Estuary 9

Shame coughed spittle on my brow, I was sure everyone could see it, but it was the childish desire to please that kept me at attention as the next match concluded. The winner was a young man with speed and a long reach. He stayed in the center of us. Pumala reappeared, his horsehair eyebrows leveled in concentration, his criss-cross tattoos absorbing the shadows in the firelight. I had the idea to walk past them and on to the lodge, with deliberation, marking their celebration with my modern nonchalance. I held onto the idea and repeated it to myself with variations.

"This is the last one tonight," Malu told me. "After comes the storytellers. I will bring your notebook and recorder."

"Leave the notebook and take the recorder yourself, Malu," I said. "Report to me in the morning, with breakfast, eggs if you have them. I will be retiring directly."

My bed was like a stubborn geologic plate inching imperceptibly. As soon as I began to doze it crumpled and bucked and I shot awake. Turning side to side did little to abet my discomfort. It was late. Laughter and conversation reached my ears, but in its strange tongue it melded with the gibberish calling from the jungle, meaning nothing, agitating my isolation. I was betrayed and humiliated before the entire village by the only person who spoke my language. By lacking their language I was stripped of who I was. My identity was determined the village: I was a clown. But I picked myself up and bore it, at the least. I wondered if I were injured in the match and what a diagnosis from a doctor in these parts would consist of. There was treatment to be had in Kuala Lampur. If I felt more than bruised and sore in the morning, I'd arrange to return.

Someone was standing over me. "Here is some root tea," Pumala said.