Baboons for Lunch

by James Michael Dorsey

Inside there were two bottles of cobra whiskey and my wallet was lite by $20.

  Today, a bottle of cobra whiskey holds a place of honor among the collectables in my television room. My wife threatens to toss it out almost daily, visitors find it disgusting…and my dog growls whenever she notices it.

  PART TWO

  Discoveries and Revelations

  Jordan’s Bull

  Jordan’s Bull

  Hippos surfaced with wiggling ears as the river man poled our dhow past the submerged herd. We were both tense, expecting a bluff charge, while only feet away white pelicans with long golden beaks floated in the shallows casually scooping minnows in their great fleshy pouches. On the opposite shore, the grass huts of the Fulani glowed like fiery tumbleweeds in the hazy sunrise as bare-breasted women pounded their dirty wash on river rocks.

  At this bend of Mali’s Niger River, the lethargic water resembles dark-roasted coffee as it slowly meanders on toward the fabled city of Timbuktu. I was in old spear-and-loincloth Africa to chase the end of an era with my camera.

  The Fulani, hereditary nomads of North Africa, had driven over 1,000 head of their cattle onto a small island to graze for a few days and, as is their custom, they had surrounded them with their traditional grass huts. Fulani move about like the wind; they and those like them are vanishing from the African continent.

  My dhow was piled with bunches of bananas, gifts of a delicacy hard to come by in such a remote place. I knew from experience that when they saw me coming, the village children would swarm me on the beach, looking for treats.

  While passing out the fruit I noticed one little boy sitting by himself, scooping mud from the river. He was fashioning curious animals out of the mud and laying them on a rock in the sand to bake in the sun. They struck me as wonderfully realistic from the hands of one so young. He worked with an intense concentration and the sureness of an instinctive artist that drew me to him. When I approached to tell him how much I liked his animals he did not speak or acknowledge me in any way so I dropped off a banana, left him to his work, and walked up the bank to the village.

  There, in front of a grass hut, I was warmly greeted by the village headman named Able, who noting my interest in the boy, told me his name was Jordan. “Like the river in the Bible,” he said. Able took both my hands in his and held my gaze as if searching for something in my face or demeanor until he finally added as a matter of fact, “He does not speak. He is touched by God.” He then asked me to sit with him and take tea.

  While Western medicine has unpronounceable names and diagnoses for various mental states, it has been my experience that in many remote cultures, people like Jordan often come with the title of “Touched by God.” In my own country such a child would probably be on a regimen of medications, therapy, or even confined to a “facility” to alter their behavior, but in rural Africa, people like Jordan are believed to exist on an alternate plane and are considered a liaison to the spirit world. Their condition is accepted as a gift to the village and they are often the people who become shamans or healers, commanding both power and respect. In rural Africa there is no mental illness, only spirits, both evil and good.

  I drank the obligatory welcome of tea and made small talk as custom demanded, but could not take my eyes off the young boy at the waters’ edge. I asked Able if God ever spoke to Jordan or through him and his answer was only an enigmatic smile as he topped off my teacup. I knew that any further questions could only result in a conversation beyond my comprehension because to this man the physical and spirit worlds are intermingled and I am still a long way from being able to claim the same.

  With Able’s blessing, I wandered into the vast cattle herd to take my photos while clouds of grasshoppers fled my shadow. Men filled calabash gourds with the morning milk then handed them off to young boys who carried the nectar back to the village. The women were busy ferrying goatskin bags of water to the herders. The air was full of bees swollen with pollen and the panoramic sky emphasized the vastness of the African plain. It was a travelers’ day when the voices of nature became an aria and the only mechanical sound was that of my shutter capturing limitless beauty. Wood fire smoke mingled with the stench of a thousand feral longhorns when I felt a slight tug on my pant leg. I looked down just as Jordan slipped his hand into mine. I had not heard him coming and he had not said a word. Together we stood surrounded by baying cattle, taking in the moment. He was eating the banana.

