Silence is Golden

37. Going Wild

We reached the village by sundown. It sat atop a cliff high, high above the rainforest and the sinking sun cast everything into a golden light. That didn't make the two dozen or so sharp spears pointed at us any more visually appealing in my mind, however.

Mr Ambrose had been right in one respect – the natives were curious. They also, however, as suggested by the raised spears, the half-drawn bows and the searching gazes they directed at us, were immensely suspicious. They muttered to each other in hushed voices, using a strange, completely alien tongue that I had no hope of understanding.

'What are they saying?' I hissed at Mr Ambrose as we were slowly escorted up a path to the top of the cliff.

'How should I know?'

'What? You don't understand their language?'

'Strange though it might seem to you, Mr Linton, I do not in fact know everything there is to know.'

'How the hell do you expect to talk them into helping us if you don't speak their language?'

'Father Marcos told me that their leader speaks Portuguese.'

'And if they decide to kill us before we reach this multilinguistic gentleman?'

'That would be most unfortunate.'

We were at the edge of the village by now. The ring of men around us split at the front, giving me, for the first time, a view of an Indian village. Honestly, at first glance, it wasn't much to write home about. About as much as this:

Dear XYZ,

My holiday in South America is going splendidly so far! I'm standing here with mosquito bites all over me and a spear jabbing into my back, struck dumb in awe at the sight of a few round, mud-brown huts with thatched roofs. Oh, and have I told you yet that there are mud-streaked paths leading from door to door? Isn't that wonderful? Oh, and of course there are weapons leaning against the outside of the huts with which we'll probably soon be killed.

I hope everything is going well with you at home, too? Hoping to hear from you soon, I remain,

Yours truly,

Lilly Linton

There, you see? Not much at all. Oh, except of course:

P.S: There are a lot of naked people staring at me!

P.P.S: I don't just mean scantily dressed. I mean stark-buck-blasted naked!!!

P.P.P.S: I hope you had fun at the ball last week?

It wasn't just naked men anymore, either. Oh no. Women and children, scattered all around the village, were gathering quickly to stare at the newcomers, whispering excitedly to each other. The children weren't the problem. Eve's cousin was married with about a half dozen babies, so I had seen (and smelled!) my fair share of bare babies' bottoms in my life, although it wasn't exactly an experience I was keen to repeat. The women, however...

Let me put it this way: in London, if a woman shows too much of her unmentionables – also known as legs to the uneducated – she would be decried as a loose woman. If any of these women here were to show up in London, people wouldn't get to the decrying. They would faint at the first sight of these ladies.

They were completely, utterly stark-naked.

Well – maybe it wasn't strictly true. They did wear something. A leather strap, about one inch wide, resting loosely on their hips. I was not one hundred percent sure whether to count this as clothing, since it didn't actually cover more area than two or three postage stamps. The rest of them was visible. Very visible. In fascination, I watched a woman detaching a baby from her breast with no more ceremony or secrecy than I would use to open a letter or wave a fan. She met the eye of one of the armed men surrounding us, and sent him a meaningful look.