Edmond is small and wrinkled, but I am not fooled; I've seen
the strength in wizened African men. Leading me easily through the jungle, I
see my gauge of his strength is correct. My breath comes quickly, and I mop my
damp brow with my damp handkerchief, while he tells an impeccable remembered
history of the sanctuary. In 1827, he says, a fetish was spotted at the river,
with four monkeys guarding it; two black and white, and two mona. It was a
hunter that happened upon the fetish, and his presence initially scared away
the naturally small monkeys. The hunter took the fetish home. Later the monkeys
came to his house. They were not disruptive; they simply kept watch over the
small, carved fetish. A priest was found, an he explained that the fetish was
the child of the monkeys. The villagers could either keep it, and thus adopt
the monkeys, or return it to the jungle and not be bothered by them again. They
kept the fetish, and with it, made a vow not to kill anything in the jungle
they lived in, regardless of whether the creature was monkey or snake, zebra or
rat. As he finished the story, the branches began to shake. Water droplets
whipped off of leaves and rained onto us. I am nearly certain one threw a stick
at me. It was small, so I interpreted the gesture playfully. We bought bananas
and fed them. The first few bananas I held too loosely, and rambunctious
monkeys pulled them easily from my hand, to eat them a few feet away. Edmond
showed me how to hold them tighter, and the next few monkeys carefully peeled
back my fingers to get to the sweet fruit. One, distracted, sat holding my finger while he munched on the banana. His hands were leathery-soft. We ended
with a visit to the monkey cemetery, where both monkeys and priests were laid
to rest. Next to a wooden sign stating “young male Colobo. Buried 14-3-81” was
another sign for a woman who had been the monkeys intermediary. The sign says
she died at one hundred and twenty years old. Edmond whispers to me that she’d
been a virgin, and had brought messages from the monkeys to the community. No
one had replaced her since her death, he said. Shaking his head with disappointment,
he explained “these days, it is hard to find a grown virgin”
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Monastery
I am greeted by Brother Patrick when I enter. He is sitting
on a low stool in a room in the shade, surrounded by bottled wines and jams. I
ask how the avodado wine is. “I hope it is good” he says “I make it”. He leads
me indoors and offers me coffee. I accept, not because I truly even want
coffee, but because it is real coffee, not instant. Sitting in a room,
generously called the library, I can see out into a garden. Flowering bushes
grace the edges, and careful palm fronds betray it as a nursing garden. Somehow,
that fits well here.
The brothers are quiet. They aren’t simply not voluble;
their very presence draws some quiet within me. Their voices are even,
measured. Their footfall is light. The breeze whispers as well, and a lone bee
hushes around the edges of the room. The books are not plenty, but they are
immediately impressive. Every encyclopedia brittanica is here, and books from
“the Vision of God” to “100 Flowers”. Sipping my coffee and listening to the
clock pass seconds by, I am aware that, in another life, I could be very happy
here.
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