The running theme is about identity, acceptance, the irony of life,eugenics, heterozygosity in humans and how the main characters are seen and perceived in different places as well as the judgements that are made on them because of race, class and appearance.
On a typically steamy afternoon in a make-shift clinic of tarpaulin and bamboo sticks deep in the jungles of Borneo, Malaysia April 1965, Harold inwardly squirmed so that the other people surrounding him would not see his discomfort. His stomach was aching with the snatching grip of pain caused by drinking unfamiliar water from another country, swish gurgle swish went the discomfort in the tunnels of his intestines.
The unmistakable pulsing squeeze of an irritated gut took over his bowel like the time he had indulged in too many liquorice sticks when he had first been allowed to leave his boarding school dormitory un-chaperoned one weekend. He had to ignore it though because he was a doctor and he had been taught at medical school to convey “The-Great-I-am.” Always act like you know everything, even if you are not quite sure, never act as though you are not quite sure. Be sure. You have the knowledge and the ability. The Great-I-Am. The big cheese, the head honcho, Lord of all Lords. You are like God. Act like God and people will believe what you tell them. People will listen to you if you speak with conviction when you are a doctor.
But Harold certainly did not feel like God or even much like a doctor at that moment in time. He was in the midst of a task he had no experience of. The damp heat from the surrounding jungle clung to his already moist skin causing his shirt to saturate and cling to his pale, thin, bony body. The dense richness of the flora and fauna pumping out energy giving oxygen was the only thing that was keeping him going. Majestic trees that had grown up and beyond the eye’s view had intertwined with other vegetation, so that they were in a living breathing cave. Every leaf, twig, branch and trunk played host to a plethora of wildlife. Rays of light were beamed in like laser shots through the canopy from the sun. Insects chirped and warbled, singing songs with the birds in a constant many layered tinitus effect on the ears. But it was loud. So loud that it was hard to hear yourself think if you concentrated on the sounds, but so constant that you soon got used to the cacophony. The only thing managing to cut through the rainforest crowd noise was the occasional gibbon blurting out it’s boisterous vocals.
To add to his trauma, he was still feeling queasy from the ten week boat trip he had just been on to arrive in Borneo from Southampton, England to begin his work as a missionary. His mission was to spread Christianity sprinkled with a liberal dose of his experience as a doctor. "Doctor Harold Harpington-Howarth, the Great-I-Am," or rather just "Harold an idiot abroad."
Every step he took left him feeling as though he were swaying from side to side as he had done on the ship that had transported him from Europe for seventy long sea sickening days. And my what a lot of steps he had already taken since they had docked in Borneo. Some forty eight hours earlier he had arrived on the shores of Sarawak’s capital Kuching. Momentarily relieved to be on dry land, he was briefly greeted by a member of the Overseas Mission team and bundled onto a rickety bus, which, despite the overcrowding, dust and the cheesy stench of durian fruit provided a welcome breeze through the broken window pains as it had whizzed down through the streets.
Obsessively compulsive about hygiene, Harold had attempted hovering over the seat that a young woman with no front teeth had insisted on giving him, as though it were a filthy toilet. His quads were aching from the power squat that would prevent him from lowering his buttocks onto the seat, but he soon had to sit down when he found himself being thrown left and right as the bus charted winding climbing roads and bumpy marshy off-roads once the bus left the city because the bus driver took to his journey with all the eagerness of a Formula One racer. He couldn’t wait to get off the ship and now he was off the ship and on the bus he couldn’t wait to get off the bus. It was a far cry from the smart red double deckers in London that he would purposefully run to at the last minute. Run Harold run. Just so he could jump on the back while it was in motion to experience the thrill of adrenaline. This act would present the tiniest thrill to any other person - but to Harold, who was no risk taker, the heart racing leap from pavement to back of bus had his heart banging like whores in a brothel.
There was no conductor calling “Tickets please,” and the driver was not in a smart uniform and hat but a stained t-shirt, shorts and alarmingly to Harold, a pair of flip flops that kept catching on the clutch. He had no idea where he was going or who he was going to meet. However, Harold’s discomfort on the bus had not been for too long. He had just managed to doze off when he was woken up by the sound of his own name spoken in a Malaysian accent.
“Dr Harold,” he heard. “ Dr Harold.”
“Yes,” he had said blearily and looked out of the window to see a settlement of pretty painted houses raised from the ground. There was a small church and a blue and white painted school.
Small brown faced children were running barefoot here and there calling to each other. “Branda, branda!” And excitedly approaching the bus to shyly peer at Harold through dark monolidded eyes.
“They talk of you,” laughed the young local man who had been attempting to wake Harold up. “They say ‘Branda,’ it means white man.”