  I began to walk slowly and Jordan kept my pace, his hand swallowed by my own. As we passed them, people stopped working and stood at an informal attention. I thought at first that they were simply offering a respectful welcome to a visitor but as we continued, I realized it had nothing to do with me. They had stopped their work to acknowledge Jordan as he passed by, but it was more than that.

  Travelers are often captured by a vortex beyond their comprehension. Remote journeys can sometimes be disorienting to the point of the wanderer asking themselves, “What just happened?” For many, attaining such a moment is the very reason for traveling. My reasons are built on a history of such events that always seem to find me while in Africa. It is a land steeped in animism, and marinated in voodoo; a land of myth, legend, and ceremony where there is no horizon between the material and spiritual worlds and, by keeping an open mind, I have often found myself treading an edge between the two.

  At first, the sound was almost imperceptible from the constant breeze pushed along by the river, but it grew in intensity and volume until I could discern a harmonious chant. It was a traditional chant, the likes of which I have heard countless times in Africa, and yet it was its own. Rather than a narration followed by a chorus it was a constant mantra of the entire village emanating from their souls more than their lungs. It was a sound as old as the earth, a sound that held both agony and ecstasy. It was a sound I felt as much as heard. We were surrounded by the entire village, on their feet, chanting.

  It was melodious and calming while suggesting an underlying current of power that held me in a firm grip. I floated in the moment, an organic piece of ancient Africa swept along in its mystery and pageantry. I was no longer a visitor but an integral part of the village and I took in a panorama of the entire scene, hundreds of heads and shoulders interspersed throughout the vast cattle herd, all turned inward toward Jordan, who still held my hand. His head was now tilted skyward, his eyes were closed, and he showed a tiny smile as he wiped banana from his chin.

  Was this happening because the village holy man had left his trance to walk among them, or was I, this rare visitor, just an excuse for a spontaneous celebration? I had no idea what was taking place and I really did not care; I only wanted the moment to continue. Jordan was in another place or perhaps he had summoned another place to our here and now and something inside at that moment told me he was indeed, touched by God. Whatever was happening was African, and could never be understood by a non-African, and that was enough for me to know. I just let the chant envelope me.

  Jordan began to walk, this time leading me by the hand. The people parted as we passed them but continued their grand chorus. Time had slowed, sound intensified, colors glowed with brilliance, and I held the most sublime sense of belonging that has eluded me most times since. I remember herons flying overhead and egrets by the waterside and thinking how the emerald body of a dead cicada was the most brilliant green I had ever seen. The world had become intense. I was in my body but felt out of it being carried along by the wonderful melody. Hours may have passed but I am sure it was only minutes before I found myself back at Able’s hut.

  Jordan let go of my hand and returned to the riverside and his clay animals without ever having said a word. I do not remember the chanting coming to an end but suddenly all I heard was silence and when I looked about, people were returning to work tending the cattle. I felt elated yet unsure, as if exiting a dream. Able’s face carried a knowing smile that made me wonder if other visitors had had such a day as mine.

  It was la
te afternoon and the golden sky was turning crimson as the African sun submerged into the black water. People became silhouettes as Able walked me to the rivers’ edge where the river man waited for my return. We exchanged no words because none were sufficient. Our mutual silence was enough validation that something extraordinary had taken place. As I walked past Jordan he rose and pressed something into my hand, folding my fingers around it with great solemnity. He did not speak and made no eye contact. He simply returned to his place by the water and his clay animals. His gift was small, hard, and cool in my hand and I held it there, not looking at it until we reached the center of the river. It was a tiny clay bull, just like those that had surrounded us all day, Paleolithic in simplicity, pregnant with symbolism.

