My Life as Crocodile Junk Food

by Bill Myers

  I prayed harder but was suddenly interrupted when the front of the dugout dipped forward and dropped. There was the river, a zillion miles below. We began a perfect, 100-miles-per-hour nosedive toward it. I wanted to finish my prayer, but something else came to mind. Something like:

  “AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!”

  As far as screams went, it was pretty good. But it didn’t seem to help much. Everything turned to slow motion as we continued to fall and fall and then fall some more. (If I knew it was going to take this much time, I’d have brought Ol’ Betsy along and finished my story.)

  Finally we hit the water and went under. I began tumbling around and around. I opened my eyes. All I saw were bubbles and water as I kept turning over and over. It probably would have been a lot of fun except for the part about breathing . . .

  I couldn’t.

  I had to get some air. I started toward the surface, then remembered one tiny detail—with all the tumbling I didn’t know where the surface was.

  Things were getting desperate. My lungs were beginning to burn, and I was continuing to tumble. I had to get some air, but I didn’t know which direction to go. Still, any direction was better than staying in this perpetual spin cycle.

  I began kicking and swimming for all I was worth. My lungs were on fire. I had to find the surface. And then I saw it. A giant boulder. Well, at least that broke up the monotony of water and bubbles. The only problem was the current seemed to be pushing me toward that boulder awfully fast. The only problem was I couldn’t seem to find the brakes. The only problem was . . .

  KLUNK!

  Suddenly, there were no problems. Suddenly, there was nothing. . . .

  Chapter 5

  Guess Who’s for Dinner?

  I thought I was dreaming. Where else but in a dream would you see a two-headed monster staring down at you? The first head looked exactly like it belonged to a normal boy. Well, except for the red goop smeared all over his hair . . . and the black paint around his eyes.

  I looked over at the second head. Now it’s true, I wasn’t wearing my glasses, but even with my foggy vision that second head looked exactly like . . . I blinked . . . exactly like . . . a monkey.

  “You okay, Wally?” Now Jamie leaned into my view. He was also looking down at me. Luckily, he only had one head. “Wally, are you all right?”

  I tried to nod, but the pain shooting through my skull said that wasn’t such a hot idea.

  “Just lie quietly,” Jamie said. “You got a nasty bump on your noggin.”

  I blinked again and looked back at the monster’s second head (the one that looked like a monkey). Without warning it leaped off the monster’s shoulders and began jumping around on the ground.

  I screamed.

  The monkey screamed.

  I screamed louder.

  The monkey screamed even louder still.

  Figuring it wanted to play hardball, I blasted it with everything I had. (For a nightmare this was getting pretty bizarre . . . and noisy.) My screaming did the trick. The monkey scampered back onto the boy’s shoulder where it belonged. Then it dawned on me. This was no nightmare. He wasn’t a two-headed monster. He was just your average cannibal-type boy with his average cannibal-type pet. Immediately, I worried if I was about to become his average cannibal-type meal.

  “Here,” Jamie said, holding the end of a long branch over my mouth. “Open up.”

  “What is it?” I croaked.

  “An Igapa tree—they store rainwater.”

  I hesitated.

  “Come on, it’s perfectly safe and you need some liquid.”

  After my wrestling bout with the waterfall, I figured “liquid” was the last thing I needed, but I obeyed anyway. Keeping one eye on the monkey, who was still pretty sore over losing our shouting match, and the other eye on the new kid, I opened my mouth. The water tasted sweet, and I drank it as fast as I could.

  “Easy,” Jamie said. “Not so fast—easy, now.”

  “Where are we?” I asked, coughing and gasping between gulps. “And who is he?” I pointed to the boy.

  “The best I can figure, we kind of got knocked out in our waterfall tumble. I guess this guy here—I call him George—fished us out.”

  I quit drinking and reached into my pocket. Luckily, my glasses were still in one piece. I slipped them on, and the monkey went even crazier than before. I guess it had never seen someone with four eyes. George was pretty surprised too, but he wasn’t afraid. Instead he leaned right into my face, nose to nose, and checked them out.

