THE SAVANNAH

“Be careful,” Miguel said.

Homer nodded. Don’t worry.”

Miguel escorted them out of the shop with his mop, as the afternoon sun shone in the sky. On moving along the street, they went past other shops selling all kinds of things amidst the noise of the market.

Nobody seemed to pay attention to the Indian wearing a gown and a plait hanging out of his hat, as Father Ricardo stopped by their side

“I don’t like him,” he said.

“He’s harmless, father.”

“Bring him to the church on Sunday then.”

“I’ll do that father.”

Shaking his head, Father Ricardo moved toward the cemetery, while Homer led the Indian through a wide street with a few shops. As they arrived at the city centre, bicycles and cars mingled with the carriages, but then a grey station loomed amidst the palm trees and bushes.

Espresso Palmira, said in big letters by the door. On entering the place, they girl filed her nails behind a desk filled with papers. Homer interrupted her concentration by knocking at the table.

“I want two tickets to Villavicencio,” he said.

Blowing on her nails, she checked a notebook, full of names and numbers.

“It’s four hundred pesos,” she said.

Homer wanted the heads, even if he had to spend some of his money. Counting some of his pesos he put them in the counter by the papers and magazines.

“Thank you,” she said.

Then she handed him the tickets, her big breasts trembling like jelly under her frock. Homer wanted to stay by her side instead of looking for the heads.

“I’m going to the Amazon jungle,” he said.

“Your friend is waiting,” she said.

He had to go, even if he liked her teats, and holding the tickets, he went back to the Indian sitting at the table by the window.

“We’re going to Villavicencio,” Homer said.

Faced with the man’s silence, Homer wondered how much money his own head might fetch in the shops. He had put his life at the mercy of cannibals with a taste for coca.

“Are we going the right way?” Homer asked.

The Indian went on looking at the garage, where the driver checked the bus tyres. Homer had to know whether they caught the wrong bus to hell or anywhere else like that in the world. Then he noticed one of the buses moving away from the bay.

Taking his case in one hand, his bag in another and the tickets in his mouth, Homer rushed through the crowd followed by the Indian. He left a long line of angry individuals threatening to kill him, by the time he knocked at the bus door.

“Can you let us in? Homer asked.

He put a fifty pesos note against the bus window, hoping the driver would feel any compassion for his soul.

“It will be yours if you open the door,” he said.

The driver shook his head but after a few moments, he beckoned them inside the darkness. Homer blamed himself for coming to the unknown with the Indian from hell.

“It’s not a sin to leave on time,” the driver said.

“I paid you money,” Homer said.

On moving along the aisle, they stepped on the bodies lying in the floor. Homer couldn’t understand why they didn’t sit somewhere.

“I’ll kill you,” a fat woman said.

Homer shrugged. “I’m sorry, Madam.”

“You’ve broken my leg.”

She gestured somewhere under the mass of people, where her legs had to be. Homer saw two empty seats at the back of the bus, and amidst the commotion.

As they stepped on a few limbs and torsos, they managed to avoid a serious injure by the time they arrived at a cage full of chickens. God must have kept those places in the crowded bus or Homer had good luck in his life, while the birds looked at him with beady eyes.

“I want one hundred pesos,” A woman said.

“Not now,” Homer said.

“You can’t sit next to me then.”

Homer ignored the woman, as the bus drove along the countryside full of sugar plantations, the wind bringing him a rain of feathers and shit. He covered his face with his hands, trying to stop the dirt going up his nose.

“The birds don’t like you,” the woman said.

“I don’t want them either.”

The thought of the heads kept Homer sane amidst all the mess around him. After chewing a bit of coca, he dreamed of the Indians dancing at the sound of drums as a beautiful girl beckoned from a hammock.

“Empanadas,” someone said.

On opening his eyes, Homer saw a woman lifting a plate filled with flies and food, outside the bus window.

“Tamales,” someone else said.

They tempted Homer with their concoctions harbouring zillion of illnesses amidst the dust covering everything.

