Page 70 of Beautifully Wild

“I’m to let the ants get to the fish?”

He chuckles at my response. “When the ants come, they slide the fish onto the fire, ants and all. You’ll be surprised by the taste.”

“I’ll treat them like anchovies on a pizza and pick them off,” I say and groan.

“I should warn you about the entrée, although I’m looking forward to seeing your reaction.”

“Why?”

Excited screams come from children running out of the jungle.

“Ah, right on time,” he says.

Each child carries a palm leaf curled into a handle. From this side of the fire, I can’t make out what has incited their joy. Long thin sticks are handed to every child. Each child holds a twig, extended low and away from their body. Something black wiggles on the end. They run toward me to the fire dividing us and form a circle around the flame. Recognition hits me, and I stumble back, knocking a clay pot of chopped potatoes over.

“Christ,” I yell, trembling at the sight of two dozen black tarantulas gored by sticks being cooked over the fire like bloody marshmallows.

The collective sound of laughter pulls me out of my frozen haze of fear, goosebumps pricking at the realization I’m the center of attention, not the giant spiders.

More men have gathered near the fire wearing toothless smiles, fingers pointing at me.

“They taste like chicken.” Samuel chuckles.

“Everyone says that about shit you shouldn’t eat,” I snap. He’s grinning when he should be consoling me.

Geez, I can hear the squeal as the spiders cook on the heat, the stench of burned hair filling my nose. Samuel walks around the fire to stand with me. The sound of popping is like corn in a pan.

“Hear the pop? They’re ready. They’ll offer you a leg.”

“No bloody way,” I say to him.

“I understand,” he says, yet I sense him holding back a smile. “There’ll be times you may need to eat something you’re not comfortable with.”

“Yeah? Well, it won’t be a bloody tarantula.”

In perfect timing, I turn to the kids gnawing on spider legs exactly like we would a chicken wing, and I wonder to myself if they are really so different from us? Maybe we’re all products of our society. Taking my seat near Kaikare, I smile and shake my head graciously when she offers me a spider limb.

“Maybe another time.”

The long hut is divided into sections. The furthest part from the river is open walls with only the cone-shaped thatched roof to protect us from the elements. The smoke from the fire warns off airborne insects, and here, the mosquitoes aren’t as troublesome. Most of the people sit cross-legged on the ground or in a squat position. There are a few pieces of logs lying around, so I use one as a chair with Samuel squatting beside me.

When everyone gathers around to eat, I don’t know where to avert my gaze. In the shadowy light, there is no mistaking testicles hanging in the dirt as men squat on the ground. In curiosity, I lean forward to check Samuel.

“What are you doing?” he says between clenched teeth.

I ignore him and glance up, my instinct right. I’d assumed the young girls opposite us were staring at me.

No.

In a squatting position, Samuel’s bits are in full view to those across the room. Here, a man’s testicles on view aren’t an unusual sight, only I assume a white man a good foot taller than the average guy here and exceptionally well-endowed is unusual, and teenage girls are curious.

“You’re turning the girls on,” I remark.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he hisses. “They’ve known me a long time.”

“Really? And I bet some have come of age recently, and they notice certain things more so. Take a look for yourself.”

He glances across the room, quickly changing his position to cross-legged, so his skirt fans out over his thighs.

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