Part 9 (1/2)
Amid the brown and green, Sam spotted thatched huts, constructed from st.u.r.dy shafts. They gathered at the center of the village around a small patch of muddy ground. The fields were spotted with men and women at work. Some stooped in the fields, while others hacked at encroaching gra.s.ses and vines. A few children ran about getting lost in the towering plants to pursue a bouncing ball. She took in a deep breath. She had just stepped from wild into civilization.
She glanced at Brandon and they shared a relieved smile. She scanned the surrounding area, taking note of everything. The buildings were mainly huts, primitive in design with no signs of electrical power. A few parked trucks gathered rust in the suns.h.i.+ne.
The pygmy girls led them past the wet fields. Some nearby women looked up as they approached and the children were distracted from their soccer game, watching the strange white people who had just stepped out of the forest. They looked nervous, so Sam raised her hand in a shy wave, smiling at the nearest children. They waved back and smiled, but did not approach.
Brandon and Sam trudged after the girls, who slowed their pace somewhat. Their feet stuck in the muddy ground and the suction pulled off Sam's sandals. She imagined all manner of worms and parasites crawling in that mud, looking for a new home in her feet.
Finally they reached the line of thatched huts. An overgrown dirt road led from the center of the town, but it looked unused. Several men and women looked up when they entered the square. A few huts lined the other side. These were smaller than the thatched buildings and looked thrown together with sticks and leaves. A few pygmy men and women, all of them several inches shorter than Sam, eyed them curiously. The gathering didn't seem unfriendly and she didn't feel threatened, but she could tell their presence made the village uneasy.
The pygmy girls shouted greetings, and a woman stopped to ask some questions. Sam listened while the girls explained and then strode up to one of the huts. The lead girl yelled inside at the top of her lungs. The hut was constructed with an overhang to hide under when it rained. The doorway was wide open and welcoming.
”This seems like a nice place,” Sam said to her husband.
”Let's see if we can find somebody who speaks English,” he replied.
She turned toward the largest group of villagers. ”Does anybody here speak English? English? Anyone?” When no one spoke up, she shrugged helplessly. ”I tried.”
”Francais?” a voice asked from the hut.
A tall Bantu man stood in the doorway, ragged hair hanging down his temples. He had his hand extended and a smile on his face. ”You are Americains?” he asked in French.
Sam and Brandon nodded.
”Bonjour,” the man greeted.
She hesitated at his outstretched hand. Many of the men she had met since she came to Africa had refused to shake her hand and had been insulted by the prospect of it. But this one offered his freely.
”Bonjour Monsieur,” she replied with a smile as she took it.
”My name is Marcel,” he told her in French. ”I am the chief of this village.”
Sam introduced herself and Brandon, explaining regretfully that her husband didn't speak French. ”Our plane crashed near here and we've been lost in the forest for two days.”
”Your plane? You are lucky to be alive then.”
”You have no idea.”
”You must be hungry and thirsty,” Marcel exclaimed. ”Please, come inside my hut. Take your packs off and enjoy our hospitality.”
Once inside the pygmy girls said good-bye, and Sam thanked them again for their help. The girls hurried off.
She asked Marcel where they were off to. He shrugged and said that some of the pygmies were moving to a camp deeper in the woods.
No sooner had they sat in wooden chairs, than a woman emerged from another room and offered them each bottles of cola. She and Brandon took them gratefully. She opened hers and took a long gulp. Although warm, the sugar, caffeine, and fizz cut right to her brain. She felt weariness roll off.
”We've put corn on the fire,” Marcel explained as he sat across from them. ”That should be out shortly.”
Other villagers gathered around. A few introduced themselves in French, but many of them didn't seem to understand. Sam wondered if they were curious or just looking for a share of the food.
”Thank you so much,” Sam said. ”You have no idea how good it feels to be back in civilization.”
”You're welcome. Forgive us if our hospitality is lacking. We are not used to visitors here.”
She explained how they had come to Marcel's village. When she talked about the plane being shot down, Marcel's brow furrowed with worry. She insisted they hadn't seen a single militia soldier since they had crashed into the swamp. The villagers seemed concerned about keeping their home a secret. Marcel didn't like to hear about militias being so close.
But when she mentioned the swamp, Marcel's face grew darker.
”That is impossible,” he said plainly.
”What is impossible?”
”You mean the swamp to the north of here?” an old Bantu man asked. His French was heavily accented with the singsong tones the pygmy girls used.
”We crashed into a pond and then followed a river to an old pygmy camp. That's where we found the trail here.”
The men exchanged glances. ”That is impossible,” Marcel repeated. ”People do not come out of that place alive. The place is cursed.”
”What do you mean?”
”They say there is a powerful spirit there. It is evil and craves the blood of men. It commands the forest animals to do its will.” His voice trailed off when he saw her nodding. ”You have seen it?”
”We were attacked by baboons and an okapi. One night I saw a man in my room. Like a ghost.”
”You should speak with a priest,” Marcel insisted. ”You could carry its curse with you.”
”Maybe.”
”There is no maybe,” he argued. After a moment, his friendliness returned. ”We can talk about this later.”
The Bantu woman returned carrying dishes stacked with hot cobs of corn. She placed plates in front of Brandon and Sam, the steam billowing up toward the roof. Once their guests were served, she pa.s.sed out the remainder to Marcel and the gathered villagers.
Brandon eyed his plate hungrily. He scooped up a cob and bit into the juicy corn. He thanked Marcel and the women repeatedly as he savored the yellow kernels.
The corn had a smoky flavor but was bursting with juice and b.u.t.ter. When Sam asked Marcel about it, he explained that they were grilled with the husk still on to trap the moisture inside.
”Were those your fields I saw outside?”
He shook his head. ”The maize crops are owned by Monsieur Devereaux.”
She raised her eyebrow at the name. ”Devereaux?”
”Yes, Raoul Devereaux. He keeps the cornfields and pays the villagers to work in them. He is not always fond of visitors to our village. I wished to let him greet you or not as he saw fit.”
She asked Marcel about the village and its crops and how it was that they were able to live without visiting the nearby towns.
”We have a strong relations.h.i.+p with the BaMbuti here.”
”BaMbuti? You mean the pygmies?”
He nodded. ”They provide us with meat, and we grow our crops, and when we need other things we send people out. But mostly, Monsieur Devereaux provides those things now.”