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“He eats shit,” the woman sitting by his side said.

Homer kept quiet, even though she had to be the biggest shit eater in the world. Then he noticed the Indian had left his seat. He might have gone outside to stretch his legs or to the toilet. Moving down the aisle, Homer stepped on people’s feet once more.

“Have you seen my friend?” he asked.

“No,” they answered.

“He wore a long gown,” Homer said.

Everyone followed his movements as he walked on the mass of bodies spread along the aisle, while a child cried.

“Your friend is outside,” the driver said.

At first Homer couldn’t see anything outside the windows, but then he noticed a figure waiting by a few mules. Getting off the bus, he hurried amongst the vendors accosting him with their wares.

“I want some money to buy a coffee,” someone said.

Homer shrugged. You need to have a bath.”

“Help me, mister” a woman stretched a hand towards him.

“Empanadas,” another one said.

Homer reached the Indian after fighting with the sellers, the man greeting him with cool eyes.

“I thought we had to go to Villavicencio,” Homer said.

“Mmm,” the Indian said.

Putting their bags on a mule, the Indian climbed on another one, leaving Homer amidst the dust. Having seen a few cowboy films, he tried to get on his animal like John Wayne did, but fell down the other side, hurting his arms.

That had never happened to the Wild West heroes of his childhood. The Indian chewed some more coca, while Homer tried to climb on the mule.

“You won’t have any more coca,” he said.

“Mmmm,” the Indian said.

“Can’t you talk?”

“Mmmm.”

Everyone cheered when Homer got up the saddle, the best achievement of his life in the jungle up to that moment. He followed the Indian down the lane, as a flock of birds chatted to each other in their own language, and children waved at him, while their mother washed their clothes by a well.

Homer had visited this land a few times in his night terrors, even if he had floated through the path, taking him to the unknown. After they had been riding through the wild for a few hours, they arrived at a river, where the Indian helped him to get off the mule.

“I can’t swim,” Homer said.

“Mmmm.”

“You must be dumb,” Homer said.

Sitting down on a boulder covered with moss, he saw the Indian catching their lunch with a fishing rod he must have purchased in the market. The line swam in the current, before it tightened under the weight of a fish or a piranha.

“Bravo,” Homer said.

The man smiled. “Mmmmm.”

“You must learn my language,” Homer said.

“Mmm.”

“That is called fish.”

“Mmmm.”

“Fish,” Homer
said.

As the Indian cleaned it with his knife, the scales mixed with the grass around them. Then he made a fire with some matches he had in his pockets, the smoke frightening the insects of the jungle. They waited in silence for the fish to fry in the fire burning the grass and other things.

“How many heads do you have?” Homer asked.

Faced with the man’s silence, Homer tried to imagine the Indians keeping the heads of their enemies somewhere in the jungle. Then the Indian served the food in a few palm leaves he had found somewhere amidst the trees.

The man had to have a great imagination to accomplish his deeds. Feeling hungry after his trek through the jungle, Homer ate the fish he had seen alive a few moments before.

“I want to have many heads,” Homer said.

He pointed to his own face to communicate his business feelings to the Indian. He had come here to find a treasure of heads, but the Indian didn’t care.

Homer imagined how much he might charge to Uncle Hugh’s friend in New York to increase his capital. A nice head might fetch a few thousand dollars or he could even more money for the Indians’ relics of war.

After erecting a pole amidst the grass, the man hammered its sides onto the floor. Homer hoped the snakes and other things wouldn’t keep him company during the night. Night had come to the plains, the sun turning into a ball of fire before disappearing behind trees in a beautiful spectacle.

Homer sipped his drink, enjoying the sunset in the land of the trees, but then he felt tired. Staggering around, he managed to find the entrance to the tent the Indian had erected in the middle of the field, before losing consciousness for some time.

Homer dreamed of walking through the forest in the moonlight, the sound of drums echoing around the land of the trees.




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