Blue Sea, Green Earth, Red Sky

I thought that a proper gentleman should be reluctant to hear this story, but Maribeth obviously needed to talk. She didn't seem all weepy; I felt that was a good sign. If Maribeth could handle this conversation, then so could I. I'm no touchy-feely counselor, but if Maribeth was empowered in the telling of a tale where she was held powerless and used by wild men for their pleasure; then lending my listening ear might be of comfort to her.

I was eager to hear Maribeth's story. Though, I didn't want to seem too eager. I lifted my mug and took my first sip of the afternoon. "Don't worry; I think I know how it feels to be judged in a bad way. I'm a ridiculed mathematician, not a loveable art major you know. If you're feeling needy, I'll be your unconditionally accepting live audience. I'm ready to listen with sensitivity and appreciation." I was being honest. But to be totally honest, my voyeuristic interests were also being piqued. I wanted to hear about the erotic episode from the mouth of the beauty sitting across from me.

After taking another sip, Maribeth topped off her mug and began; "This goes back to last year, my great friend Margaret is doing her anthropology doctorate research in Indonesia. Her professor got a grant to do field work among some of the 17,000 islands in the Indonesian archipelago. Margaret thought my ability to take notes, studious organizational skills and sense of adventure would mark me for a great field assistant. Dr. Friday hired me with some of his grant money for this expedition to document the coming-of-age rituals and transition to adulthood among some of the peoples in a remote group of islands."

Maribeth leaned over the table and spoke in a captivating hush as she began her story: "We picked up our translator and guide after landing in Jakarta. We traveled by seaplane, a single-engine, airborne rust bucket and a couple of different boats, to a cluster of tropical rain forest islands that had a collection of fishing villages surrounding a larger island with a small hamlet. This was the exotic part; equatorial, steamy, mysterious ancient ways, mixed with some glimmers of 21st century technology, tucked into thick jungles. The people were mostly fishermen, traders and pirates. I was excited to maybe run into some pirates, but Margaret assured me it was not as romantic as a girl might think. But I still wondered if, and hoped, I'd meet a pirate out there."

"So, did you meet your pirate on this expedition?" I asked, curious if that is where the wild sex part came in.

"No. They weren't pirates really. But you might say that they were interested in booty. If you let me continue, I'll give you all the details Marco." Maribeth seemed interested in drawing me into what she had hinted to be a scandalous anthropology expedition.

Maribeth picked up the narration and I listened, I promised not to judge her nor interrupt.

***

It was our second day in the little remote island hamlet; Dr. Friday had taken a small boat across the channel to arrange a meeting with a local elder, leaving Margaret and me to take care of some business close to the waterfront. There was a noticeable clatter and scurrying among the locals. Some were running away, and a few others showed anxiety and excitement as they came to look out into the channel between the islands. Margaret asked Mr. Mahari, our guide and translator, what the commotion was about.

Mr. Mahari did not know for certain, but he got some vague information that there was a report that a group of primitive people from some other islands were on their way to this hamlet. These purported visitors were a tribe seldom seen by the local inhabitants, known mostly from rumors and legends. It was obvious that some locals, mostly women, acted with fear on the news of their rumored visitation. Most of the young men crowded the rickety wharf in hopes of getting a rare glimpse of these mysterious forest folk.

Mr. Mahari approached Margaret with a furrowed brow, "I think to say to my ladies to not be in this place." He said in a deferential tone to Margaret.

My friend Margaret looked unconvinced. "Mr. Mahari, it does not look like this is an attack. Why, I see many people looking curious and watching. I think we will be fine."

Mr. Mahari persisted, "I think to say to you that only men stay here. I think to say to you that my ladies are not to be in this place."

Margaret listened and then offered her decision, "I think we'll be just fine with these local men standing near us. I am not worried Mr. Mahari. It is my job to observe these people and I will be very interested to see who these legendary visitors are and what their purpose is here."

Mr. Mahari shook his head, "I say to my ladies, this is not a good day to be in this place."

