Savage Silence
Share Article The key to survival is cunning and silence, said Leo. Patient. Move slow like a Komodo dragon. Fast then silent. Instinct and intuition.
A stranger rides a bike on a dusty red rutted road. No money, no pavement. Red dust parallels a river. Locals stare and forget. They forage for food. Let’s eat.
Leo’s been along this river before. The river is the world and other places.
It winds past thatched homes with one or two rooms. Wood floors. Bamboo mats. Pots and pans. The rear opens to a flowing outhouse river.
River banks are littered with plastic bags, plastic bottles, plastic soap packets, plastic Styrofoam containers, plastic people, plastic dreams, plastic arms and legs and plastic wish fulfillment.
They have wells or cisterns for drinking, washing, bathing.
If the home’s on stilts, the lower area is for hammocks, sleeping in shade, gathering and eating. Palm trees line the road.
Leo sees a vegetable garden. It’s fenced off with barbwire, wood slats, fragmented sticks and string. The vegetables are bright green and strong.
Middle-class glass and brass pink wedding cake homes scream we are rich. Monster homes have paved front yards with plastic toy deer, plastic flamingoes, high cement walls, sharp lancer fences and imposing metallic gates.
Protection from poor bored butterflies and machete wielding dragons.
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