Omitofo! You motherfu-u-uckers!
We got a few strange looks, and, guilty, I quieted down.
I’m getting to the important part. I should be careful.
It was a Tuesday, so the paths weren’t too crowded. The last time it had been Sunday and the buses had been crawling down the roads. We took a footpath up through the jungle, behind a Korean family with two young boys, and the mother kept yelling at them not to touch anything. Halfway up the rise we both started wheezing because of the cigarettes and I doubled over.
“Stupid old man,” said Pickett.
His mood was improving.
The bright, hot Taiwanese jungle. All of this so close by the road. Everything seemed painted in one pure color—green leaves, blue sky, red flowers. Birds calling. Some furry thing scuttled into the trees before I could get a good look at it.
“Nice weather,” said Pickett.
“Isn’t it?”
He set down the lagers and we each cracked one open. We sat on a rock that looked like Oreo ice cream and all of a sudden Pickett jumped up, shot lager across the path, and yelled.
Across from us, between two trees so far apart that it might have been levitating on its own power, was the biggest spider you had ever seen. Well, evidently the biggest spider Pickett had seen. Its body was black and yellow and it had legs as long as fingers.
I laughed into the mouth of my bottle. The spider was perfectly still.
“Man, I told you,” already adopting so thoroughly his way of speaking. “Don’t fuck with them and they won’t fuck with you.”
“Fuck, man,” he said, wiping a stain on his jeans leg. “Scared the fucking shit out of me. Thing’s big as my fucking head.”
“He’s just chilling out right there. He’s cool.” I raised my bottle to the spider. “I drink to you!”
“I fucking hate spiders.”
“Hey, hippie, don’t you think that was some dude in its previous life?”
“Fuck you, man. Maybe a real nasty-ass person. Like Jeff Dahmer.”
He sat back down, his legs shaking a little. The spider was about five feet away from us.
“Have a drink.”
“I will have a drink.”
I love the way that alcohol and nicotine combine in your blood. When I drink I want to smoke, and when I smoke I want to drink, but I’m still alive. I lit another Double Lucky and so did Pickett.
For a second it seemed like I’d found that paradise after all—the one that was always just around the next bend. Always like that. There one second; the next, gone.
Kyoo-kyoo-kyoo, went the birds.
“So you love snakes,” I said, “but you’re terrified of spiders.”
“Not terrified, I just hate the things.—When do we get to see this gorge, anyway?”
“When we get to the top we can look down on it. It’s a long way down. The river should be shallow this time of year.”
Then I heard them.
I want to put down the song they were singing. I know four languages pretty well—English, French, Russian, and Japanese—and I taught myself Japanese when I should have been learning another language, in southern Nepal, where it was the only educational book in that sad little dry goods store. It came in handy later. The chorus was all I remember hearing:
Tongara gatta sekkai
Hikkuri kaeshi
Hikkuri kaeta sekkai
Hoppori dashi de
Meaning: Turning the confused world upside down. Tossing away the upside-down world. Then:
Hai, sarabai!
Hai, sarabai!
Hat, sarabai!
Now sarabai, as far as I can figure, is a strange pun. But then it was a strange song. Saraba is a slangy Japanese way of saying good-bye. Bai is just bye, as in bye-bye. I had never heard the word and at the time I didn’t get it.
Three girls came into view holding hands and swinging their arms and skipping, as much as this configuration—and the narrow path—allowed.
Three young Japanese girls in sailor-suit uniforms. Blue-and-white jackets, blue skirts and red neck ribbons. My lager went down the wrong way and I choked, the colors were so sudden.
On instinct Pickett and I both moved our beers into less obvious positions. There we sat: two dimwitted foreigners, blinking in the sunlight. Against us they were brilliant and quick. Like fish, two of them darted behind the tallest one.
The tall girl covered her mouth and laughed. She had slightly wavy hair coming down on either side and framing her face, and a yellow hair band: this I remember clearly.
I swallowed a burp, a painful feeling, and said, “Ossu,” meaning, Yo.
Her face brightened. “Speak Japanese?”
“Un, chotto dake.”
“A-aah umai deshou!”
Of the other two girls, one was sort of plump and had a bowl haircut; one was slender and had long hair.
Pickett punched my shoulder. “The hell you waiting for, man, introduce me to these fine ladies!”
But that phrase brought me back to earth. Feeling strange, I looked down and shook my head.
He put one hand on his chest. “Pickett!” he said.
“Pikketto!” the girl shot back at him, like she was spitting. Her cheeks were full of mirth.
“Suman,” I said, cutting my head at him. “Kochira baka da.”
I think Pickett guessed what that meant without my telling him because he punched me again. The girls laughed. It was bright on the path and their laughter was also bright.
“Kiotsukero, kimi,” I said. “Hittori dakara.”
“Ee yo.” She flapped one hand. “Ee yo.”
Although it wasn’t exactly right, I had told her to be careful because she—they—were alone. She’d told me there was nothing