As Harold descended the bus he felt like royalty, beaming faces came bounding up towards him. He really was a fascinating sight to the locals, because even though they were in a settlement run by European white people. None of them looked quite like Harold. To them he was very very slim and pale having not ventured out on the decks of the boat much on his epic journey. He wore thick black spectacles and a look of constant terror beneath his shock of red wavy hair. He was so pleased to find that this settlement was where the bus had arrived. A pretty place with friendly faces, talking in tongues that he did not understand. He could see that it was going to be a comfortable picturesque area to live for the next few years while he was on his mission. He had read about Borneo and how its inhabitants were head-hunters and tribes of hostile tattooed primitive types with dangling ear lobes, but these people seemed reasonably well dressed and most importantly to Harold, clean.
Two slim but muscly men, Kasan and Topa took Harold’s trunk and began walking away with it. “Oh, how very kind,” he had said. Wondering which of the sweet little houses on stilts he would be living in.
“Mr Harold you follow us,” said Topa and held his hand up pink palm facing downwards and flapped it back and forth a few times as as if to signal ‘go away or move back.’
Harold had begun walking but stopped when Topa had displayed his clear hand gesture. he was rightfully confused and didn't know how he was supposed to follow if he was being told to move backwards.
Topa turned and began to walk away with Harold’s trunk, he just happened to glance over his shoulder again and noticed that Harold wasn’t moving. “No, no. You come with us!“ he said making the ‘go away’ signal again.
Confused, Harold obediently followed. These idiots don’t have the greatest grasp of the English language. He thought to himself.
It was nothing to do with Topa’s language skills though, but a rather bizarre development of hand gesturing that had lead to the Bidayuh’s using the very opposite of hand signals that most of Europe engaged in. 'Come here,' being 'go away' or 'go away' being 'come here,' whichever way you looked at it. Confusingly for poor Harold, the signs and body language were as foreign as the language they spoke. He sighed. Everything was going to take the patience of a missionary to get used to this strange place.
The two men carrying Harold’s trunk followed a path that was going up a hill. Topa was from the Land Dayak tribe, Bidayuh and Kasan was from the Sea Dayak tribe Iban. They were both working for the English missionaries - but as they spoke different dialects, they found it confusing to talk to each other in any way other than English.
“Why did he stand still when you told him to follow us?” Kasan asked Topa quietly as they walked along the rough path.
“I don’t know.” Topa said as he shrugged his shoulders to ease the weight of the trunk for a moment.
“He looks like a scaredy man to me. How can he be a doctor?” Kasan mumbled. “His eyes look all surprised.”
“There is school,” Kasan spoke louder so that Harold could hear him. “Shall we tell him that all the trees are made of wood?” He whispered as they carried on steadily walking through the village.
“There is clinic,” Topa pointed to a wooden white painted colonial building. “And the sky is full of air,” he sniggered under his breath.
Harold could feel the sense of relief slowly unfurling in his body at the sight of the clinic building. He had been so afraid of what he might have to endure. His first fear was that there would be nowhere to wash. He knew that there was no way he would be able to use up the village’s water supplies on his endless hand washing but he intended to remain clean at all times. Especially as he was practicing in medicine out here. Harold was beyond obsessive about hygiene. He was deep in the grips of his obsessive compulsive disorder. Lights off. Are they off? Yes, they’re off. No, they’re not. Yes, they are. Turn them off. I’ll go back and turn them off. They’re not on. Oh that’s good. I can go. There was no need for Harold to worry about lights out here. Most houses didn’t even have any electricity yet. And then there was the hand washing. Wash my hands. Water. Rub. Rub, rub some more, more soap, more soap. Rinse. Rub the tops rub the backs. Are they clean enough? No. Maybe not. More water. More soap, more rubbing. Rub again. Rub some more. More water. More soap. Are they clean? Rinse. But my forearms. Did I wash them high enough? Up to my elbows should do. Wash my hands. Give them a rub. Soap. Water. More soap. Rub. Rub. Rub. Rub the tops rub the backs. Rub up and along my elbows. Rinse. Are they clean? No they’re not. Oh dear, oh dear. Sang the narrative in Harold’s head like a dark and beastly nursery rhyme stuck on repeat. His rituals were normally interrupted by the sound of one of his housemates banging on the bathroom door as he was always in there so long that invariably someone would be desperate for the loo after patiently waiting for him for more than was necessary. So, really the last place a man with his condition (albeit undiagnosed) was a place without hot and cold running water and no sewage system to speak of far away in the tropical rainforest of Borneo.
Harold’s second fear was that he would become someone’s supper, be it one of the wild animals lurking in the jungle or one of the wild natives keen to remain in ownership of their territory. Although the pretty painted wooden buildings had nothing but corrugated iron for roofs he could see that they were going to be comfortable. These pretty buildings were of course Western style houses, poor copies of the colonial buildings that the British had originally built along the banks of the great crocodile infested Sarawak River in the capital Kuching back in the early 1900s.
“Ah, Harold old chap!” a stout red faced Englishman in vicars robes came bounding to meet Harold from the clinic entrance as Harold walked with Kasan and Topa. “We’ve been eagerly waiting for your arrival. I am The Very Reverend Stubs the Overseas Mission’s leader here in Banuk.” He held out his chubby moist hand for Harold to shake.
