bed in the little room. She said that there was a special off-season rate available and told the owner to take me to the top floor, where I’d find a Western-style bathroom. The bathroom might have been a bonus but one wall was built entirely out of four glass panels, giving me a breathtaking view of the Tibetan mountains; I’d have taken it at almost any price. I arrived in Lithang expecting to rough it for the duration of my stay, but the Lhasa Inn defied my expectations.

  I find Tibetan women amongst the most beautiful in the world, and I have a habit of falling in love with too many of them. Cartoon hearts revolved around my head when I eventually met the owner of the voice behind the curtain, Lhamu, the guesthouse manager. Turning forty, she was a one-woman campaigner for a better life for her people. I was captivated by her lilac eyes that caught the dawn-lit snow of the distant peaks, those eyes turned almost ultraviolet when the sun caught them at the right angle. She was as tall as a Kampa woman but thin and sinewy in tight-fitting jeans, firm breasts beneath her T-shirt and amazingly, strawberry-blonde hair. I couldn’t resist asking her if her hair was dyed; cheekily, she replied that it was her real colour and she had hair to match it in other places. A German friend of mine is convinced that there is a race of angel-like people, living under the Earth’s crust, in an Edgar Rice Burroughs Pellucidar-type land. He believes the entrance to this hidden land is to be found on the Tibetan Plateau and occasionally, some of the inhabitants come out, to walk amongst us lesser beings. Years later, when I gave him my description of Lhamu, he was convinced that I had had the honour of meeting one of these semi-divine beings. Lhamu, like every Tibetan woman I’ve known, had amazing strength and could take on any task the hotel threw at her. She was despairing that the water pump had broken in the sister hotel, the International Youth Hostel.

  ‘You can’t get anything useful in this town; someone has to go to Chengdu for a replacement.’

  Lhamu had a Chinese passport and possibly a Pellucidar one too and had been fortunate enough to have been taught Mandarin as a child, unlike most of my Tibetan friends of her generation. She had gained a scholarship from the Tibetan Foundation to go to England to study the language. She was very pleased to talk with me.

  ‘You speak English English, so many tourists who come here speak American English, but I love your native language, so many beautiful writings have come from it.’

  I told her that arguably Wales’ greatest poet, Dylan Thomas, agreed with her. That night she came to my room with an anthology of English romantic poems,

  ‘Read these to me, read them all to me in your English voice and pretend you love me.’ Lhamu was a truly a remarkable and unforgettable woman. I pray I may be blessed with the good fortune and honour of another such evening in her company.

  Chapter 49: The Zambezi Bongo Band

  "Dear Bouba,

  My brother, here I am in England and I have a job as a musician. I play the African drums at World World Park, Farnborough. I entertain the people while they wait to ride the Jungle River Rapids. I am so happy to get away from our so-called brother Bob Jatta. Man, you would not believe what that man made me do, he is evil and a no good Jola. He tells me there is a broker fee for getting me to England. He says I have to work for him for one year to pay it off or he will turn me in to the immigration police. I try to work for Bob but the work he does is sick, man; he sells children to fat cats and then he dispose of them like garbage. I won’t do that work, it is not good work, not honest. He is a bad, bad man. I run away and get this job; they call me Big Size Bongo. You remember you used to call me Big Size because of my huge manhood. I liked that name. I hear from the Gambian community here that Bob is looking for me, but I trust our brothers here will not stick me.

  One love,

  Sherif Big Size Dibba."

  THE SURREY & HANTS STAR COURIER

  JUNGLE RIVER WRECK

  Two men of African origin, posing as UK immigration officers, caused a riot on World World Park’s Jungle River Rapids Ride. They claimed that they had a warrant for one of the park musicians, Big Size Bongo. Bongo jumped on one of the boats, pushing a family of four into the water. The two so-called officers commandeered the next boat and went in pursuit of their quarry. To the horror of the park-goers, the two started to open fire with hand guns on Bongo, causing the park security to board a third boat and join the chase. As you are probably aware, these boats do not move independently, they run on a rail concealed under the water. As the first boat went down the steep incline of the Victoria Falls Drop, the two immigration officers jumped from their boat into the one below. The impact of two large men landing heavily on Bongo’s boat caused it to derail. This had the effect of tipping out the four park security officers from their boat, which had just crested the falls. Witnesses said that an almighty altercation ensued in the water beneath the cascade. The leopard-skin-clad Bongo escaped the water with the two fake officers in hot pursuit, one of whom had an afro and the other dreadlocks, ill concealed under their small helmets.

  Chapter 50: Knock on Wood

  The Testament of Aboboulaye, England
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  ‘So you think you are clever, you dumb-arsed nigger?’

  I look at him quivering there in his leopard-skin poncho and Kenyan kilt, in-between my two clowns, Shaft Man and Tosh. What a trio, why do I need these people? Because I, Bob Jatta, don’t usually like getting my hands dirty but not today, blood will flow.

  ‘What are you supposed to be, some sort of Zulu?’

  The World World Park people must have a very perverted and disrespectful vision of Africa.

  ‘Didn’t you think I’d find you, you fucking idiot, the whole Gambian community here know your ridiculous name, fucking Big Size?’

  He was a small man; he needed his nickname to become the big man he thought he was.

  ‘Time to see how big you are.’

  Shaft Man and Tosh, one an Afro-headed throwback to the Seventies and the other a stereotypical Rasta, still in ill-fitting police uniforms, rip off the kilt. Sherif is wearing powder blue Y-fronts with a white trim, barely holding in his obviously oversized pudenda.

  ‘Fatou, take them down!’ I order my immaculately dressed P.A. to kneel in her pencil skirt and pull down his underpants.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing, man, you are disrespecting me!’ Sherif protests.

  Shit, he is big, I thought Remus had a big cock but Sherif is built like an elephant, I wanted a prick like that. One advantage of having a small cock is that I can hide the erection that is growing in my pants. I need to see that trunk erect, my prick is straining at the thought of getting it in my own mouth.

  ‘Okay, Big Size, let’s see how big it can get, jack yourself off.’

  ‘Fuck you, man! I ain’t going to do that in front of you fuckers!’

  ‘Very well then, Fatou will do it for you.’

  From the way she lifts his member I can see it is quite a weight. My personal assistant never shows any emotion, she never laughs, never cries, never shows any sign of orgasm, even when I’ve ordered Remus to screw her for my entertainment.