“U-r-r-r-gh!”
Dud. Lewis had his back to me. I could see that he was shaking with laughter.
“For two cents I’d pour this pink slop down your neck!” I gasped.
The Indians looked on and grinned. I did not wish to be impolite, so I said, “Yaa! Cassiri too much humbug Yankee man’s stomach!” and I hugged my stomach as if in pain and smiled to assure them of good feeling. They merely laughed.
This drink tasted like sour milk, long overripe strawberries, vinegar, pepper, sour yeast, cassava meal and whatever else they might have had left over to dump into it. But the venison was delicious and the labba, which is a sort of pig about the size of a rabbit, was as good meat as I ever tasted. The cassava is not bad at all and so we managed to make out a very good meal. But if I had taken a big swallow of that pink cassiri I am sure my stomach would have burned up or exploded.
It came time for us to get some sleep if ever we were to turn in. While we were fairly dry, there was a dampness in the air and we had only our underclothes. But the headman of the village brought out three strips of cotton cloth he had been hoarding in an old canister, another loaned a frayed old shirt he had got in some trade, another contributed a pair of red cotton trousers. My shirt and tunic were dry and with these, divided between Lewis and me, we turned in to our hammocks. We tried a fire of glowing coals under our hammocks as did some of the Indians, but the smoke was too much for us and we had to move the fire. Besides, I didn’t want to have any more snake dreams and fall out in a bed of hot coals.
I lay there listening to the jungle noises and trying to guess what sort of beast, bird or reptile was making them, when it came time for the Indians to turn in. Just as the village became quiet and the babies stopped squalling and the kids stopped chattering, there came a native song.
“This is a great time to start singing!” I grumbled to Lewis.