  I did not watch for hippos during our return crossing or notice the ethereal beauty of the West African sunset. I could only stare at the tiny figure in my palm, running my fingers over it and reliving the day in my soul. I did no analysis nor did I yearn for answers. In truth, I often prefer the what-if to what is, and this was one of those times. I wanted only the day as it was, now a memory, but one that I could recall whenever I wished by the tiny clay bull I now held in my hand. Since that day Jordan’s bull has become both talisman and artifact, and perhaps, even a relic.

  Later, at a café in Timbuktu, I met two people who had both preceded me to the island. Both had taken notice of the silent boy by the water. They both told me he had not reacted to them in any way and the people had been friendly but had not sung or chanted. I could drive myself crazy with speculation of “Why me?” so I chose to go with “Why not me?”

  Whether Jordan was “Touched by God” or simply a mute little boy, he held great face among his people and for his own reasons, took me into an unexplainable afternoon that has affected and elevated my life in the years that followed.

  I am sure the world is full of Jordans, mostly overlooked or even ignored, walking among us, visible only to those with open minds and hearts. Maybe all it takes to have the kind of day a traveler prays for is to give a boy a banana.

  Pan, the survivor

  From the Ashes

  The smoke of wood fires dulls the sunrise, silhouetting the spires of Angkor Wat as if in an Impressionist painting, and as the sun climbs, I watch their hazy shadow retreat from my feet like an ebbing tide.

  From cracks between stones on the moat a lone cicada keeps up its tattoo, oblivious to the fact that it is long past dawn, while across the road, a thro player from Phum Chom Rika, the nearby village of land-mine victims, coaxes a soulful melody from the lone string on his instrument. Monkeys, the praetorian guard of every temple, have started their endless chatter, announcing that the jungle is rousing from sleep.

  I turn to watch a screeching flight of wild parrots skim the water that rings these temples; these gorgeous temples, the soul of the Khmer nation. This land radiates peace and makes an ironic backdrop for the tale of horror I have come to record.

  I see Pan approaching, fingering his prayer beads, his saffron robes seemingly ablaze in the yellow mist. He walks as though he is not really there, feet barely touching the ground, a saint incarnate to the world at large, but, in his own eyes, a simple, humble monk. His body is bent from time and suffering, having lived through and seen more than anyone should, and I know through mutual friends, he wishes nothing more than to spend his remaining time in secluded meditation, but upon hearing of my book project, he readily agreed to speak with me in the hopes that no one should have to relive what he has.

  Pan is a Theravada monk, one of about 350,000 throughout Cambodia prior to the Khmer Rouge, and now one of about 300 to have outlived their regime. Besides surviving personal atrocities, he bears the weight of trying to re-establish a religious order dragged to the brink of extinction under a barbaric reign.

  Theravada means “Teaching of the Elders.” It is one of three main branches of Buddhism that originated in northern India and lower Nepal in the sixth century b.c., spreading rapidly throughout Southeast Asia until it was introduced to Cambodia in the 13th century via monks from Sri Lanka. It is a personal religion that worships no deity but rather teaches self-control in order to release all attachment to the material world and achieve personal enlightenment. Most Khmer men spend time as a novice before deciding to permanently don the saffron robes or return to a secular life. For many, the robes are the only escape from a life of dire poverty and hope for at least a minimal education. For Pan, it was a calling that put him in the eye of the storm.

  The reign of the Khmer Rouge has been likened to a shark attack, increasing in speed and fury, feeding upon its own momentum as more and more blood is spilled. In the headlong rush to turn Cambodia into a submissive, agrarian, socialist state, it was the Buddhist monks who bore the brunt of the assault. Why do the innocent always suffer the most? Perhaps it is a purification rite on their trail to sainthood.

  Their modest education made the monks a threat to the beast and since they do not work in the traditional sense of the word, they became an easy target, publicly declared useless and a drain on society to be removed. It has always been easy to kill people who do not fight back.

  Pan sits next to me on the stone railing of the Angkor moat bridge, lightly as a sparrow and unrolls an oilcloth from the folds of his robes. The cicada has ceased its chant and retreated from the gathering crowd. Inside the cloth is a shiny bowl; his rice bowl he says.