Harold limply offered his back, it hung floppily in The Very Reverend Stubs fat hand like a deflated balloon, needless to say, he hated shaking hands. He hated touching other people. How he came to be a doctor, God (the original Great-I-Am) only knows. He mainly achieved the role as that was what was expected of him by his strict governing parents Ernst and Barbara and Harold did as he was told. Harold quickly withdrew his hand from the firm warm grip of his counterpart and thrust it back into his pocket so that he could subtly wipe it inside his trousers. He couldn’t bare the thought of anyone’s grime on his well washed hands, let alone the clammy perspiration of another man. Harold ground his poor worn down bruxism inflicted teeth in disgust whilst smiling his most gracious smile, he was always in awe and respectful to those high up in the Christian ranks despite their pathogen laden digits.
“How do you do, pleased to met you. I am Dr Harold Harpington-Howarth.” Harold tried to ignore the sensation of The Very Reverend Stub's sweat burrowing into his palm.
“Yes, yes. I know your name of course,” said The Very Reverend Stubs raising onto his tiptoes and then swinging back on to his heels. “Have you had a good journey?”
Well, apart from being held in India for two weeks while the ship was docked where they tried to investigate Harold’s reasons for travel and withheld his passport so that he couldn’t go any further. And apart from the fact that he was still feeling very giddy from the constant swaying of the boat on the water. And apart from the fact that Harold had not thought to bring any food and the supplies on the ship were extremely low and he felt as if he must have scurvy by now from living off nothing but rice and water. And apart from the fact that he had run out of soap after just seven weeks… Well, yes, apart from all of that, everything was just dandy.
“Yes thank you.” Harold lied. Well. It hadn’t all been that bad.
“Good good. You’ll be all ready for the next leg of the journey then.” Grinned The Very Reverend Stubs. “Lovely lovely people here. You were due to stay in this village with us to get your bearings and settle in to the climate but seeing as you are two weeks late we are going to have send you on your first mission now I’m afraid.”
Next leg of the journey? Harold repeated in his head. Next leg of the journey! Harold jumped and shook his foot as a scorpion scuttled across his sock and sandal. Damn. He thought as he realised he should simply have kept still so as to not aggravate the creature.
“Next leg of the journey?” Harold said out loud.
“Yes, Topa and Kasan who have your trunk will be taking you to set up a clinic eight miles away to help a Bidayuh tribe. They need guidance away from their Pagan beliefs and plenty of medical attention. Work your magic and I am sure they will be sold. They’re a pretty amicable bunch the Bidayuh. Get them on our side and then we can concentrate on the hostiles. You‘ll have to walk it though as there aren‘t any roads to that part of the jungle and the path rarely gets used.” The Very Reverend Stubs gave a wink and slapped Harold on the back before bounding back inside to the coolness of the clinic building.
“He looks like he has seen a ghost,” Topa whispered to Kasan.
“Yes, he have scaredy man face.” Kasan replied.
They turned round together and looked at Harold’s pallid face with it’s bewildered open mouth expression. They chuckled to each other and turned away.
Kasan snorted through his nose, trying to suppress his laughter. “We must look like ghosts!” He spluttered.
“Look at his shoes an his feet warmers,” giggled Topa.
“He must have cold feet!” sniggered Kasan as they walked with their heavy load.
“He’s as skinny as you,” Topa murmured to Kasan.
“As skinny as me?” Kasan declared. He stopped laughing and put down his end of the trunk, drawing his shoulders up, he turned to poke Topa in the ribs in a sudden change of discourse. “I do not have these pointy sharp bones like you, skeleton man. You are so skinny, you look like the dead.” He jabbed his fingers in to Topa’s ribs. Which only served to make Topa want to laugh even more. “You so skinny - that he is scared because he see you and you look like ghost an you scare him!“ Shouted Kasan angrily.
Topa loved to torment his work colleague and Kasan always took the bait, reacting angrily when his buttons were pushed. He dropped his side of the trunk which landed on Kasan‘s toes.
“Ow-weeeeeeee!” He squealed as the weight of Harold‘s trunk, mainly packed with unnecessary books landed on him. “You squashed my feet now you stupid skinny man!”
Topa now had tears of silent laughter rolling down his face at the sight of his hopping friend. Still being poked in the ribs in a tirade of physical and verbal abuse by Topa he pointed back towards Harold. Kasan stopped with the expletives and the two men fell silent for a beat as they both looked at Harold.
Harold watching the two men in dismay, his face more contorted than ever, eyes so wide and round that they looked as if they could simply pop out of his head like a pinball at the start of a game was now genuinely surprised by this sudden outburst and his mouth had narrowed into a perfect “O” shape.
Kasan and Topa turned to each other and both formed the round look of surprise with their mouths “O” before spluttering into the loudest of convulsions letting out all the spirit of their hilarity in perfect unison.
“Aye, yi, yee,” said Topa. He patted his companion on the back before once again lifting the weighty trunk one handed and with strength as though it were as light as a dry sponge.
Kasan took a deep breath before calmness descended on the pair once more as if the incident had never happened.
