Becoming a Man.

I was fighting a monkey in the Black River Gorges the day it happened. I’d packed a bag with the essentials; knife, compass, matches, water, biscuits, a lightweight rain Mac and a length of garrotting wire and set off alone moments before dawn. At sixteen you have to do these things, test your manhood in a real sense instead of just measuring your penis. I walked the half a mile to the nearest bus stop where I caught the line to Vacoas, changed for Souillac and stayed on until it reached Grand Bassin, where I jumped off and marched into the deep tropical undergrowth of the forest. It hadn’t rained for sometime; something quite unusual considering the time of year and the ground was solid underfoot; twigs snapped like silenced pistol fire, dried leaves crunched into perfect tinder. I delved deeper and deeper into the jungle, pushing away groping green arms and tentacles, confident of my path and my ultimate intentions to slaughter a wild animal.

            There can be nothing more satisfying to a human male than the sensation immediately following utter destruction. I’d discovered this fact, along with the fundamental difference between women and men, when I was about five years old; pouring a kettle of boiling water slowly into the open tip of a red ants nest whose residents had persecuted our household for sometime. Philippe and Philomena had stood close watching, cheering on their approval until it became obvious that my enjoyment was a little more zealous than was required in the circumstances. Philomena had grabbed the kettle away from me, smacking my hand for having shouted “die, die, die, you bastards”, when only moments before she had encouraged the whole affair, while Philippe had sidled up quietly once she was out of sight, rubbed my head affectionately and said, “That’s my boy.”

            So with that knowledge embedded in my heart I’d struck forth alone and honed a destructive instinct into a finely tuned skill by my sixteenth human year. I’d endeavour to undertake an expedition at least once a month, beginning with a few hours hunting near to the house and developing over the years into a full weekend tour of duty in the forests of the central plains. I’d trained myself killing rats, cats, the odd dog and then moved onto the bigger stuff once Philippe had convinced Philomena that I was old enough to go camping overnight on the beaches of Flic en Flac with my school friends. “But he doesn’t have any friends, Philippe,” she’d argued constantly, forcing me to bring a few of the louder, older boys from a neighbouring school home with me on a promise of future favours. Finally with permission in hand, I’d struck out on my own early one morning, discovering the bus route that would deliver my graduation from vermin to wild animals of the small deer and wild boar variety. I’d saved the monkey until last, partly due to its elusive nature but mostly because I knew that once I had slain a human cousin they would have to call me a man. 

            I’d just like to add here, that I never, not even for one moment contemplated killing a bird. Everyone has to draw the line somewhere and I couldn’t understand what satisfaction could be gained from killing a living being with wings. How could it not be blasphemous to consider it, especially on a small supposedly paradise island with so many endangered species? Real men don’t kill birds because the only reason you would do it is out of jealousy for the freedom that they have evolved over millennia. Chickens don’t count as they are flightless and bred for meat and eggs, but good heavens, a pink pigeon, an echo parakeet, a cuckoo-shrike, a flycatcher or an olive white-eye? I will never understand how humans can send such soulful creatures into oblivion, ignorantly believing that their demise will in no way effect their time in this life and beyond.

            Anyway, back to the monkey and that fateful day. I was crouching beneath the dark camouflage of a guava tree, its branches temptingly laden with fruit ripe for the picking when a wilderness of monkeys swaggered over the brow of a hill and into view.  They all appeared so cock sure of themselves, even the females and babies, gyrating their hips whilst masticating their sharpened teeth on twigs and shrubs. They grouped and regrouped incessantly; chattering and whooping to each other in a language I still have yet to learn. I watched carefully, without breathing, deciphering which male beast would be the easiest to separate from the group. Without distracting my studies, my fingers silently opened the rucksack at my feet and extracted the small but deadly knife and the bundle of garrotting wire for good measure. I thanked them under my breath as one macho primate distinguished himself from the pack, moving forward to take a closer look at the pendulous guava trees around me.

