Free Lost Worlds by David Yeadon Page A

pygmy people very much. Like I say before—no televisions, no big houses, no…”
    He was listening again and this time he looked worried. We drove in silence for a few more rutted miles. He kept changing gears and testing his acceleration until finally the engine gave a horrendous gasp, followed by a low whine and then a gurgle. And stopped.
    Now, breakdowns are different from stuck-in-the-mud antics. Breakdowns mean nuts and bolts and grease and wrenches and pinched fingers and long hours of cursing and not much in the way of extraneous activity. Except constant beer swilling and cigarette smoking. And a breakdown is what we had, along a particularly dark stretch of forest, miles from anywhere, according to my map.
    Jan didn’t have a spare whatever it was he needed and apparently neither did the only other truck that passed us in our two-hour wait at the side of the track.
    “Shall I walk to the next village and see if I can find what you need?”
    “No. Mambasa is only place,” he said, followed by a long string of invectives, only a few of which I recognized as Anglo-Saxon.
    “But Mambasa’s a long way east from here.”
    He finally gave up cursing and shrugged.
    “Okay. Listen, please. You stay. I go to the next village and send man to stay with truck—and the beer. After he come, you get ride with someone and I see you in Beni. Okay? If no ride come, you wait too.”
    Seemed to make sense—so with another shrug and a wave he set off down the track, turning once.
    “Beer in back. Enjoy!” he shouted, then laughed and vanished around a bend almost as quickly as the pygmies.
     
     
    It was suddenly very quiet. The first time in two days I’d been aware of silence. Even as we’d slept in the cab the previous night the air had been filled with screeches, clicks, rasps, and crackles (and Jan’s snoring). A mosquito coil had kept out the biters, but the noises were so intense and so close that I hadn’t enjoyed much in the way of rest.
    But now it was all silence. Unnerving at first, then strangely calming. Everything felt to be at peace in the heat of the day. I opened another beer and sat in the shade, thinking about nothing in particular.
    I must have dozed off. When I opened my eyes three little men were sitting beside me. They were all coffee-skinned and thin-boned with wide noses, big eyes, bulging cheekbones, and broad smiles. They were smoking strange cigarettes wrapped in what looked like very old yellow parchment. More pygmies. Where the hell do they come from?
    I smiled and offered them each a beer. They accepted and drank daintily from their bottles, giggling softly.
    One of the men passed me his cigarette. It seemed impolite to refuse it, so I took it and pretended to puff on it. They all giggled again and the man indicated that I should inhale the tobacco or whatever it was. I examined the cigarette more carefully. The paper was actually a leaf—a very thin and delicate leaf, not unlike paper. I took a longer drag, carefully. Untreated tobacco can be strong stuff. This wasn’t. Not at all. It went down smoothly—no burning, no irritation, no gagging.
    “Very nice,” I said, and handed it back. But he wouldn’t accept it. In fact, he’d already lit another using some smoldering ashes wrapped tightly in a wad of green leaves. A unique form of portable lighter. He indicated that I should continue smoking. So I did and we sat in silence for a while watching butterflies in the light shafts.
    It really was a very pleasant tobacco, earthily aromatic with a rich blue smoke that wafted up into the trees in lovely curlicues, changing into golden patterns when it passed through patches of sunlight. Like coiling serpents. The curves began to fascinate me. Some were pure rococo—rich, fat, and pompous. Shapes full of the sureness and certainty of themselves. Others became longer and more tenuous with a finely tensed art nouveau line. Almost erotic. As they slowly broke apart they resembled Klee