  Now that my vision was clearer (and he was a lot closer), I could see George was about our age. He had thick, black hair with red paste smeared all over the top. Around his eyes was a painted black mask like a raccoon’s. He also had some feathered armbands encircling his upper arms.

  Oh, and one other thing . . . he was naked! Totally! Well, except for the little string he wore around his waist. It didn’t cover much, but at least it was a start.

  The way he held in his stomach and pushed out his chest, I got the feeling that he was trying to impress us with his bravery. And for a kid, I guess he was kind of courageous. I mean, meeting a couple of foreigners like us should spook anybody.

  When he finished inspecting my glasses, he rose to his feet, grabbed his nearby bow, and started rattling off a bunch of gibberish.

  Jamie listened carefully, then translated. “I think George wants us to follow,” he said as he helped me to my feet.

  “Where?” I asked hesitantly.

  “I can’t tell for certain. He said something about ‘his tribe’ and ‘eating’ and ‘us.’”

  “JAMIE!”

  “No, no, no,” Jamie laughed. “Not eating us. Having us eat with him . . . at his village.”

  “I hope you told him we have other plans.”

  “Like what—a burger and a movie?”

  “Well, no. Like . . . like . . .”

  “Like staying out here tonight and getting eaten by a jaguar . . . or getting more lost . . . or getting caught by those goons upriver? . . .”

  “Well, no, but, but . . .”

  Jamie waited for some type of argument. Unfortunately, “No, but, but” was the best I could come up with.

  George gave another grunt, turned, and disappeared into the jungle. Jamie quickly followed.

  “Jamie . . .” I called. “Jamie . . .”

  But it did no good. In a second he’d also vanished. I stood there all alone. It was starting to rain again. It was also getting dark. And since I figured Jamie and George would be scared to be in the dark, rainy jungle all by themselves, I decided to go and keep them company.

  “Jamie . . . wait up!”

  Now that I was sure we weren’t going to be George’s dinner, the walk through the jungle wasn’t half bad. I was even getting used to the rain—though I kinda envied George for not having to wear soaked clothes that stuck all over his body.

  But that wasn’t the only thing I envied. As we kept walking, I began to think how neat it must be to live out here—no hassles, no homework, no cat box to empty . . . just you and nature. Talk about the “good life.” True, they may not have cable TV or the latest Nintendo or Game Boy, but that’s a small price to pay for such a cool way of living.

  That got me thinking about Jamie . . . and his family. I mean, how can missionaries go around talking to everyone about God? Oh, sure, I know we should tell natives about Jesus and everything . . . but aren’t these people pretty happy just the way they are?

  Suddenly, I noticed Jamie and George had stopped talking. They had been chattering away like old friends, but now they were quiet. Very quiet.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  Jamie motioned for me to be still.

  “Why?” I asked.

  He pointed to George who was now moving very slowly, trying not to make a sound.

  I looked around nervously, expecting some killer animal to leap out from behind the next tree. But I didn’t see a t
hing. Nothing. Finally, I pulled on Jamie’s sleeve and mouthed the words, “What’s the problem?”

  “George heard a noise,” Jamie whispered. “He thinks it’s his twin sister.”

  “So why are we whispering?” I asked.

  “Because she’s been dead eleven years.”

  I swallowed hard. I had a sneaking suspicion I wasn’t going to like the rest of this conversation. “How . . . how’d she die?”

  “Her parents killed her.”

  I was right. Still, I had to know more. “W-w-why?”

  “Because they believe twins are bad luck . . . and because she was a girl.”

  “That’s awful.”

  Jamie nodded. “It gets worse. They bury their unwanted babies in the ground and leave them there to die.”

  I could feel my stomach getting kind of queasy. Oh, sure, there were times I’d like to do away with my own sister—but only for a few minutes. Not forever.

  “So why are we whispering?” I repeated.

