Back in paradise. Blazing sunsets. Crimson-tinted waves. Music jams in the afterglow. 1 Frenchman on guitar. 1 Italian on guitar. 1 Israeli on djimbe drum. 1 Turk playing violin. 1 German playing flute. 2 Indians beating drums. 1 Swede whistling. And me dancing dancing dancing before the sea. Into the darkening night. Under the twinkle of Orion and Cassiopia. And when it gets too dark I sit in the circle and scat. Do "do wop" back-up singing as the Italian or Frenchman sings. Sometimes wha wha whaing like a trombone. No electricity. 1 candle in the middle of the circle illuminating us in our divine musical cavorting.
Three mornings ago climbing up the rocky path from the beach to hillside, I heard a whip crack. I looked up and blocking my way stood a young, bare-chested boy. A red sarong was draped around his waist. His was painted in red, white, and gold patterns. Behind sat a box with a leering demon face on its front also painted in black, red and gold. The boy grimaced fiercely, cracked his braided leather whip. His eyes bulged in his black face. "Money!" he demanded cracking his whip twice.
I scurried up the path away from this demon boy.
Later when I asked other people if they had encountered the demon boy, they looked at me strangely and murmured, "No."
Was he an apparition?
Their lips and teeth were red from chewing betel/pan.
"Where are from? You walk with us?"
So we walked up and over the hill, along the hot dusty plateau and into town together.
No demon boys bothered us.