So, Harold followed Topa and Kasan through dense and boggy jungle in his beige wool socks and tan leather sandals, bought at Raoul‘s, London. The two men hacked at the foliage with ease, using their parangs the Malay equivalent of a machete, must-have item for any jungle dweller and trotted along rapidly despite carrying Harold’s heavy load and having bare feet. Every now and again they turned round to see Harold waddling awkwardly along, grimacing as roots, shrubs and hoards of giant red ants got caught through the wool of his socks and onto his squelching wet sore feet.
Harold had tried to look on the bright side. It was only eight miles after all and he had run a half marathon before but of course that was in the North of England on pavements and this was Borneo an uninhabited jungle. As is always the case in Harold’s life though, nothing was ever straight forward and eight miles took two whole days. They had stopped to camp along the way eating freshly caught wild boar for sustenance and the three men had had quite an adventure.
He had seen with his own two eyes the glow of orangey bronze fur as they had come directly beneath a family of rare Orang-utans bathing in the sunlight of the tree tops. They were remarkably unperturbed by the distance between the three men and their own hairy tribe. Kasan had raised his finger to his lip in order to silence Harold in respect for the true owners of the forest. Harold froze and turned to see a flash of yellow as a ripe banana plopped out of the sky onto the ground five feet away from him. Then the rustling began. Branches and leaves crunched together, twigs snapped and just for a moment, the twittering of the birds and insects lowered. Harold looked to his two companions for guidance. Topa and Kasan widened their eyes and raised their hands so that Harold wouldn’t move. He did not see what the panic was about. Orangutans are just cuddly monkeys after all and surely if they have any degree of intelligence as the great Darwin claimed like father always tells me, then I will come to no harm.
Of course what Harold did not quite understand was that he was the predator and these creatures of the jungle would protect their families with all their might. They were not accustomed to bumbling white English men sporting socks and sandals stomping through their dwellings. The swinging sound became louder and down from the canopy of the trees appeared a young female orang-utan with a teeny baby clinging on to her fur as she swung. Harold gasped in amazement. She narrowed her brown eyes at him and through a power almost telepathic in nature she gave Harold a warning look not to come near. Harold felt her gaze look right inside him as though she were peering into the centre of his soul. His clothes no longer made him anything, he may as well have been naked, for that was how he felt. She stared at his whole being which made Harold’s heart feel as though it were being squeezed by her eyes, it in turned began thumping with adrenaline. He knew not to move an inch. He raised his hand to his camera that hung from his neck and did his best to convey kindness and peace back to her.
It seemed to work, she walked towards the dropped banana and sat down to eat it. The little baby took it’s moment of stillness to grapple for some milk from her dangling nipple. Her gaze softened a little but she continued to stare hard at Harold looking deeply into his eyes. He made sure his flash was off but it didn’t matter as a glimmer of light shot through in a ray of dazzlement like a stage spotlight through the tops of the trees and onto the orangutan. Harold clicked on his shutter softly so as not to scare her. He got his shot and as if she had been posing for him, she turned and headed back up in to the tops of the trees where the rest of her family were hiding.
Harold turned to Kasan and Topa grinning only to see Kasan sweating profusely and Topa standing there with his eyes shut, hands in prayer. What’s the problem? Thought Harold. He felt quite smug about his little moment as Harold and Topa were always laughing at him. Kasan muttered something under his breath to which Topa let out the tiniest snort before beckoning Harold to carry on. He dutifully followed them and once more he was the bumbling Harold, white man in the jungle like an unwelcome blue-bottle scrambling in a bowl of hot fresh soup. The magic of the rainforest captivated Harold, so that forty-eight hours flew by in a flash.
*
So strong a committed Christian was Harold that despite being thirty-three years old, he had never even made love to a woman. He had once fallen deeply in love. But he had experienced the kind of painful unrequited love that left you desperate and pining, torn and bittersweet. His love was a fabulous young French woman in his medical class named Monique. She was the height of Parisian fashion and shocked the likes of Harold with her just-above-the-knee skirt freshly cut in the style of Christian Dior back in 1959. The mini-skirt did not really take off till the mid 1960s, so her skirt length was considered most unusual and daring. She always had a filter less Galoises cigarette hanging from her lip which both disgusted and enchanted Harold at the same time. They had been good friends, but that was all that Harold had ever been to girls. Monique was the antithesis of a social butterfly alluring and super stylish while Harold was more like a social caterpillar. He hadn’t even managed to reach chrysalis status, he just rippled along munching at leaves and not making any particular impact on the World apart from annoyance and irritation. He was always perfectly pleasant and well mannered but he lacked the charm that was required in the exciting World of the 1960s. Despite being desperately in love with Monique and her swishy flame coloured bob and slim legs swathed in silk black stockings, nothing had ever developed. He was always sadly rebuffed when he attempted to touch her hand or caress her cheek. He had spent years dying to rest his head against her shoulder despite the intense stench of the Galoises smoke.
