Confessions of a Preteen Powder Monkey - Part 2
Created | Updated Jul 2, 2006
The Resident of the Amazon Area (or RAA) who had been referred to as Jen smiled a beautiful smile of quite unsettlingly sharp teeth.
I swallowed, and tried desperately to come up with an excuse. “I, uh, just remembered. I have, uh, have to, uh, I…” They seemed unfazed by this indisputable piece of logic. I subtly started edging away. They subtly started edging forward. They were both smiling now. Their teeth put me in mind of a… well, of something really sharp.
Life really is out to get me. Here was I, thinking that this was a welcome break from preparing canons, but when it comes right down to it, where am I? On a desert island, being chased by people with sharp objects who want to kill me.
To cut a long story short, they ended up dragging me kicking and screaming back to their village. Several minutes later I was strapped sideways to a pole, and just when the people with knives were moving dangerously close, some old guy emerged from a tent. Judging by the way that everyone started bowing the moment he came out, he must have been their village leader, or tax collector. He muttered something incomprehensible to one of the others, and I was untied, fell to the earth painfully, and was led into his tent.
He spoke in a hushed, thickly accented voice, and I had to lean in to hear him. “A long time a story has been told of how a boy with hair that glows as the sun will come to us, and return to us the sacred Ikihaba stone.” I, normally as pure as the driven snow, have to confess that I did something wrong at this point, and something which I have regretted ever since. I nodded off. You can’t blame me really, though. After all, I was already exhausted from all my failed escape attempts earlier, and the old man’s cheesy legend was so unbelievably dull. I woke with a jolt, some immeasurable distance of time later. “You are the boy that we speak of.” He continued, “Come,” he beckoned me forward; then opened a large, crude wooden box. In awe I saw that it was filled with small nuggets of gold. “These are all that remains of our people’s great fortune. The rest has been stolen from us by the white men. It is they who, as I said, also are responsible for the loss of the stone. Take the gold. Use it to fund your search for the stone. Return on the wings of the wind, young one. Our village needs you.”
On the whole, I saw this as a wonderful opportunity to perform a charitable act. Take these charming people’s gold, and, to quote the song, “run Venezuela.” They will assume I am still out there trying oh-so-hard to find their precious brick, while the money will be donated to The Multinational Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Me. Piece of cake.
I made my polite exit, stealing a few pieces of fruit as I left, set to the cheers of the grateful villagers. I suppose this is why they are referred to as “backward civilisations.” So refreshingly gullible.
I swallowed, and tried desperately to come up with an excuse. “I, uh, just remembered. I have, uh, have to, uh, I…” They seemed unfazed by this indisputable piece of logic. I subtly started edging away. They subtly started edging forward. They were both smiling now. Their teeth put me in mind of a… well, of something really sharp.
Life really is out to get me. Here was I, thinking that this was a welcome break from preparing canons, but when it comes right down to it, where am I? On a desert island, being chased by people with sharp objects who want to kill me.
To cut a long story short, they ended up dragging me kicking and screaming back to their village. Several minutes later I was strapped sideways to a pole, and just when the people with knives were moving dangerously close, some old guy emerged from a tent. Judging by the way that everyone started bowing the moment he came out, he must have been their village leader, or tax collector. He muttered something incomprehensible to one of the others, and I was untied, fell to the earth painfully, and was led into his tent.
He spoke in a hushed, thickly accented voice, and I had to lean in to hear him. “A long time a story has been told of how a boy with hair that glows as the sun will come to us, and return to us the sacred Ikihaba stone.” I, normally as pure as the driven snow, have to confess that I did something wrong at this point, and something which I have regretted ever since. I nodded off. You can’t blame me really, though. After all, I was already exhausted from all my failed escape attempts earlier, and the old man’s cheesy legend was so unbelievably dull. I woke with a jolt, some immeasurable distance of time later. “You are the boy that we speak of.” He continued, “Come,” he beckoned me forward; then opened a large, crude wooden box. In awe I saw that it was filled with small nuggets of gold. “These are all that remains of our people’s great fortune. The rest has been stolen from us by the white men. It is they who, as I said, also are responsible for the loss of the stone. Take the gold. Use it to fund your search for the stone. Return on the wings of the wind, young one. Our village needs you.”
On the whole, I saw this as a wonderful opportunity to perform a charitable act. Take these charming people’s gold, and, to quote the song, “run Venezuela.” They will assume I am still out there trying oh-so-hard to find their precious brick, while the money will be donated to The Multinational Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Me. Piece of cake.
I made my polite exit, stealing a few pieces of fruit as I left, set to the cheers of the grateful villagers. I suppose this is why they are referred to as “backward civilisations.” So refreshingly gullible.