Margaret and Mr. Mahari were at an impasse. Margaret turned to me, "Maribeth, help me remember all that we see and hear. I have a feeling this may be an important anthropological event. We'll have to write and compare our notes right after this visitation. It seems to be causing a mild uproar among the locals."

A great murmur went up from the men at the end of the wharf. Townsfolk, mostly men, huddled together and stepped tentatively toward the waterfront to look up the channel. Margaret and I crossed the dusty street to get a closer look as well. There were six specks on the water coming around the nearest island. Some of the locals broke back into town, others looked nervous as they crowded along the shore to see for themselves. Some young women came out of their houses, ignoring the animated commands of their mothers or aunts from inside.

The crowd grew as curiosity got the best of the villagers. They packed close around us in the midmorning heat. Margaret was excited as she whispered her observations of the unfolding drama into my ear, reminding me to help remember what we were about to witness.

We were both taking mental notes as the six sea-faring canoes were paddled toward the beach in front of us. The canoes were large, carrying six to eight men; the important ones were standing, their high status was obvious by the rich colors of their feathered headdresses and animal skins draped over their tawny and brawny bodies. As the boats landed, the villagers gave up a simultaneous gasp then fell into a tense hush.

Three stripped-down men with bodies painted in blue, green and red pigments hopped from their boat and started chanting as they skipped and danced with rattles on the beach. Three more mostly naked young men likewise painted in blue, green and red joined the three on the beach with their drums and began to chant and circle. I observed to Margaret, "It looks to me like this is some kind of preparatory blessing or a form of introductory prayers before they get down to business here."

Margaret turned to Mr. Mahari, "What are they saying? Why are they doing this?" Mr. Mahari just shook his head with his jaw hanging slack and a transfixed stare in his eyes. He was as dumbfounded as the rest of the crowd.

Mr. Mahari whispered after a few minutes, "I think to say, please, this is not a good place for my ladies." Margaret and I ignored Mr. Mahari's whispered warning; instead, watching with curiosity along with the rest of the island's population.

After the chanting and dancing-in of an appropriate blessing, an elderly and richly robed man rose from the front of the craft and stepped ashore. The folks watching from the shore collectively drew in their breaths at his arrival. The rest of the landing party shouted in unison from their boats as the old man set foot on the island. Margaret again turned to Mr. Mahari, but he knew what she was going to ask, so he beat her to the punch and shook his head, "I do not know this thing."

The six painted dancers and chanters circled their elder, each in turn pausing in their circling steps to stop and rub his bare belly as he stood holding a long staff topped with strings of feathers, shells and beads hanging below an octopus carved at the top. Mr. Mahari leaned close to Margaret and whispered, "I think to say to you, this man, he is important priest with magic. This man, he tells everyman what they are to do. This man will do his magic to make important decisions for his people. This man has power in his stomach that is being taken by his young men to use this day."

The chanting stopped abruptly. The remainder of the flotilla jumped out of their canoes and waded ashore. Our island had been properly blessed by their shaman, his mysterious mission was about to begin. The huddled villagers once again gasped in awe as they pressed tighter together, straining to see what would happen next.

The militaristic landing party carried long poles with sharpened tips, a few men had metal-tipped spears and several others carried what I thought were woven reed mats. The chanting and dancing started once again among the six painted shaman's assistants. They followed their elder as he raised his head and made invocations while the forty or so warriors fanned out and circulated among the villagers. The crowd was parted by the men with poles and spears. The magic priest walked through the island's populace, reaching into a bag hanging below his stomach, pulling out a handful of bones and a few feathers. The crowd tensed and let out an audible flutter of whispers as they watched.

The shaman knelt to the ground and made a circle in the dust and drew several bisecting lines through the circle. He said a prayer and cast his handful of bones into the circle and let the feathers fall to the ground. He picked up his bones and feathers and walked further into the crowd. The men from the village and a few women huddled in silence as the medicine man moved among them.

