Dear Susan,
This morning we were awakened by sharp sticks tapping against our heads and shoulders. We were suddenly
surrounded by dozens of natives, who spoke calmly to us in their foreign tongue. They didn’t hold knives or guns, but we
were still terrified. However, they didn’t seem angry or surprised to see us in the least. They seemed to ask us questions,
though it was difficult to tell. They pointed to our boat, pronouncing the word “Baa” and raising their eyebrows and
speaking to each other of it. We shrugged and asked them if there was anyone on the island who spoke English, or at
least French, since David took two years in high school. “English?” one man said. They nodded, and pointed into the
forest.
The natives gestured us away from the creek to the beach itself. We were too terrified to resist. There another native
stood around a pile of clothes, clay pots, trinkets, and items of religious ritual, chanting and pointing at our boat. They
waved at us to sit in the sand, and we were in no position to say no, as our weapons were in the boat. David leaned to me
and said, “I wasn’t expecting all this. What now?” We let our guard down. The natives all began following the lead of the
first, and they chanted what he said and moved as he moved.
As the cadenced dancing reached its most frenzied pace, another taller native came out from the forest, leading a group
of pigs each tied to each other’s rear legs. The taller native wore red paint on his chest, which read “U.S.A.” As soon as
we saw this, he withdrew a blade from a sheath on his back and joined the others in their chanting. We thought they were
mocking us, and immediately discussed the idea of running the one hundred yards to our p-boat and quickly arming
ourselves for a scrap. For a moment there we thought the Indonesians instigated the natives to become anti-American
agitators, and we felt suddenly as if we were on shaky ground.
However, then the most startling thing of all happened: they began chanting “We love you U.S.A. We love you U.S.A.
Please bring us our cargo! Please bring us our cargo.” Then suddenly, the tall native with the machete ran down the line
of pigs and slit each one of their throats, and severed the heads of several of them. It was really something. The pigs fell
over like a series of bloody dominoes, each one squealing, spasming, and shuddering in order. Then the natives dragged
everything—the clothes, the pots, the pigs—into the ocean, still chanting and pointing over the horizon.
I have to admit, we were in utter shock, unsure what to say to these people, unsure what actions to take. It was like that
time in Mexico way back when, except we didn’t have a hotel to run to. They approached us, and for several minutes a
shockwave registered throughout all of us. They seemed delighted that we witnessed this ceremony, for whatever twisted
reason, and we probably just appeared dumfounded in the presence of this strange group of people. However, we were
elated that they spoke English, even if we were somewhat disturbed by its use. We began asking them questions. Yet,
despite the fact that we heard them speak our language, they didn’t seem to understand a word we said. Maybe the chants
are all they know.
They pointed again into the woods and began walking. As they walked, they pointed back at our boat and spoke to each
other in their tongue. I don’t know what will happen, but we decided to follow them. We are catching our breath for a few
minutes right now by the uppermost portion of this creek, and we’re going on with them after that.
Love,
Charles
This morning we were awakened by sharp sticks tapping against our heads and shoulders. We were suddenly
surrounded by dozens of natives, who spoke calmly to us in their foreign tongue. They didn’t hold knives or guns, but we
were still terrified. However, they didn’t seem angry or surprised to see us in the least. They seemed to ask us questions,
though it was difficult to tell. They pointed to our boat, pronouncing the word “Baa” and raising their eyebrows and
speaking to each other of it. We shrugged and asked them if there was anyone on the island who spoke English, or at
least French, since David took two years in high school. “English?” one man said. They nodded, and pointed into the
forest.
The natives gestured us away from the creek to the beach itself. We were too terrified to resist. There another native
stood around a pile of clothes, clay pots, trinkets, and items of religious ritual, chanting and pointing at our boat. They
waved at us to sit in the sand, and we were in no position to say no, as our weapons were in the boat. David leaned to me
and said, “I wasn’t expecting all this. What now?” We let our guard down. The natives all began following the lead of the
first, and they chanted what he said and moved as he moved.
As the cadenced dancing reached its most frenzied pace, another taller native came out from the forest, leading a group
of pigs each tied to each other’s rear legs. The taller native wore red paint on his chest, which read “U.S.A.” As soon as
we saw this, he withdrew a blade from a sheath on his back and joined the others in their chanting. We thought they were
mocking us, and immediately discussed the idea of running the one hundred yards to our p-boat and quickly arming
ourselves for a scrap. For a moment there we thought the Indonesians instigated the natives to become anti-American
agitators, and we felt suddenly as if we were on shaky ground.
However, then the most startling thing of all happened: they began chanting “We love you U.S.A. We love you U.S.A.
Please bring us our cargo! Please bring us our cargo.” Then suddenly, the tall native with the machete ran down the line
of pigs and slit each one of their throats, and severed the heads of several of them. It was really something. The pigs fell
over like a series of bloody dominoes, each one squealing, spasming, and shuddering in order. Then the natives dragged
everything—the clothes, the pots, the pigs—into the ocean, still chanting and pointing over the horizon.
I have to admit, we were in utter shock, unsure what to say to these people, unsure what actions to take. It was like that
time in Mexico way back when, except we didn’t have a hotel to run to. They approached us, and for several minutes a
shockwave registered throughout all of us. They seemed delighted that we witnessed this ceremony, for whatever twisted
reason, and we probably just appeared dumfounded in the presence of this strange group of people. However, we were
elated that they spoke English, even if we were somewhat disturbed by its use. We began asking them questions. Yet,
despite the fact that we heard them speak our language, they didn’t seem to understand a word we said. Maybe the chants
are all they know.
They pointed again into the woods and began walking. As they walked, they pointed back at our boat and spoke to each
other in their tongue. I don’t know what will happen, but we decided to follow them. We are catching our breath for a few
minutes right now by the uppermost portion of this creek, and we’re going on with them after that.
Love,
Charles
letter two
