Bungi Gungi

© Copyright 2007 CC Mandl.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Illustrated by: Cathy De Jongh

Edited by: Eileen Molver

Note for Librarians: A cataloguing record for this book is available from Library

and Archives Canada at www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN: 978-1-4251-1353-7

ISBN: 978-1-4251-6143-9 (eBook)

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Contents

A NOTE:

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

INTRODUCTION

ON A SOUTH PACIFIC

ISLAND, CENTURIES AGO...

THE MODERN WORLD

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

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26.

THE AFTERMATH

...AS RECORDED IN NIGEL’S DIARY,

16/05/2006. - 3.45 AM.

I dedicate this book to Amy-Rose, Greg, Max and Sam.

A NOTE:

The matter of ‘placement’ is purposefully vague in this story.

The point of it lies not in a particular city or street address,

but in the imagination of the volatile mind.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Georgi, for ordering me to write that first page.

Kathy, for her unswerving loyalty.

Frances Bond and Eileen Molver for not burning my

manuscript.

And I thank myself, for being mad enough to write and

finish it-I have fulfilled my promise.

INTRODUCTION

ON A SOUTH PACIFIC

ISLAND, CENTURIES AGO...

A YOUNG WOMAN ladles freshly prepared Kava into two halves of a coconut shell. Irritable, she swats at biting gnats as she covers the serving bowl with a square of reed matting. There are struggling clots of them floating in the liquid, but she doesn’t care. Packing an assortment of fruit into either side of a knotted fibre bag, she slings it around her neck; hands un- hindered, she can now pick up the brimming shells and carry them to her utterly insane husband without spilling a drop.

Each foot placed exactly in front of the other, she reluctantly walks to where he awaits her services in the shade, where, almost as an afterthought, he inflicts unspeakable acts on her person at will. Her lot in life, she knows—but this time, at the thought of his filthy, invading body, she missteps; the bowls of Kava lift off and she hurtles into his reclining figure, fruit sieving out of the bag in neat, colourful shapes.

Enraged, he watches the coveted liquid disappear into the baked earth. Deprived of his daily fix, his renowned temper knows no bounds; he raises a calloused foot and kicks her head down, grinding her face into the wet patch before rising with murderous intent.

She’s up in a flash, fleeing into the dimly-lit forest where hooked plants snag her hair and rip beads of blood from her

soft skin. A steady, dark drip from her broken nose splatters onto her breasts.

She is oblivious to the pain.

Fuelled by hatred, flabby skin and sagging stomach flip- ping around his hips, he charges after her.

The need to survive drives her to run effortlessly through the tunnels of dense undergrowth; leaping over rotted trees and dodging hidden pitfalls she eventually stops at the base of a tall tree. Weary from the encroaching madness behind her, she considers her limited options and understands that there is only one thing to do—change her status from hunted to hunter. She waits until he sees her, then clambers up and heads for the top.

Unaware of her intentions, he bellows victoriously and follows. Her swaying, taut brown buttocks mock and excite him, and for a moment he forgets why he’s there—a sliver of bark lodges in his left eye and reminds him. Afraid of heights and drained of energy, sheer perversity propels him upward.

Her arms and legs trembling, despair creeps into her focus. Looping moss-covered vines entwine like crazed snakes, blue sky winks through the canopy of leaves, and suddenly, there is nowhere else to run. She humbly asks the gods to help her—the top branches cradle her.

She completes her preparations and watches him ascend.

He clings to the tree in slippery desperation as a spider crawls over his head; he contemplates resigning his mission, but revengeful delusions spur him on—mashing the spider to a pulp, he struggles up with renewed vigour. Hair manically knotted by snapped twigs and dead insects, he triumphantly arrives at the top expecting to see her cowering in fear and defeat. It appears that she is quietly waiting for him.

Deciding that she’s lost her mind in anticipation of death, he boldly advances.

Saturated with adrenaline, concentrating intensely, she takes aim and spits in his face.

Incensed, he blindly lunges in her direction and knocks her off her perch—clenching a fistful of hair and leaves in one hand, he plummets past her; a glimmer of respect tweaks his unhinged mind seconds before obliteration.

Terrified, she swings from liana vines tied to her ankles while slamming repeatedly into the trunk. Finally, hanging upside down and feeling sick to the bones, she comes to a standstill over the twisted body of her husband. She closes her eyes as she smells his death.

Soft rustling sounds prompt her to open them; her entire tribe is present at the scene of the crime, their faces devoid of emotion. She wonders how long they’ve been standing there. A strapping young man raises his spear and steps for- ward, and there’s no doubt in her mind that she’s about to be terminated—but, he cuts her loose and lowers her aching body to the ground.

Much cheering and backslapping ensue.

Instead of retribution for the loss of a chief, they praise her ingenious method of disposal. They prod the crumpled corpse with their spears and thoughtfully examine her umbilical vines, after which her robust liberator sprints off to the neighbouring tribes with the good news.

Proclaimed as their new leader, they carry her home on strong shoulders.

In the village, superstitious of her good fortune, she reclines on a mat and enjoys wafts of fanned air from hovering attendants. She thoughtfully chews on her gifts of nutsand grubs. To her amusement, a squabble arises amongst a group of men regarding the building of her new abode; after a few random punches they sort it out and the work begins.

She dozes.

The sun sets in a blast of orange and pink, and brings with it an entourage of young girls who escort her to the completed masterpiece. They shyly toss petals on the ground for her to walk on. Double the size and elevation of her previous home, freshly roofed with lashings of palm and banana leaves, it is a splendid sight. She gives the interior a quick tour and pats the outside for the benefit of the proud architects; they strut like fierce little cocks.