  “His family was supposed to burn her body and drink her ashes so she wouldn’t come back to hurt them.”

  If I thought I was sick before, that last bit of news almost did me in.

  Jamie continued. “But they didn’t, so now everyone lives in fear of her spirit.”

  I threw a look over at George. What had once been a brave, fearless, wannabe warrior, now looked like a frightened little kid, all wide-eyed and petrified. It was kinda sad. Even his monkey buddy looked a little nervous.

  I turned back to Jamie. “So every time they hear a strange noise, they think it’s a spirit?”

  Jamie nodded. “They practice all sorts of weird stuff to keep those spirits away.”

  I didn’t want to know what “weird stuff” he was talking about. I’d heard enough. Maybe life in the jungle wasn’t so cool after all. Maybe there were a few things these people needed straightening out on. I’m sure his twin sister would have thought so. And by the fear on George’s face, he probably thought so, too.

  A few minutes later we pushed aside the last of the ferns, and there it was . . . George’s village. Hut, sweet hut.

  Actually, there were nine huts. Big ones, all in a circle. A tenth one was in the center.

  “That’s where the men stay,” Jamie said, pointing to the middle one. “The single men stay—”

  Suddenly, an old man jumped in front of us. He had a huge wooden disk stuck in his lower lip. It made him look like he was sucking on a Frisbee.

  Being the tremendous man of courage that I am, I only screamed for half a minute:

  “AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

  (I could have gone longer but I ran out of air. Of course, Jamie’s punch in the gut didn’t help much.)

  “Knock it off!” he hissed.

  But the damage was done. Who needs an alarm system when you got Chicken Man McDoogle? My little vocal exercise managed to warn the entire village. Soon everyone had raced out to see us. Before I knew it, we were right smack in the middle of a National Geographic special—complete with women wearing almost no clothing, and men wearing even less. They all circled around us, pointing and jabbering a mile a minute.

  The little kids were the bravest. They came right up to us and poked and laughed and giggled. The grownups’ courage soon followed. Now everyone was closing in tighter and tighter.

  “How’s your prayer life?” Jamie whispered.

  “Why?”

  “Looks like we might need a little help.”

  At that exact minute, the crowd parted. An older guy with necklaces and a zillion scars across his body walked toward us.

  “Is he the chief ?” I whispered.

  “Sort of,” Jamie answered. “He’s called a shaman. He’s kinda like a witch doctor.”

  “Who did that to him—cut him up like that with all those scars?” I asked.

  “He did.”

  “What?”

  “They burn themselves—sometimes for decoration, but a lot of times to keep the dead spirits happy.”

  “Ow,” I said, wincing at the thought.

  By now the shaman had started talking with George. The old-timer was getting pretty worked up. In fact, the whole tribe was getting a little hot under the collar. (A neat trick since they had no collars . . . or shirts, for that matter!)

  “Are they mad at us?” I whispered.

  “I’m not sure,” Jamie frowned, trying to listen. “They’re saying something about George’s sister and our coming here, but—”

  That was as far as Jamie got. Suddenly, a bunch of young guys moved forward. They grabbed us by our arms and dragged us toward the hut in the middle of the village.

  “What’s going on?” I shouted as they pulled Jamie ahead of me.

  “I can’t tell!” Jamie called back. “Either we’re their guests or . . .”

  He didn’t have to say anything else. I swallowed hard. Suddenly, a thought came to mind.

  “You don’t think they’ll let us call 911, do you?” I shouted.

  But Jamie was gone. He was already inside the hut, and I was about to follow. . . .

  Chapter 6

  Party On

  The first thing I noticed in the hut was the smoke. It was awful—worse than stepping into the teacher’s lounge back at my school. Well, maybe not that bad, but close. Don’t get me wrong, it was kinda cozy seeing a nice fire in the middle of the men’s living area, but they seemed to be missing a couple of things . . . like a fireplace and a chimney! I guess they figured the hole at the top of the roof would do the trick. And it did . . . kind of.