Monique was indeed devastatingly beautiful. The room would bristle when she arrived and people would gaze in amazement bewitched by the charisma that she exuded. Rumour had it that she had been plucked to be muse to the aging Picasso for a short while during her teens. Her parents were horrified when they found out and shipped her off to London to live with her Aunt and study medicine. The whole incident was hushed up by Monique’s father who paid a filthy sum of money to buy the practice sketches and painting that portrayed Monique in a distorted yet beguiling state of undress. He then went on to burn the evidence of his (he thought) innocent daughter. He had no time or patience for Picasso’s art, he saw it as pretentious and child like. Many decades later, when asked about or reminded of Picasso, he referred to “Pablo” in a fond manner and hailed him a genius, but at the time he merely saw a dirty old man in a stripy top, making a mockery of his daughter.
Monique was at times wild, spoilt and demanding, but very fond of Harold and the way he was so eager to please her. There were no English manners in her behaviour. She would ring him up at odd hours requesting he bring her the latest item that she absolutely must have there and then.
Ring ring, ring ring.
“Hello, Harold Harpington-Howarth speaking.“ Harold would rush to the house phone always in hope that it would be his vain thankless love.
“Ah, Harold, zees is Monique, I must have wine right now. Beaujolais.”
“Beaujolais nouveau?”
“Yez. Beaujolais nouveau, icy cold.”
“Ice cold?” Where would Harold find ice cold Beaujolais nouveau at 10pm on a Thursday night? “Um, I will try, Monique. How are you?”
“I am good Harold, but I am needing ze wine, Harold my sweet darling friend.” Charm was Monique’s strong point. “But try you will not. Be here wiz ze Beaujolais in one half hour!” Charm and bluntness.
A bottle of wine, some cigarettes, books that she needed, help with their latest assignment, a neck rub, a newspaper. All things that she, mostly, could have managed herself, were the orders that Harold took. He became an expert at manageing her bizarre demands which kept Monique happy and meant that he got to remain in her close company all the way through medical school.
*
Now here he was looking at a completely naked woman for the first time. Having dodged his way through his brief six month training on obstetrics at medical school by politely averting his gaze when he was being shown anything on a real woman, he was not in a good position to help this woman who’s baby had become stuck in the murky depths of her birth canal. He inwardly squirmed once more. He had secretly longed to see a woman’s naked body in the flesh for as long as he could remember but now that he was seeing it, he didn’t find it pleasant at all. Maybe it was because this woman was round and heavy with child or maybe it was because her skin was the colour of an Italian latte and not fair freckled and glowing as Monique’s had been. But really, it was the fact that her legs were wide open as she squatted on the floor and instead of the delicate pink with a hint of red hair that he had always imagined a lady to reveal, here he was being presented with glistening brown streaked with red and matted black hair like the unpleasant part of a mussel in an otherwise delicious pile of fruits de mer.
There was no arousal to this moment at all and to add to his painful tummy, profuse sweating from the intense heat of the jungle, lack of knowledge and the monstrous first proper glimpse of vagina, the woman had soiled herself and was screaming so loud that should there be any creatures in the jungle that Harold might be afraid of, then this banshee was sure to scare them away.
What to do, what to do. Harold had some idea, he knew that the baby had to come out, but he was not entirely sure how. There was absolutely no way he could perform a caesarean here and as the baby’s head was clearly visible - it was just those last few inches that the baby needed to come in order to make it’s grand entrance into the World.
“Do we have any form of analgesia in our supplies?” Harold enquired crossly, irritation rising because he couldn’t stand the noise coming from the woman’s mouth. She was from the Land Dayak, Bidayuh tribe that The Very Reverend Stubs had sent Harold on his long journey to help. No sooner had they made the makeshift tent which was to be their clinic, then the woman arrived with an entourage of other women screaming and wailing like a scene from Night of the Living Dead. Thankfully Topa and Kasan were on hand to translate.
“This her fourth chile,” said Topa in his broken English. “They say baby stuck.” He shook his head and tutted.
“Righty ho,” Harold sang out in a display of his typical English inappropriate joviality. He was feeling incredibly sick by now. Oh, how he wished that he was back in the college refectory with a weak but hot cup of tea and the pretty smooth skin of Monique’s forearm to gaze at. He kept looking at the Bidayuh lady’s baby’s head and then looking away at the tarpaulin ceiling with his eyes almost rolling into the roof of his brain in an attempt to be polite, hoping that he was not displaying his absolute disgust. “Righty ho,” he said again. “I shall be needing some gloves.”
“Gloves?” questioned Kasan. He did not know what gloves were. There had been no need for gloves in Kasan’s life so far. Even though ironically the majority of medical gloves were made from the rubber that was produced in Malaysia.
“Yes,” said Harold more slowly. “Gloves for my hands. Haven’t you people heard of hygiene?” He muttered to himself.
Rubber gloves played a very prominent part in Harold’s life. They were an absolute must-have for any doctor with an obsessive compulsive hygiene problem in the 1960s and in fact any decade for that matter. “Rubber gloves!” He shouted.