Again, the colorful shaman halted and drew a circle and cast his divining elements onto the earth. He stood and gave orders. A handful of burly warriors stepped into the crowd and grabbed a young woman and brought her to the priest. There were shrieks and cries from a few in the crowd, presumably some of her relations. The enforcers with poles and spears headed toward the noisemakers while some of the local men intervened to spirit away the few vocal villagers from the gathered crowd of remaining anxious, yet silent observers.

Margaret looked fascinated; she whispered to Mr. Mahari, "What are they going to do with that girl?"

He answered in a serious tone, "This man very important man. This man is chief priest. This man hears and he sees signs from his gods and this priest tells his people what their gods want them to do."

Margaret asked, "What do his gods need this girl for?"

Mr. Mahari shook his head, "I do not know this thing."

The girl that had been seized from within the crowd was brought to the priest. He circled her, sniffing her body and then he smelled her breath. Detecting the scent of approval, he uttered a single word or phrase. One of the warriors carried a woven mat and came to the seized girl and slipped the woven cylinder around her, pinning her arms to her side. The girl was stuffed into a binding that was the equivalent of a stone age cat carrier bag, like one used to transport a kitty to the vet. She started to cry. But if anybody was thinking of coming to her rescue, they were dissuaded by the large band of tough and serious armed men surrounding her.

It was stunning and amazing to me and Margaret that this was allowed to happen in front of the whole village, and nothing was being done. We didn't understand what was being done to her or why everyone was so complacent. Margaret addressed Mr. Mahari, "Should we help her? Why isn't anyone stopping this? What is happening Mr. Mahari?"

"This is a custom of these people since a far back time. Young American university lady who comes to these people to learn from them should not interfere with old customs by her not-understanding ideas. I think to say that it is very unwise to cause a problem with these men." Mr. Mahari seemed resolute in his advice, if not mildly scolding Margaret. "I think to say to my ladies, American ladies best to watch and not do."

Margaret was conflicted, but followed the advice of her guide to observe and not intervene, as was her research mission and purpose.

The process between the shaman, his rough band of followers and the villagers played out as the invaders wandered through the hamlet. Another young woman was singled out by the roll of the bones and a drop of the feathers. She was encased like a sausage and carried into one of the boats like the first girl. There was some weeping and wailing among the women. A collective murmuring was heard when the maiden was selected and carried against her will to the boats. Yet again, the assembled village settled into their silence. There was no effort made among her own people to stop her from being taken.

After a few more earthen circles and cast bones, it looked like their business was finished. The bold raiders had collected the divinely appointed young female victims. The threatening horde of men assembled at the waterfront as the crowd closed in behind them. The invaders headed back to their boats with two young captive women as bound prisoners.

The priest was on the shore and was about to enter his boat when he stopped. He stuck his nose in the air, detecting a new scent. He motioned with his hands for everyone watching from the shore to part to the side. They swept back, giving him a lane to come back toward the village. At the top of the bank, he got down on all fours and smelled and licked the earth at the edge of the dusty street from where Margaret and I closely watched this unusual ritual.

Kneeling in the dust, he reached into his pouch and pulled out his bones and dropped his feathers without making a circle. He motioned for his men to come to him and gave them a new order. The men rushed across the street. Mr. Mahari became instantly agitated and stepped in front of us. Mr. Mahari was overpowered and forced to the side while waving his arms and speaking rapidly in his native tongue. Mr. Mahari flailed, speaking fierce words as he was pinned to the wall by men wielding their large, sharp sticks.

Margaret was pushed hard against the wall with the shaft of a spear on her throat. She attempted to slap the ruffian, but as soon as she raised her arms, they were slammed against the wall and held there by a dark enforcer. Her feet were kicked out from under her, and she fell into the dust and was held there at spear-point.

Marco, it happened so fast. Two serious men, wiry and strong, seized me by my arms and brusquely escorted me to the shaman waiting for me in the center of the dusty road. I twisted violently in their hands trying to break free. Of course, I cursed them with my most venomous Anglo-Saxon. I was terrified. But I was more angry than terrified. I figured I could take these girl-grabbers if I resisted with a violent flurry of kicks and punches. I would make them regret touching me up until their dying breath. I was ready, then-and-there, to extract that dying breath as I fought to rip their balls off and pull out their guts with my bare hands.