  Next I noticed there wasn’t much furniture. I didn’t expect to see a lot of big-screen TVs and dinette sets, but a few sofas, or beds, or even a chair would have been nice. There was nothing. Just lots of cotton hammocks strung every which way between the tall supporting posts.

  Jamie was already talking with the shaman and his head guys. I figured he was trying to convince them to hold off eating us till dessert, or maybe even breakfast.

  “They’re trying to protect us,” Jamie said as he finally turned to me to explain.

  “Protect us?” I asked.

  “Yeah, ’cause we’re foreigners, they think George’s dead sister is going to hurt us. That’s why they dragged us into the hut. They don’t want to hurt us; they want to protect us.”

  I glanced over at George and the men. They tried to look brave, but you could see they were kinda scared. It made me feel good knowing they were willing to risk their lives to protect ours— even if there wasn’t anything to protect us from.

  Or was there?

  “Jamie,” I said, kind of confused, “there are no such things as ghosts, right?”

  “All I know is that when we die, we either go to heaven or hell. Nobody’s spirit hangs around here. But I also know that the Bible talks about demons, too. And all of the tribes are, like, totally afraid of them.” Jamie shrugged.

  “But they can’t hurt us, right?” It was sort of a statement and sort of a question.

  Jamie nodded. “Since we are Christians we can ask Jesus to protect us, but these guys don’t know about Jesus.”

  “No wonder they’re scared,” I said.

  “More like petrified,” Jamie agreed. “They’re totally controlled by their fear. It’s pretty sad.”

  Jamie was right. As I looked at the faces of the men, it was sad. But it was only the beginning . . .

  A couple of hours later we were in the middle of a big circle enjoying a feast (that is, if you call dried fish on a leaf a “feast”). But it was the best they had, and you could tell they were really proud about giving it to us.

  Jamie sat on the ground to my left. For a while George and his monkey sat on the other side. We were becoming pretty good buddies— even his monkey was getting friendly. It was a little weird the first time he hopped over to my shoulder, but it was also pretty cool. I could tell he was still curious about my glasses, so I took them off and let him play with them.

  When he finally manage
d to put them on, the little guy went ballistic. Everyone laughed as he leaped around, chattering and bumping into things. (I guess he wasn’t used to my 20-200 vision.)

  A few minutes later, the shaman and a couple of the head guys came over and started talking with George. Things got pretty heated pretty quick. Whatever they were saying, it was obvious George didn’t much like it. But after a few more sharp words from the shaman, George finally nodded and stood up. He called his pet, handed me my glasses, and left without a word. I wasn’t sure what had happened or where he was going, but he definitely wasn’t smiling.

  We sat around the fire listening to the older guys talk and act out some pretty tall hunting tales. You could tell everything was exaggerated by about a hundred times, but that made it all the more fun.

  Meanwhile, Jamie was learning all sorts of things from the shaman—mostly how the tribe was in the middle of a giant epidemic of yellow fever or dysentery or some sort of disease. Whatever it was, it was making a lot of them sick and killing them off left and right. Jamie recognized the symptoms and explained to the shaman that his folk’s medical clinic back at the village had a cure for the disease.

  “That’s great,” I said when he stopped to translate for me. “So you’re gonna, like, vaccinate them, right?”

  Jamie shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “He won’t let us,” Jamie said, motioning toward the shaman.

  “You’re kidding!”

  Jamie sighed. “He thinks it’s the spirits that are killing them, not the disease.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “So they’re just going to keep on getting sick and dying?”

  Jamie nodded. There was no missing the catch in his voice as he continued. “If it’s anything like the other tribes, they could lose half their people before it’s over.”

  “Half?” I looked around the circle in alarm. Half of these big-hearted men would be dead? How could something like that happen? And if they didn’t die, they’d all be hit with the heartache of losing friends and loved ones! All from a disease that could be cured?! I felt myself getting mad. “You gotta do something, Jamie!”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Like . . . like . . . ” I was getting more and more upset, but I couldn’t think of anything.