“Rubber?” questioned Topa. Completely clueless as to what Harold was asking - although he had heard of rubber seeing as Sarawak was littered with rubber plantations.
The poor lady trying to give birth was called Nayla, she was the first daughter, eldest of thirteen children to Endal and Namari. Endal was known as Tuah Kampong, which meant that he was head of his village. A very highly respected man in that area, he owned a huge amount of land that his ancestors had claimed before him by simply beheading anyone who cared to trespass. Their heads were hung above the fire in the hub of the longhouse and left to turn black with the smoke for all eternity. He used most of the land to farm, but the majority of it was still lush deep jungle which he left as it was in order for the wild animals to continue living, not because he was concerned for their well being, but so that he could indulge in his favourite past time of hunting them with his gun for fresh meat for his family. When he was a small boy - his father before him had taken him hunting with spears and blow pipes in order to catch their daily food. But one day while they were out together about to blow a dart at a particularly juicy looking wild boar. There had been a loud bang and the boar had fallen flat on to it’s side, one of it‘s curved tusks piercing the ground as he fell. They then came face to face with some of the early explorers from James Brookes’ team of Englishmen.
Endal’s father was extremely angry to discover trespassers on his land and took his machete blade from it’s sheath round his waist, he ran grimacing toward this new strange looking tribe shrouded in cloth. He was ready to take them all down, great warrior that he was in spite of the fact that he was practically naked. As he got closer, one of James Brookes’ team held up his rifle and shot it at a coconut just above Endal’s head, just to scare the man and his young boy. The coconut shattered all over Endal showering him in watery coconut milk and the bang of the rifle echoed around the jungle canopy walls. The sound was a great deal louder now that they were closer and Endal’s father stopped his attack. Not through fear, but because he wanted that object. He thought it was an amazing spear that could kill a pig outright with one distant throw, a noisy boom like the clap of thunder that filled the sky when the gods were angry. The way it gleamed like none of his spear heads ever did before made it an instant object of desire to the little man in a loin cloth.
So, he made a deal with the English men and got to have this wonderful new piece of weaponry that was to revolutionise his hunting experience. The Englishmen were also winners because they got to keep their heads attached to their shoulders. Of course, acquiring the gun meant that Endal’s father needed to leave the confines of their closely guarded Kampong in order to go to the city to barter for bullets. And that was the sad day that his Bidayuh tribe began branching out to become slowly more Westernised like other parts of Sarawak had already. Endal still had that original gun and carried it everywhere with him like a trophy.
Nayla’s mother had passed away a few years earlier. She had developed a fever and rapidly became ill. Endal knew that the English branda were good at making people better, but where they lived in one of the more remote parts of Sarawak, it took too long to send a message out. By the time his bothers had made the four day trek to civilisation and back, poor Namari had passed away. She had delivered Nayla’s first two babies and were she here now, she would have known exactly what to do and there would have been no need for Harold’s help.
Nayla was ready to expel her baby, but simply couldn’t by the very laws of nature, she began bearing down, making a low growling noise. She was in tremendous pain but as this was her fourth child, she was coping marvellously. Her two aids, her younger sisters Sessy and Kisha held on to her and were expertly rubbing her lower back and mopping at her damp forehead with the edges of their sarongs.
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Exclaimed Harold and dug into his own rucksack for his personal stash of rubber gloves. These were merely in his bag so that he could open rogue door handles in places that he did not trust the cleanliness of. “Scissors or a knife will do, now come on - we don’t have any time to waste.”
The only thing Harold could think of was to perform an episiotomy. He shuddered at the very thought and could not believe that he was going to have to perform something so ghastly to a woman’s intimate area without any form of anaesthetic.
Kasan explained to the ladies what was going to happen in Bidayuh. Nayla deliriously in the midst of her labour, helpfully got onto a bamboo mat on the floor on her hands and knees so that Harold had easy access as it were. She was still experiencing huge contractions that left it irresistible for her to push as her baby desperately tried to enter the world in order to catch it’s first gasp of air. Harold was wearing his old door opening medical gloves which really wasn’t that hygienic for the woman and her baby - but he was not too worried about their safety as he was more concerned about contaminating himself. He had read that he could catch malaria or hepatitis from one of the natives in Sarawak if he wasn’t careful. Kasan had found a sharp new scalpel and handed it to Harold. As Harold didn’t know what were in the medical supplies yet he also dug out a bottle of anti bacterial gentian violet which he carried everywhere with him. He passed the bottle to Topa and indicated that he needed to spread it around Nayla’s dilated vulva. He wished that he could also give the scalpel to Topa and contemplated for a moment as to whether he could treat him as a student and give him the instructions, therefore getting him to do the dirty work so Harold didn‘t have to.
