All down the beach, small fires blazed. Their only protection against the terrors of the night. Little circles of light to guard against what must sometimes seem to be overwhelming darkness.
Since, if you wanted to be accurate, we were the hosts, we felt we should bring something to the feast. Peterson disappeared back to the pod, returning a few minutes later with my entire chocolate supply, which he broke into tiny squares and distributed. They hesitated. Both Tim and I took a small piece each and ostentatiously put it in our mouths, chewed, swallowed, and smiled.
Heads swivelled towards an old woman, sitting quietly by the fire. She stared at it suspiciously. I suspect that small, brown objects closely resembling coprolite were not on the menu every night. Heaven knows what she would have made of fruit and nut.
Fascinated, we watched her examine the chocolate closely, turning it repeatedly in her hands, then she sniffed, apparently finding it harmless. Of course by now, in the warm night and so close to the fire, her little lump was getting soft. Slowly, she raised one smeared finger to her lips and tentatively licked it.
Everyone watched closely.
She made a small sound and licked another finger. Surviving this, she popped the rapidly melting square into her mouth. We watched her face. As did everyone else. They had an official food taster. I’d heard of this. Encountering new plants and fruits every day, one member of the tribe took it upon herself (or himself) to taste leaves, seeds, berries, unknown fish, or animals, while everyone else watched to see if it was safe. She must be very good at her job to have lasted so long. A young girl sat beside her, watching her every move. I wondered if she was the apprentice.
Anyway, the chocolate passed muster and soon everyone was munching away. Sounds of enjoyment floated across the fire.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ I said to Peterson. ‘It’s you who’s responsible for mankind’s insatiable desire for the brown stuff.’
Our hair fascinated them. Even Peterson’s, which, admittedly, looks like a badly made haystack on a windy day. I pulled out my hairpins and let it fall. Immediately, three or four women surrounded me and began to braid it.
Despite his protests, the same was happening to Peterson.
‘Relax,’ I said. ‘Just go with the flow.’
And so we sat under the slowly darkening sky, listening to the waves wash the shore as our relations – and they were our relations; we were their children – laughed and chatted and arranged our hair into this season’s fashionable look. It took a great deal of mud to keep mine piled on top of my head and the weight of it was astonishing.
‘Never seen you look so tall,’ said Tim, from the other side of the fire.
While this was happening, all around us songs and chants drifted across from the other fires. They had a culture. Our own hosts joined in, clapping their hands and making odd clicking noises with their tongues. We did our best, but I’m tone deaf and Peterson has all the rhythm of a paralysed stoat. They laughed again, but it wasn’t unkind laughter.
To show willing, Tim and I sang “Stairway to Heaven”, the only song to which we both knew most of the words. They were very unimpressed, but very polite.
I tried to get their names. Several times I pointed to myself and said, ‘Max,’ and then, ‘Tim.’ They responded, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Did they make names for themselves? Or did they just call each other tall woman who hunted with me last year when we killed the antelope at the water’s edge?
But some things are universal. A sense of friendship. Of kindness. Of welcoming. You don’t need words for any of that.
Stars came out and dotted the sky. I watched their faces in the flickering firelight . Large, clear eyes regarded their world without fear or hostility. Their faces were unlined and their smiles stretched from ear to ear.
I wanted to learn so much from them, but they were settling themselves down for the night and I could feel my own eyes growing heavy. Rather like my head. I looked forward to the next day and the chance to spend more time with them.
Completely ignoring rules and regs about returning to the pod, I made myself comfortable, spent a little while listening to the gentle rhythms of sea and speech around me, and then fell asleep.
I opened my eyes to an empty beach.
They’d gone. They’d left us.
The sun wasn’t up and yet they’d gone.
We weren’t anything like as important to them as they were to us. They’d risen, packed up their gear, and departed without even waking us. I struggled with the disappointment.
I stumbled to my feet and staggered a little, as my arms and legs sorted out which was which. Peterson stood at the top of a sand dune, staring into the far distance.
Shading my eyes, I could just make them out in the dawn mist. Walking into the future.
‘Well,’ said Peterson, quietly. ‘There we go.’
‘Do you think that’s the group that makes it?’