            Edging onward he sniffed the air, sniffed his own fingers and then his own behind, before bearing his teeth at an imaginary foe he thought he’d seen lurking underneath this evenings supper. His matted cream fur bristled with a combination of anticipation and apprehension, his heart skipped a beat. He looked back over his shoulder at his family and friends requesting a second opinion when little did he know a coup to overthrow his three year leadership had been brewing for some weeks. His kinfolk, all those that he had protected, mated and fed stared back chewing their lips and rubbing their bellies egging him on ever nearer to the tree heavy with succulent guava fruits. Calmed by their lack of alarm, the alpha simian ventured a few more feet until the rich sweetened aroma of the bush before him enveloped his senses, causing him to strike out alone, reaching out with a wizened and war weathered paw for release from his hunger. In that moment a human hand lashed out with a wire whip, grabbing the unguarded creature and yanking him violently into the dark depths of the tree.

            While his colleagues hooted and hoorayed, running every which way except the very direction in which their former leader had been plucked, I grappled the monkey in a version of hand to hand combat never hitherto be witnessed by man. Instead of wrestling each other to the ground, we set about dancing the most violent polka imaginable. Paw in hand we spun each other in a circle, his feet skipping through the air as I used my perceptive skills to avoid bashing my head against the thicker branches. Round and round we went, faster and faster, the space around us whipping into a frenzied kaleidoscope of dark green and spinning guavas; on and on, until the nausea of dizziness crept steadily into our bellies. Ever revolving, twirling, wheeling, unearthly whirling dervishes caught in a re-enactment of an unholy coupling, pirouetting maniacs on the brink of sanity. On and on and on we went until the monkey finally tired and let go of my right hand, promptly fanning itself out in an ultimate gesture of resignation and slamming its weary body into the hard trunk of the tree, cracking his spine in two.

            I immediately clamoured out from the scene and into the fresh air, gulping back the clean moistness to alleviate my corporeal need to vomit. The wilderness of traitors had already moved on, humanly disinterested in the fate of its figurehead, allowing me to spin around unnoticed in the opposite direction in an attempt to regain my mental balance. Once equilibrium had been achieved I readied myself to receive the spirit of the dead monkey, that overwhelming orgasmic sensation brought on by the kill of prey. I stood in the clearing, my arms outstretched, my legs slightly apart, my head held high with nostrils and mouth open. I held that stance for some time. Nothing happened. Nothing was received, not even a fly. I let my arms flop to my sides, turned around dejected to examine the shadows under the tree and much to my surprise witnessed the broken monkey crawling on all paws towards me, the glint of revenge in his eyes. He stopped a few feet in front of me, drew back his lips to bear razor sharp teeth and blackened gums, pulled himself like a spring back onto his back legs and in one swift movement launched himself at my face.

            For some unknown reason, for which I am still somewhat puzzled, instead of ducking out of the way, I also propelled myself into the air towards the flying monkey, curling myself into a ball as I did so and vaulting over his heartfelt attempt to avenge his shortened life. At that very moment, as though somehow I’d known it was going to happen, a massive flaming fireball ricocheted through the guava trees, evaporating the monkey that slouched painfully in the spot I had occupied only seconds earlier, before rebounding off of a dry patch of naked earth and exploding across the tinder dry forest in front of me. Some humans would have stood there with looks of astonishment as the fire enveloped them and their possible escape routes and I am glad to count myself outside of this genetically inferior group. Before the first tree had sizzled to the ground, I’d retrieved my bag and run as fast as my legs could carry me in the opposite direction to the heightening flames.  It could easily have turned into a natural disaster of immense proportions for the island had, at the very moment I reached the main tarmacked road and relative safety, the heavens not unleashed a thunderous rain cloud just over that particular stretch of Adam and Eve’s tropical garden of love. It did however turn into a personal disaster for me as a bolt of lightning struck me square on the top of my head, turning my hair angel white and frying that part of my brain that knew with whom and where I belonged.