  He runs his finger around the rim and in a matter of fact voice says that it is the top of his own brother’s skull, killed by the Khmer Rouge. In true Buddhist fashion, he has kept it as a daily reminder of his own frailty and impermanence, and it is his way of beginning his story of survival. He stares at his dangling sandaled feet, too short to reach the ground, kicking them out like a child on a swing as he speaks. There is no self-pity or even regret in his voice.

  His story begins with the first night, when he was still a novice, lighting candles around the monastery when the door burst open and everyone was herded outdoors at gunpoint. There was no panic at first, only confusion. Outside, in a huddled mass, the Abbott and all elders were singled out and summarily shot with a single bullet to the back of the head. By now, the attendant nuns were being stripped by the soldiers, intent on a long night of debauchery. Cries and whimpers began to emanate from the victims, betraying those not sufficiently spiritual to take such actions in their stride.

  Next he tells me several monks were hung in the trees by their thumbs with small fires built beneath them, not enough to kill, but just large enough to singe the skin. According to Pan, an elderly monk named Non thanked his tormentors for their actions. One of the nuns, who was now hysterical, was stripped, held down, and a monk was made to kneel between her knees. A pistol was put to his head and he was ordered to copulate with her in front of all present. When he refused, a single shot rang out to the applause and cheers of the “soldiers” splattering the hysterical nun with blood and brain matter, and another monk was brought forward. According to Pan, this went on for quite a while, until several monks had done the deed, while several more had died in refusing. The nun, covered with victim’s blood and now shaking in silent fear, was left staked to the ground to die slowly.

  I search his face at this point for some sign, some emotional reaction, but see only tranquility. His roadmap face is a spider web of creases but his eyes burn bright. I pray his religious advancement had brought him true peace and that he is not simply numb in relating such unspeakable events. He returns my stare with a slight smile and says, “Tell this story once so it might never be told a second time.” His courage is beyond my comprehension and while he does not cry, my tears flow freely as I make a silent vow to never forget.

  We begin to walk into the main courtyard of Angkor and though surrounded by thousands of tourists, I hear only Pan as he continues in his soft voice.

  He was sent to the countryside and made to rip up railroad tracks, brutally physical work under an unforgiving sun while endu
ring nonstop blows from the fists and whips of his overseers. Soon, near starvation, and with only putrid river water to drink, he was near death, the final plan for him from the beginning. In the end, his involuntary will to live overcame his faith in karma as he crawled away one night, into the jungle, and there, lost all track of time.

  Pan continues slowly until a beautiful yellow butterfly zigs by us in its kamikaze flight plan. His conversation trails away to a whisper as I see his eyes following the creature that adds a smile to his face. In that second, he is totally immersed in the butterfly and his true self comes forth. Pan occupies a separate reality, a spiritual place I can only hope to reach one day. To him it is all karma, and all that surrounds him now is but Maya, an illusion to wander through until he reaches true enlightenment. It is this detachment that allows him to continue his story.

  He was not sure how long he stayed in the jungle, but once there he found others like himself, survivors, all with an unspeakable story, all wishing to live. Everyone had a talent; some could fish, others snared small animals. Pan knew a lot about medicinal plants and so became a gypsy doctor, moving every few days, avoiding roads and villages, helping the more needy for a handful of rice, defying the odds as a refugee in his own land; never revealing who or what he was.

  Sleep was taken in the branches of trees or buried under piles of leaves; he caught fish bare-handed, eating them raw, and with time suspended, he soon became feral, avoiding those who might betray him. Instincts were honed to equality with the creatures of the forest around him as he surrendered to being one of its denizens.

  One day, while foraging near a village, he spotted a saffron robe and, not believing his eyes, knew he had to talk with this brother. Pan could not remember the last time he spoke and at first the words choked in his mouth. The startled monk thought he was being attacked by a wild animal, and in fact, that is just what Pan had become.