|
|
|
McFearless |
| Written by Davey Spens | |
| Monday, 11 August 2008 | |
 When the summer holidays approach, students up and down the country plan to make the most of their breaks. Mine were stuffy months slumped over piles of data entry, but for those privileged enough to have turned-up collars, floppy hair and long surnames, it more often than not meant one thing only, a trip to the travel agent. This one's name was Dominic, and like so many of his schoolfriends, he bought a ticket to South America and lived out of a backpack. Everyone at the hostel was on a trip to find themselves; some through meditation, others through imbibing root juice - an infusion of psychoactive plants deemed sacred by the natives. The back-packers were dressed in filthy tans, unkempt hair and flip-flops. Some were so unrecognisable from their passport photographs you could tell they'd been there the longest. They swanned around in bathrobes, took you to one side and filled your nights with stories that forgot the world behind. The boy that greeted Dominic, who couldn't have been older than nineteen, called himself 'McFearless', though his real name was Duncan and he came from Aberdeen.
The hostel was in a small town at the gateway to the Amazon. Its residents feared a flood of party animals would create a jungle Woodstock, but the tourism had its benefits. Locals trying to drum up clients yelled "Root Juice! Root Juice!" at the new arrivals as they piled out of the airport terminal with their backpacks and headscarves. McFearless was one such sucker. The Scotsman took his seat in the minivan, unprepared for the hours he would spend curled up on the ground, puking and pooping his guts out. After hours of darkness, he recalled, the shaman blew cigarette smoke over his body and he vomited up a lumpy mass. From then on, he was enveloped by beams of heavenly light, in touch with the spirits of every person he'd ever known. Dominic eyed him sceptically. "Have you come here for adventure?" said McFearless, chewing on a reed. "Spose so," he replied. "I see it in your eyes. Meet me at six, tomorrow morning, and wear something light." He spat his reed out onto the ground, tied his bathrobe tight around him and waltzed off towards the huts. "Shut the windows tonight," he called, "unless you want a Razorbill Monkey in your bed." Dominic wasn't sure monkeys had bills, but he was not someone to take chances. "Fearless minds climb soonest into crowns," said McFearless, as he led the way to the riverbank. "You know that one?" Dominic shook his head. He wouldn't usually profess to be the adventurous sort, but as he lay in bed last night, he counted himself lucky to have found a friend so fast. So when his watch alarm sounded at five to six he fumbled for a t-shirt, stumbled across the dorm, and trundled out into the yard. The yard was someway back by now. There weren't any noticeable tracks, and his Scottish guide was map-less. Every so often he'd sniff the air and jerk his ginger head around. Then his hand came up to stroke his beard as if brewing something wise. "Don't urinate," he said, "You must try to hold it in." He narrowed his eyes as if he'd uttered something profound. "Toothpick fish," he said, "it swims into your orifices, sticks out its spines, and banquets on your flesh." He pulled a machete out of a sheath that was strapped to his shorts and slashed through a creeper vine.
They came to the bank of the Amazon. "Hippos spend most of the day in water. It protects their skin from the sun," he said as he untied a makeshift raft, "not that you need to worry about them, it's the Pirarucus that'll do us." The raft was a precarious construction, a couple of palettes and plastic barrels lashed together with household string. "A fish as big as a kayak. Let us pray not to be sheltered from dangers, but to be fearless when facing them." He was either well read or had an excellent dictionary of quotations. He waded into the river and dragged the vessel to the bank. Dominic stuck out a foot and gingerly brought it down. He watched the palette sink under the surface and bob back up again. It tipped and teetered like a tea tray balancing on a football. "You sure this is a safe?" They didn't have oars but the river had a strong current and as soon as they were a few metres from the bank, they were carried into a stream. "They threw buckets of animal blood in the river to distract the flesh-eating fish." Dominic turned to look at the land disappearing from view. "You know the man who swam the river? They had to throw in blood to distract the piranhas," he scoffed, "they'd be the least of my concerns. It's the red and white ones you need to watch. I forget their names but they're painted up like candy canes." "Please." "They'll turn your blood to water. Sixty seconds and then it starts to come out of all your holes. Your eyes, your ears.." "Please," said Dominic again, "I think I've heard enough." McFearless broke into a belly laugh. "C'mon. You big girl's blouse."
The pair had made remarkable progress when the river came up through the slats. Dominic had heard enough of the stories and had kipped down on the raft, though he was under no illusion that he'd get any sleep. He knew something was wrong when his bum felt damp. And when he opened his eyes, they were half submerged in the murk. "Where's the barrel?" McFearless pointed to a bobbing speck, a hundred metres back. "The rats must have nibbled the rope," he said, "It's fine, we're halfway there." "Fine?! We're almost drowning." "All adds to the adventure." As he said it there was a sound like a ship in the wind, and they watched the other string snap and the second barrel detach. Dominic threw himself on top so his toes where hooked to the sinking raft and his fingers clamped tight to the buoyancy aid. "You'll never be able to keep us up. Let nature takes it course." Dominic's eyes jumped out on stalks. McFearless was playing with his penknife. "Did you cut it?" "Cut what?" "The string." He shrugged. "Might have done." "Are you crazy?" "I'm trying to make it fun." Then he dived into the river and started to swim for shore.
