The news that greeted us as we awoke this morning was not unexpected: with the overnight rain, the river had risen an extra few inches, + the bottom floor of the houses throughout the kampong was now awash, the depth from about 1 inch to about a foot. This wasn’t the disaster it might seem. The only activity of any importance that takes place on the ground floor is cooking, + that is basically unaffected – one simply gets on with one’s chores ankle-deep or more in water. The kids’ playing is not affected – they’re half water-babies already, and having water to run in, splash in, slide in just adds to the fun. So, with no wall-paper, carpets or expensive furniture to ruin, the water causes minimal inconvenience. Which is just as well – judging by the sang-froid with which the people accepted this act of God, it must happen regularly.
We had our usual breakfast of Milo + dry crackers, after which Val went off for a wander. She re-appeared very briefly to tell me she’d been invited to go off hunting vegetables, then shot off again. I was, I suppose, mildly peeved that I hadn’t been given the opportunity to go too, but such is the price of closeting myself away, I suppose, so I can’t complain. Val was gone a very long time, not returning until mid-afternoon, but I amused myself by getting on with a macramed bracelet, for the first time that I can remember, finishing one within a day. I was also well looked-after for lunch, Caroline coming to fetch me + take me to her house. We had chicken, which made a very pleasant change, tho’ it wasn’t cooked in a very nice way, to my taste. There was also a big bowl of soup in the middle of the table, which I was dipping into quite happily, until the Headman, who was eating with us, fished around in it with his fork,+ scooped out the chicken head. This he deposited on his plate with a great show of relish, + there it sat, its beak wide open, screaming its silent protest at me… or so I thought. I couldn’t look at it. Nor could I eat any more soup – the chicken feet made their appearance later.
When Val finally re-appeared – I’d been getting worried about her, I’ll confess – it seemed she’s had an interesting time, wading + scrambling after various vegetables, so she was now wet + tired. Worst of all, she had slipped off a log when crossing a stream, + had dunked the camera, which most certainly hadn’t done it any good. I was annoyed + upset, not with Val, since she had obviously done it by accident, + it was a miracle that that or a similar accident hadn’t occurred before, but that it should have happened at all, + more, that it should have happened in a place where we would want our camera particularly, where we wouldn’t be able to have it fixed or, if the worse came to the worst, replace it. We took the film out, + fiddled with it in all the ways we could, but it clearly wasn’t a well camera. Still, there was nothing we could do about it for the time being, except fret.
Val’s companions cooked up some of each of the vegetables they had gathered, + we were invited to sample them. Val made more of an impression on them than I did, partly because she’s more adventurous than I am in that way, partly because she hadn’t had any lunch. There were 3 types: our old friend the stringy spinach-type leaf, some fern tops (slimy I thought them), + some berries, which tasted like very bitter peas – these are better when younger, we were told.
Compared to last night, the evening was very quiet – we spent much of it watching TV. For some reason, Malaysian TV seems to have an obligatory bad American comedy on screen at least once every night. Tonight, the particular disaster was about the staff of an American school. The staff apparently consists of 5 people, but this hardly matters, since there is hardly a kid in sight. And really, this is one of the better ones – on other nights I have seen a programme – I should say another programme – with cute American kids, + one in which Merlin the Arthurian wizard reappears in modern-day San Francisco (tho’ why I have no idea.) Mallory would turn in his grave. As do I, + I’m not dead yet. BBC’s sitcoms are Shakespeare in comparison.
Life in a longhouse, with Val having a more adventurous time than me… but the (hopefully temporary) loss of the camera ids a real blow, for the nextfew days at least. Chicken feet and headf seems to be a delicacy in all sorts of places (we have encountered it in South Africe subsequently, where it is called “walkie-talkie”.