The throng of near-naked warriors pressed into me on all sides. My arms were held in a firm grip, their fingers dug into my muscles with painful strength. Men with poles and spears surrounded me, laughing at my struggles and indignation. I was dragged with my knees just off the ground with my feet kicking out in every direction, trying to crush and kick off the dangling nuts of my assailants. I screamed, spit, cursed and raised as much dust and ruckus as a half-dozen girls twice my size. It was to no avail. I was not a match for these primitive forest hunters.

I can punch above my weight Marco. Believe me, if this was a one-on-one grudge match with a single one of these brutes, my adrenalin and motivation would have shredded the guy. But under the circumstances, the odds of overcoming them were impossible. I was their captured, powerless prey.

I was hauled in front of the feathered leader by my band of abductors. He walked around me as I struggled with my captors, his body glistening in the late morning sun, his colored robe flowing in the humid air. His head feathers twisted as he inspected me with sniffing, grunting and snorting sounds. When he came face-to-face with me, I spit on him. He grinned and wiped my liquid wrath from his nose and lips with a finger and tasted it. He gave a command and one of those tight tubes of woven reeds was dropped over my head.

I couldn't move. My boobs were squashed flat into my ribcage. I now know how those 19th century southern belles felt after being cinched up in their corsets to display a 16-inch waist. I could barely breathe. I thought I'd suffocate before I could be sacrificed.

I was bound and wrapped tight like a Christmas gift to be presented to some pagan god in need of sacrificial appeasement. I screamed in English, repeating the phrase, "I am not a virgin!" hoping that this would convince these men to release me. I had fixated on the idea that I was to be a human sacrifice thrown into a volcano. I guess my cultural anthropology all comes from watching too many old movies. I figured if they knew that I was not a virgin, then their god wouldn't want me. It was the only thing I could think of to argue for my release. Of course, it made no difference. It was a silly and futile idea, but it was the only idea that came to my panicked mind - until I ran out of air to scream.

I was lifted to the shoulders of several hunters and carried down the sloping muddy shoreline and rolled into the bottom of one of the canoes. My boat was the first to be paddled several meters offshore. Margaret and Mr. Mahari had been released unharmed and they rushed to the edge of the sea. Margaret was shouting to me, "Maribeth we'll get you back! Don't worry! Dr. Friday will call the American ambassador, don't worry. We'll call the marines on these bastards! Oh god Maribeth! Please don't worry, this will be OK tomorrow. I promise we'll get you back!"

A handful of warriors put up a rearguard action to allow all of the canoes to push out to sea before they quit their watch over Margaret and Mr. Mahari. My dear friend kept shouting encouragement to me as the distance from land increased. I could hear the panic and fright in Margaret's voice. For the first time in a long time, I had no control over my life. For the first time ever, I was scared for my life.

About an hour into my captivity one of the men in my boat came toward me with a large knife. I thought this was the end, I was going to be cut up and used for fish bait. He drew his knife and slit open my cocoon, letting my circulation return to my arms and air to my lungs. I was offered some dried fish and some fruit along with a needed drink of water.

Near the equator the sun sets quickly, and darkness falls fast. I had a brilliant idea - but it turned out rather stupid in the end; I would slip over the side of my canoe in the gathering twilight. If I went overboard quietly, maybe these cruel lady-nabbers wouldn't notice. I'd decided to make my move when we came close to one of the dark, forested islands. I'm a good swimmer. I'd race free style to the shore and find my freedom. I'd write S-O-S in large letters on the beach and the promised American Marines would rescue me from my fate as a sacrificial 'virgin'.

My brilliant plan was doomed to failure. Only I didn't know it. I was noticed as soon as I rolled overboard into the sea. I was swimming for my life. Without much commotion, my boat swung around following me as I splashed with choppy swim strokes toward the island's dark silhouette in the late afternoon sky. The other boats changed their course to observe the hunt and retrieval.