How did a man like Harold come to be on a mission such as this? There he was deep in the jungle, hand trembling ready to perform a routine yet completely alien procedure on a woman he did not understand. He had been on a long tumultuous journey by sea and foot to get to the other side of the World in order to put his medicine and theology training into practice. Harold was a doctor, but he really wanted to be a vicar or maybe even one day, dare he dream it, a bishop. He was extremely devoted to God and had he not had such sinful thoughts troubling his mind about the beautiful Monique for so many years, he would have gladly have become a monk. But he knew that God knew all about his thoughts and he also knew that he would continue to have them especially if he were to take a vow of abstinence. So Harold left his path open as he would really like to have a wife one day. Harold had failed an important part of his final theology exam though and as he shuffled woefully through the cloisters of his university one rainy afternoon he was greeted by the Bishop himself.
The Bishop was a man held in extremely high regard around the world, he had many projects on the go but his current concern was for new recruits on the Overseas Mission. He had been a part of that mission himself when he was younger and he needed someone who would suit that role. Someone who was young and able to cope with the long travelling and who had time to leave Britain for a few years. Someone conscience and willing. Someone with medical ability. Someone without any personal ties and someone who he would not miss too much in his diocese in the UK. Someone just like Harold Harpington-Howarth.
“Ah, Harold young man,” said The Bishop who was a jovial fellow. “How are you on this cold and wintery afternoon?” The Bishop had a great way with words and he was so utterly charming that he could put whiskers on a snake and convince people it was a cat. He also knew that Harold had failed his latest exam and set about talking him into voyaging to the tropics to spread the word of God.
“I am f-f-f-fine,” stammered Harold. Who always went to pieces in the presence of elders.
Now Harold was a very deep thinking and erudite man on paper, but his bumbling nature and constant need to hide his OCDs meant that he came across as a bit of a fool. So, the Bishop did not think it was going to be a hard job to convince Harold to go to Sarawak for him.
“How would you like to take a holiday, somewhere far away whilst honing your excellent medical and theology skills?” asked The Bishop.
Harold was puzzled by this question as he couldn’t possibly afford to find the time to go away on holiday.
“With all due respect Sir. I couldn’t possibly find the time to go away on holiday,” said Harold just a little more than confused.
“Everything goes over your head, doesn’t it Harold? You could be The Oceanic terminal in Heathrow!” Laughed the Bishop. “ Let me take you to lunch.”
And so the two men dined back at the Bishop’s residence. His cook made them asparagus soup, a simple dish of chicken, mash potatoes and vegetables finished off with a humble chocolate pudding, yet Harold felt thoroughly spoilt and honoured.
The Bishop told Harold how the Overseas Mission needed young talented men like him to spread the word of Christianity to the savages, as he put it, whilst miraculously saving their lives. He set about appealing to Harold’s concern for others by telling him how people out in Borneo were dying unnecessarily from things like dehydration when they have sickness and diarrhoea which could easily be solved with a simple salt, sugar and water solution. He told Harold all about the savage natives and how many of them had been converted to Christianity by the Great White Rajahs, the first Western European settlers who had arrived in Sarawak a century ago and were given the title meaning Great White Kings. How the tribe people may be great warriors, but they are actually very moralistic and astoundingly honest. Many of the tribes are also incredible friendly and will do anything for a guest, they would give the cloth off their backs and their last grain of rice just to please someone. He tantalised Harold by describing the wonderful way in which they spiced their food, creating countless superb dishes with just tapioca and tapioca leaves. He conveyed how they made the delicious wine called tuak from rice and how the ladies would dress up in bright clothes and dance beautifully to the drums in the evenings. He went on and on about the jungle foliage, the amazing creatures to behold such as the proboscis monkeys, orangutans and sun bears. The terrific longhouses built from bamboo, the beautiful sunshine and the warm sea to swim in which felt like taking a soak in the bath.
He really didn’t need to go to such lengths to entice Harold because Harold was a very obedient man and would do anything that was asked of him especially by someone as reverend as The Bishop himself.
Some eleven weeks earlier Harold had been in his room drinking tea and getting ready for his final exams at the house he shared with his good friend Tom and two other students who he politely ignored, when the phone rang.
“I’ll get it called Tom.” Tom was a good egg. Convivial and happy and he always had time for everyone around him. He, unlike Harold was very popular because of this, even though most of their peers were either high as kites on acid and amphetamines or superficial and unpleasant. Tom was kind and funny and very much liked living with Harold because he was so tidy and earnest.
Harold heard Tom go clattering down the stairs two at a time as usual. He listened for signs that the telephone call might be for him. It was late enough for it to be Monique with another one of her outrageous demands.
“Bonjour Petit Rouge,” he heard Tom chat playfully. Petite rouge. Little red. That was Tom’s nickname for Monique, he was not afraid of fooling around with Monique at all. “Yes, yes……. Really?! When? Wow, congratulations!” Were the words that Harold could make out.
“Harold!” Tom called. “It’s Monique!”