Dominic lay face down on the bank, panting like a terrier. His t-shirt was stuck to his skin like it had been slopped on with wallpaper paste. His shoulder bag, now slung loosely around his waist, was fat with water and silt, and his desert boots were nowhere to be seen. McFearless picked up a poking stick and prodded him in the side. "C'mon," he said, "Up you get. You know what they say about the early birds." Dominic unstuck his face from the sludge. "I don't want to catch any worms," "You're not getting it." McFearless squatted down and with a wave of the stick drew Dominic's attention to a row of bushes not that far away. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Do you see that mop of hair to the right of the tree?" Dominic squinted his eyes. "There," said McFearless, "above the wooden blowpipe." "What blow...?" The sight of a long wooden pipe jutting out of the foliage was all the motivation Dominic needed. "Come on!" The Scotsman took his time to get to his feet. Dominic hurdled a fallen tree. Squeezing the bag to his side, he hurried along as the tribal drums beat around and the darts began to fly. "Life is to be lived," McFearless said, "the wilder, more dangerous, more bitter, the better," his voice tailed off as he ducked another poisoned dart that whistled above his hair.
It was nightfall when they made it back. The hostel was usually buzzing a long time after sundown. So when the adventurers returned to deserted benches littered with cans of local beer, tables stacked with dirty plates and stray cutlery on the ground, they knew it must be really late. Around the perimeter of the canopied space was a string of fairy lights. It was in their illumination that McFearless' temperament changed. The pair were silent. Dominic had passed the point he could reason with his feelings. His clothes were torn, his bag was open, he feet muddied, bloodied and bruised, but there was a joy in his spirit. As much as it had died today, something came alive. "I'm going to bed," he said - the first words he'd spoken for hours. But as he pushed past McFearless he felt a hand grip on to his arm, and he turned to see the Scotsman's face, taut with worry lines. "Don't go," McFearless said, "Please stay a little while." As he said it, his knees went giddy. "You okay?" asked Dominic. A shiver ran up the man as if his whole body was gripped by something. "You alright?" Dominic said, "I've never seen you like this." "I'm fine," he lied. Dominic looked down at his fingers wrapped tightly round his arms. The nails dug in. "Easy tiger," Dominic said, "Come on, what's wrong?" The Scotsman pulled him close. "Say my name," he whispered. Dominic was somewhat taken aback. "Mc-Fearless," he said, pronouncing it clearly, so it broke into two words. A grin broke out on the Scotsman's face like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. "That's right," he purred, "McFearlesssss. McFearless lives a life of danger. It's not that McFearless has no fear, it's that McFearless overcomes them." His smile slipped to the ground. "When you live a life of danger you do not fear death, do you?" Dominic shook his head. "Wrong," he said, "You fear a nice death." "How do you mean?" "Nice. Yuk. Nice. What is the nicest way to die?" "To die with the people you love?" "No, to die nicely in your sleep. I want to be torn apart by hippos, or in leaping off a waterfall get splattered on the rocks. I want to fly a plane into a mountain, be eaten by a cannibal. I do not want to be found wrapped in a duvet, with a hot water bottle, pyjamas and a night cap. So if it must be known I am afraid - of dying nicely in my sleep."
McFearless flung open his arms and gobbled him up with a bear hug, so Dominic's chin rested on his shoulders with arms down the side. Dominic didn't know what to say but couldn't help feel a little sorry for him. With a twist of the wrist he managed a little pat on the small of his back. It was in this awkward contortion, that the idea came to him.
He opened the fridge and took out all the food he could find. Each backpacker had a different shelf but it was too late to worry about whose margarine was whose. McFearless stood there like the little lamb that followed Mary about, and Dominic piled up chicken legs and burgers in his arms. They took vegetables and tuna fish, Weetabix and milk. Leaving the fridge door open to give the impression of bandits, Dominic made a trail of food from the edge of the hostel to middle and the middle of the camp to the benches. "Bring you sleeping bag out," he said. McFearless did as he was told. Dominic found a tin opener and opened a can of tomato soup. "Get in it," he said, "and lie down." The Scotsman followed the instructions, and when he was zipped up Dominic emptied the soup over him, tore open a packet of bacon and laid the rashers out on top. "My friend," he said, "You may not sleep a wink tonight, but don't tell me you're not truly alive. How would you like to be feasted upon by a troop of Razorbill Monkeys?" And so it was that Dominic went back to his dorm with a big Scottish grin on his face. He fell asleep to the catcalls of the monkey troop as they assembled outside the camp. And that night McFearless slept like a baby. That is he slept in fits and starts and woke up every ten minutes screaming.
www.daveyspens.com Copyright 2008 Davey Spens |
| < Prev | Next > |
|---|
via Email