Bird on a String - story

I have just seen the movie Ratatouille. I thought it was noisy and frantic. I don't have time to write a blog so here is a short story:

Bird on a String

Eopave was a fine boy, a bit taller than his peers, with an erect posture and a well-muscled body, smooth chestnut skin, and brown eyes that sparkled when he smiled his truly glorious smile. As he was the eldest boy in his age-grade, and as there were three to four years between the grades, I reckoned he was eleven or twelve. Eo frequently hung around my house and had proven himself to be bright and informative as well as useful. Sometimes, in the late afternoon, when my chief interpreter was not available, Eo and I would visit the village and catch up with the events of the day. In the four months I had lived there I had grown quite fond of him.
My little house, constructed of casuarina posts, had walls woven of flattened cane and a grass roof. There was a small kitchen/dining area, an even smaller bedroom, and a work room with windows on two sides that could be opened for a view of a generous village square. There was no village as yet, except for a couple of other houses under construction. People still lived in their old village two hundred yards to the south. They had been told to clean up the place, eliminate the ubiquitous pigs by fencing them out, and dig latrines. They interpreted this to mean they should build a new village and stop living like “kanakas.” My house was supposed to be the vanguard for changes to come, but they were coming very slowly. People in the Eastern Highlands of Papua New Guinea, like most people everywhere, were resistant to change.
I loved the Highlands. It was a beautiful place with high mountains on both sides of the valley and shades of green that seemed infinite. The air was so pure and clear you could see for miles. Across the valley was the perpetually cloud-covered Mt. Michael where lightning storms were a nightly occurrence. Our village was built on a slight ridge- top in a sea of kunai grass, the result of centuries of burning and cultivating. In the distance to the east were two huge and solitary klinki pines, one a bit smaller than the other. The people said they were married. Our area was not as heavily populated as further to the west, but where there were villages you could see neatly patterned gardens of sweet potatoes, yams, beans, tapioca, bananas, and other staples. Near the villages were stands of bamboo and casuarina. Looking across the valley at night, villages were identified by fires and often singing. The songs were unintelligible to me but as emotional and moving and timeless as anything I had ever heard. It was a moving, even romantic experience.
Virtually every European I had encountered before I began my work had insisted the natives would steal everything I owned. Nothing of mine had been stolen. After an awkward beginning the people had proven themselves to be friendly and helpful although it was clear they had no understanding of why I was there. They provided me with food while I provided them with salt, tobacco, newspaper, matches, and an occasional shilling or two. I found them to be honest and fair with me and I tried to do right by them. Of course they had some habits and customs I found somewhat repugnant, but I strove to maintain my scientific objectivity. I recall one afternoon in particular.
It was a typical afternoon with sunshine and the usual humidity before the afternoon rain. The villages were mostly deserted as they usually were during the day. I was in my house typing field notes when I looked up and saw Eopave, alone, playing with something. At first I thought he was playing catch, throwing something in the air and catching it as he moved slowly around the bare earth of the square. Then I realized he had a small bird tied by one leg to a thin strip of bark cloth string about six feet long. He would throw the bird up in the air where it would flutter its wings hopelessly and then he would pull it roughly back. I was appalled. It was torture. I couldn’t help but feel for the poor creature. I started out of the house towards Eo to interfere but then thought better of it. He was obviously involved in his play, if one could call it that, and I had always strove not to interfere with whatever it was the natives were doing, preferring instead to simply observe and record their behavior. It sickened me to watch, but watch I did. Eo moved out of my vision for a few moments but then reappeared. The unfortunate bird was exhausted and hanging limply from the string by Eo’s side. It was obviously still alive as it still fluttered every few seconds. Eo had a few sticks and proceeded to make a small fire not far from my doorway. I watched in horror as he then plucked the little bird alive and then held it over the fire, still alive. Satisfied after a short time, he ate it. All of it. I began to feel nauseous and moved away from the window unable to watch any longer. It was the most repulsive thing I had ever seen. I could not identify with it in any way. I was both outraged and enraged. I wanted to grab him and shake him until he understood the enormity of his criminal behavior.
Criminal behavior? When I calmed down I realized, of course, that what was cruelty to animals to me meant nothing to Eopave. The people, being chronically short of meat protein, ate anything and everything: dogs, cats, rats, songbirds, grubs, whatever they could find. Knowing this however did not calm my emotions or lessen my feelings of horror and dismay. I tried to imagine what emotions, if any, Eo experienced as he completed this act. Was he proud of himself for having found a meal? Had he no empathy whatsoever for the tiny bird? Did he even think about it? I’m certain that had I interfered he would have thought there was something wrong with me. I was rather proud of myself for not having intervened. But I knew I would never look at Eo again in quite the same way.
A bit later that afternoon the people began returning to the village. Women came in from their gardens laden with heavy knit-bags of sweet potatoes hanging from their foreheads, bundles of firewood on their heads, and babies in their arms. Men returned, some from the gardens and some from hunting, carrying their ever-present bows and arrows and sometimes a bit of sugar cane, yams, or bananas that were the provenience of men. The women would build fires outside their houses and everyone would share the evening meal, including the pigs, while the children ran wild in play, a routine that had existed unchanged for centuries.
Eopave appeared at my door. “Masta, yumi go now,” he said. It was not a question, nor was it a command, simply a statement of fact, as this was what we often did. I hesitated, not certain I wanted to go, but then reached for my shoulder bag with my notebooks and flashlight, and joined him on our usual afternoon visit. It had proven to be a worthwhile endeavor and I often learned new things of interest. We walked quietly side by side down the bare path towards the old village. Here and there were traces of the palisade that had once protected them from their enemies. I could hear the murmured conversations coming from the village, occasional laughter, and sometimes an argument. The path took us within fifty yards of the men’s house. Located by itself in a dark grove of tall bamboo, it was silent, well hidden, mysterious, and foreboding, an area completely forbidden to women and children. Eo moved closer to me, then in a completely unprecedented act, timidly reached out and took my hand.


LKBIQ:

"I hold it, that a little rebellion, now and then, is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical.
Thomas Jefferson