My torched body was discovered by the park ranger, picked up and manhandled into the back of a truck with little to no concern for the chain of events that would ensue. When the nurses and doctors at the local clinic took me in, gave me a little food and water, bandaged my head and checked my heart and lungs, they didn’t check for any other telltale signs. When the police car came once I’d been given the all clear, the two officers didn’t handcuff me or ask me pertinent questions, they simply drove me to the nearest bus stop and told me to get out of the car, all the while issuing rude and insensitive comments about my new hairstyle and the fact that bann nasyon looked at them both at the very same time.

            Abandoned to my fate, I wandered the streets of an unrecognisable town, reaching out to unsettled strangers, while seeking solace from the glare of the sun in the shade of empty market stalls. My mind was a throbbing blank space, unable to decide which way was home, incapable of formulating the right question to ask to enable speechless passers-by to offer an answer. I jabbered nonsense at the walls, at the pavements, at stray dogs that snapped at my feet. I rubbed my aching head, trying to sooth the pain of thoughts that galloped through my synaptic nerves. A group of young Indian boys pushed me into an alleyway and tried knocked some sense into me to no avail. Flaying wildly I occasioned an escape and ran unchallenged into a Chinese restaurant bathroom, my ripped shirt flapping from my back as newly acquired wings. Still panting, I came to a standstill before reaching the mirror, closed my eyes tight and held my hands out in front of me to locate the sink. I didn’t understand why these things were happening to me, nor could I fathom out a way to prevent my situation from spiralling out of control. I spread my fingers out, grasped for the tap and opened the cooling water out into my shaking hands and splashed it over my face, keeping my eyes shut. Then I painstakingly unwound the red stained tape from my head, careful not to rip too much hair from my inflamed scalp and placed my head under the soothing stream. I stood there for some time, releasing the voices, the heat and the despair, baptising myself into the new reality before I became aware of a rising crescendo of mandarin anxiety and the swish-swish of a defensive utensil.

Raising my head form the sink, I reopened my eyes and at once came face to face with the crossed gaze of a green eyed mulatto albino. Taken aback myself, I caught the Chinese waiters mirrored image retreat in response, a baseball bat swinging centimetres from my already battle scared torso. Pirouetting on the spot, I reached back, the flat of my hand held out wide to catch the oncoming sweep. Pain was fast becoming a necessary consequence of that fateful day, as the tiny bones in my fingers and palm crackled under the impact, clenching to contain the weapon and its terrified owner. Planting my feet squarely, I grasped out with my other hand, bringing the stub of my wrist up and under the nose of my adversary, propelling him back through the cubicle door and crashing down onto the toilet. I saw the blood trickle from his face, instantly recognised the smell of approaching death, heard footsteps with one ear and noticed the open window with the other, sprang forward and through it, turning and rolling in one swift movement to land princely on the empty pavement outside. I felt my heart pumping a new kind of adrenalin, nourishing my rage, feeding my muscles with pure energy and was all at once guided by a homing device that led me running down dusty back streets, hurtling through sugar cane fields, sprinting across factory car parks, racing over waste ground and hurdling back garden fences.

            I ran and ran, my shredded shirt still flapping behind me, barely covering the scars and markings I’d been forced to hide for as long as I could remember. Past tooting cars, enraged field workers and stunned Indian wives sunbathing by pools shrouded by palm trees. On and on I sped, a cool breeze lifting my spirits and cleansing my weary soul. I travelled for miles on the power of that moment, reaching the village just as the sun set and the grey clouds rolled overhead once more. I slowed to a trot as I entered the main track to the square, wary of the faces staring from behind yellowing net curtains, the lack of barking dogs and the silence of the drying toads. I reached the building that had pulled me to it, entering through a doorway where the door hung from its hinges. Inside the broken limbs of furniture lay strewn about the floor, interspersed with shattered Japanese print crockery and clothes like cadavers resting on the laurels of upturned plant pots and scattered soil. I searched the home for a sign of life and found none, except the stilted voice of a newsreader on a smashed radio warning of an oncoming storm that had already battered the best part of Madagascar and La Reunion.