The older women come to whisk her off to the river for a grooming session. Soon, she is a veritable goddess. No longer a mere minion, they spoil and pamper her beyond, she is sure, the call of duty.

She is having the time of her life.

Guided by moonlight and the odd flaming torch along the path, they return to merry bonfires and the smell of roasting meat. They place her in the seat of honour. Bright red feathers decorate her hair; a full shell of Kava nestles in her hands. The festivities officially begin with her first sip of the forbid- den drink—the taste is indescribably bad, but she quaffs it in celebration of her miserable husband’s death.

They party up a dust bowl.

Much later, when the fevered bonging of the drums stop, euphoric guests pay their respects and depart with rounded bellies. Waiving blatant offers of fulfilling her carnal needs, she retires alone to her hammock from where she tiredly gazes at the dying fires outside.

She will sleep without dreams and without fear.

She will also, however, receive a sublime message from within the forest, instructing her to return the next day to the tree from where she jumped.

Excited chatter and sounds of hammering wake her. She listens for a while before going outside to investigate—the ashes of the fire are gone, and a tall wooden formation is un- der speedy construction.

The men greet her with hearty grunts and smiles; the women huddle together and seem nervous.

Their anxiety is infectious.

She looks around for clues. To her acute distress, she finds them in a mountainous collection of vines stacked behind her hut. She fervently prays to the gods to intervene should she have to re-enact her leap to freedom.

The men tell her that women are not to participate—they need only her advice and instruction.

Grateful for the reprieve, she refrains from pointing out that her supposed expertise could go either way. She just hopes it goes the right way. Under her strict supervision, im- patient fingers bleed from repeatedly tying and untying the coarse knots.

Cool morning merges into hot afternoon.

The moment arrives.

A volunteer mounts the ramshackle structure with dread; hoots of encouragement from the audience subside to barely audible whispers as he teeters on the edge. He takes a stupendously inelegant leap, screaming out in terror and exhilaration, and smacks into the ground at their feet.

Mortified, she suffers their hostile glares.

Groans and movement prove the certain death otherwise, and clucking with sympathy, the women rush to his aid—

they pour water over his head and prop him up in the shade to watch from a distance.

The success rate finally overrides the occasional broken bones; they treat her with great respect and insist on another feast in her honour.

Her position in the tribe once more secure, she feels brave enough to suggest that they begin the preparations while she takes a meditative stroll.

She heads into the forest towards the place where her mad husband expired.

Once there, she takes note that of him there is no trace, and she applauds the collecting habits of the animal kingdom with a smirk. You are fodder, she tells his spirit. And I am drinking your Kava.

Suddenly her good humour fades; the trees seem intimidating and oppressive.

The short hairs rise on the back of her neck.

Something is watching her.

Then she sees It. Above her head, in a niche of the tree, a strange thing peers down at her. Tiny inquisitive eyes lock with hers. Small and leathery in appearance, It has a muscular upper body which tapers to end bizarrely in a neat coil, in a pouch on Its back. There are no legs.

Gripping the bark of the tree with sturdy little arms and well-formed hands, It studies her intently.

Entranced, she reaches out towards It.

Their hands touch.

Hello, It drawls.

Hearing It speak unnerves her—raising her voice she asks, What kind of animal are you?

Raising an eyebrow It replies, "You might not want to know—but since you made the effort to come back here and have the right to know, I’ll start by saying that I’m not an animal. I am, however, directly related to you."

Recalling her inexplicable need to be in the forest, she shrieks, "It’s you! You’re the one in my head!"

I am, It says. "It is essential that we connect with one another."

Why?

I was about to explain before you so rudely interrupted. With a flourish, It launches into a detailed, incomprehensible speech.

Spellbound by Its animated features she resorts to gaping. Your mouth... she vaguely hears It say.

Excuse me?

Your mouth hanging open like that. Not very flattering.

Cheeks burning with embarrassment she covers her face with her hands.

Stillness descends.

Maybe It’s gone away, she thinks, and takes a quick peek between her fingers. The little face, thoughtfully cupped in Its left hand, regards her with a quizzical look.

Still here, It says. This could all be a bit much for you—I believe a summarised point of view should be easier to digest. Without waiting for her answer, It narrates the edited version in a clipped and concise manner.

She listens, frowning.

I am an extension of your mind, a manifestation born from extremely high levels of stress. I exist because of you. Our physical differences are largely due to the activity that you engaged in, just before your husband died. Looking at her,eyes half closed, It gauges her nonplussed reaction with no surprise. A difficult situation. We are one and the same, but function on different levels of existence.

There is a pregnant interval.

You don’t say, she says eventually.

But I do, It sniffs at her mindless response.

She grins.

Does something amuse you?

Overcome by laughter at first, she regains her composure with difficulty. She takes a deep breath. "You have just told me, a person who lives by her wits and the occasional grace of the gods, that I’m responsible for creating you? She snorts, In case you haven’t noticed, wisdom and intelligence are not my strong points—even my status in the tribe has occurred through default. I’m constantly praying that I make it through the day without some form of disaster befalling me, and believe me, when the sun sets in my favour I am supremely grateful. Now I’m having a conversation with myself, unless I missed the part when you told me what you are, other than me... of course."

I didn’t say.

What are you then?

Your significant other half.

My significant, other half.

Yes. Or, if you prefer, your Alter Ego.

My Alter Ego.

Look here, It says, I have nothing to gain from lying to you. If I do, you will effectively be lying to yourself. Besides, it will nullify the reason for my existence.

For a long while, she stares at It, then says in a neutral voice, If you don’t mind, I’d like to know what that is now.

"I will try my best to explain. The first thing you should understand, is that it is as simple as it is complex."

She starts to giggle.