But Harold already knew who was on the phone and he did not like the sound of Monique being congratulated. She had been dating a ghastly American oil tycoon for the past six months and had been becoming more and more distant from Harold. The late night requests had all but dwindled and Harold had discovered the true melancholy of loneliness. That word though. Congratulations… It had a hideous five syllable resonance. The word pinged back and forth from one side of Harold’s skull to the other, bending and repeating. Harold wished he could switch his mind off. He did not want to take the call. But he was polite. And so, anthropomorphic yet mechanical like a robot he went down stairs to the phone and allowed his happiness to be drenched by the icy pierce of pain that ensued when your one true love tells you that she is betrothed to another man. A great big oily horror of a man, who was bound to make Monique miserable with his philandering ways but there was nothing that Harold could do.
It was the memory of that telephone call that were the troubling thoughts that devoured Harold’s mind and caused him to fail his all important exam. He hadn’t had the results yet, but he knew that he had failed, as the only thing he had written on the page was his name, the date and the title of the first question. “The dogma of the Holy Trinity: how is it already foreshadowed in the economy of the Old Testament?”
Not only had The Bishop picked the right man for the job, but he had plucked poor Harold at the very rightest of right moments possible, as his beloved Monique announced her engagement to the rich smarmy American publicly the previous evening and Harold had screwed up big time on his all important exam. Harold was feeling so very low by the shocking news, that all he wanted to do was hide away forever. And what better place than the other side of the World? Deep in the jungle.
“Yes, yes. I’ll do it. I’m your man.” Harold nodded as he scooped up the last of his chocolate pudding onto his spoon.
After that landmark lunch Harold had practically skipped back to his lodgings. For the first time ever, he enjoyed taking in London for what it was. He savoured the solidness of every paving slab and drank in the rich architecture of the buildings he had become oh so familiar with since he had left the wilds of England’s North almost a decade ago. He took a shilling from his pocket and allowed it to scrape along the black metal railings of the smart Georgian residences in Islington in a rare exuberant display of unhygienic-ness. He gave a nod and a smile to the pigeons who’s exotic green opalescent necks had never ceased to amaze him. Harold may often has come across as being as thick as a hippo’s thigh, but he was indeed a most eloquent and interesting man, who was deeply intrigued by nature and all that she had to offer from the glossy slime of a garden slug to the majestic bones of the tyrannosaurus rex he visited regularly in the Natural History Museum.
*
“Congratulations, you have a little girl,” beamed Harold and gently passed her back to Nayla. The new baby blinked back at Harold in a state of quiet alertness taking in her very first view of life outside the womb.
Harold almost didn’t want to give her back. He could not believe what an amazing experience he had just been a part of. He was experiencing his first real high of adrenaline. He had always taken such good care of himself that he had shut down the chance of experiencing such an intense delight. Running the half marathon, which he actually just gently plodded anyway and jumping on to buses as they pulled off were not a patch on this! Luckily for him just as he had stood there with the scalpel gripped tightly in his trembling fingers, Nayla had had a good strong contraction which allowed her to bear down long and hard and out had popped a little head wearing a purple halo of gentian violet.
“Tirima kaseh,” said Nayla looking up at Harold as she brushed the baby’s cheek against her own and sniffed her sweet skin with her flat Asian nose.
Harold looked puzzled as he certainly hadn’t had time to learn any Bidayuh in his first twenty four hours on the island.
“She is saying ‘thank you,’” translated Topa.
“Oh,” said Harold wrinkling his nose as he finally noticed the wet bloody mess on his arms. “You are very welcome.” He nodded and grinned hard in an exaggerated manner with his teeth gritting together like a chimp with bruxism so that would understand his pleasure better.
Nayla curled up on her side still on the floor and said something else that Harold didn’t understand. “Tank you.” She smiled. “What is your name?”
“You speak English?“ Harold was amazed. “Oh, um, my name is Harold.” He added.
“Doctor Harold,” said Kasan proudly.
The woman smiled happily and held her baby up. ”Harold. Bay bee Harold!”
And so the little Bidayuh girl with the black and mauve hair was named Baby Harold. Harold in the typical ambivalence that his tortured soul had become accustomed to, was both honoured and perplexed by the naming. It’s not every day that a child is named after you. Harold quite liked the feeling and found himself contemplating a life devoted entirely to obstetrics and began calculating the likelihood of more children being named after him If he were to be responsible for the births of say at least two or three babies a day and at least one or two of them were named after him. Harold, Doctor Harold. Baby Harold. Ooh, and Harry must count too. What about back in England though, what could the girls be called? Little girls named Harold just won’t do…Henrietta could be deemed fairly similar. But that’s more like Henry than Harold. Damn. Why couldn’t I be called Henry? There would be more babies named after me if my name was Henry…
Harold’s train of thought was interrupted by the sound of voices and a great rustling from the depths of the forresty jungle. It was Nayla’s husband with two more of Nayla’s children and three of her younger sisters and bothers, plus four of her Aunties and six of her cousins, oh and let‘s not forget her father Endal. Bidayuh families are large and loving and cluster together over new arrivals like bees on their honeycomb. They sweetly swarmed in and began talking excitedly in their quick tongued language. Harold was forced out of the way by the excited crowd of family and soon found himself to be as he had always been, lonely and insignificant once again.
No comments:
Post a Comment