            Still unsure of why I had been brought to this place, I began to tidy up. I picked up and re piled the clothing into the furthest corner of the front room, I picked up the pots and re smashed them outside on the doorstep. I found a dustpan and brush in the corner of the kitchen and began sweeping the remaining dirt and broken porcelain in circles, spreading the confusion until I heard the tap at the door and remade the first connection with my universe that day. A female neighbour, around the same age as I am now, peered into the growing gloom of the house and muttered a name.

             “Mekedo?”

            I didn’t know whether to reply or not and kept on sweeping the debris.

            “Mekedo, is that you?” Whispering, she edged further through the doorway so that the fading sunlight danced silver on her dark coffee coloured profile.

            I noticed her perfume, sweet cologne that reminded me of ample bosoms and banana pancakes.

            “Mekedo, dear boy, please come out. You know that you’re not allowed to go in there anymore. I’ve made you some supper, please come out, you must be hungry; you’ve been away all day.”

            I heard my stomach rumble in response, laid down the broom, searching the shadowed face for something to cling to.

            “Mekedo, sweetheart, its OK, you can come out, you’re not in trouble.” She stepped forward cautiously, filling the space where the last of the light had rested, causing the darkness to fall in on my head and cloud my judgement. I reached out my arms towards her, fell forwards into an eiderdown of comfort, my male body returned to that of a small helpless and weary child and allowed myself to be carried into the open air and nearer to the storm that was gathering just above our heads.

            There was much to-do about the state of my hair as I crossed the threshold of my neighbour’s home and took my seat at the crowded table. As we tucked into bowls of rice and bouillon bred, ten pairs of eyes, not a green pair between them stared at the top of my head, gasping, guffawing, giggling and groaning as I told them how it happened that a bolt of lightning had struck me as I fought a monkey in hand to hand combat. The younger faces among my audience applauded the chivalry of my expedition, while the elder and potentially wiser faces exchanged apprehensive glances, subduing the inquisitiveness of their offspring with well marked whacks to the back of heads and legs. Although I couldn’t recall their names, I felt at ease recounting my survival, the trip in the police car, even my race back to this place that was etched somewhere in the recesses of my mind. I did however realise even then, that it was probably for the best not to mention the episode of the China man nor the newly discovered dexterity with which I subdued him and buoyed by my anecdotes, my rescuers treated me with warmth and friendship, offering me a bath and clean clothes, a safe place to lay down for the night in their living room, on a coconut mattress by the hot stove.

            The household had already settled down for the night when the first thunderbolt struck the square outside; the white hot glare penetrated my eyelids, causing me to awaken immediately, a blanket drawn quickly up around my ears. I called out a name in the darkness; a name I always forgot the instant it left my lips. The atmosphere cracked once again on the other side of the window, the force rippling outwards, electric fingers designed to locate and entrap me. I scrambled to my feet, scared witless yet exhilarated and instinctively slipped on my flip flops. I approached the open window, careful not to touch the metal bars that impeded a quick escape, drew back the curtain and looked up to witness the silvery whirl of its shroud as it called out to me by my real name. Drawn closer and closer to the bars, hypnotised by the breath of the wind that carried its call to my ears, I felt my heart strings pulled ever so gently towards the knowledge that I so desperately yearned. Stretching out my fingers one by one, I felt impelled to create a conduit, a mast through which to receive this higher consciousness. Guided by a more powerful source I allowed my arm to be raised yet again in a mysterious gesture of self harm and pushed my splayed palm through the bars and into the static space beyond. I gritted my teeth, desperate to hold my nerve and receive my comeuppance but nothing happened. As the tiny specks of rain began to wash away the fear in my fingertips, I gazed up to see the heavy clouds turn their back on my upturned face and plume out across the tops of the palm trees, taking their answers with them and compelling me from that day forth to chase the secrets that they kept tantalizingly out of my reach.