The Whispering Land

Ever since my arrival in Calilegua, Luna had been pestering me to accompany him to a town called Oran, which lay some fifty miles away, and where, he assured me, I would get plenty of bichos. I was a bit chary about this idea, for I knew how easy it is to rush frantically from one place to another on a collecting trip, and, though each place in itself might be a good centre, you achieve very little by virtue of your grasshopper-like activities.* I decided to discuss it with Charles, and so, that evening, as we sat gently imbibing gin and watching a moon with a blue halo silvering the palm fronds,* I put my problem to him.

"Why is Luna so keen on Oran?" I asked.

"Well," said Charles drily, "it's his home town, for one thing, but this might prove an advantage, for it means that he knows everyone. I think you could do worse than go and investigate,* Gerry. It's got a much bigger population than Calilegua, and in view of what you've found here, I should think you'd get twice as much stuff there."

"Can Luna get the time off?"* I asked.

Charles smiled his gentle smile.

"I don't think that we would notice his absence for three days," he said, "and that should give you time to denude Oran of whatever fauna is lurking there."

"Could we leave on Monday?" I inquired hopefully.

"Yes," said Charles, "that would be all right."

"Wonderful," I said, finishing my drink, "and now I must go across and see Edna."

"Why Edna?"

"Well, someone's got to feed my animals, while I'm away, and I'm hoping Edna has a kind heart."

I found Helmuth, Edna and Luna arguing over the relative merits of two folk-songs which they kept playing over and over again on the gramophone. Edna pointed silently to the drinks and I helped myself, and then went and sat on the floor at her feet.

"Edna," I said, during a lull in the argument, "I love you."

She raised one eyebrow sardonically and regarded me.

"If Helmuth wasn't bigger than me I would suggest that we elope," I went on, "since the first day I saw you I have been mad about you, your eyes, your hair, the way you pour gin…"

"What do you want?" she inquired.

I sighed.

"You have no soul," I complained. "I was just getting into my stride.* Well, if you must know, Charles says that Luna and I can go to Oran for three days. Will you look after my animals for me?"

"But, of course," she said, surprised that there should have been any doubt in my mind.

"But, of course," echoed Helmuth. "Gerry, you are very stupid. I tell you we will help all we can. You have only to ask. We will try and do anything for you."

He splashed more gin into my glass.

"Except," he added reluctantly, "let you elope with my wife."

So, early on Monday morning, Luna and I set out in a small station-wagon driven by a gay, semi-inebriated* individual, sporting* a moustache so large it looked like a Nature Reserve.* We took with us only the bare essentials of travel: Luna's guitar, three bottles of wine, my wallet well stuffed with pesos, recording machine and cameras. We also had a clean shirt each, which our driver had placed reverently and tenderly in a pool of oil. All the previous night it had rained with a loudness and thoroughness that only the tropics can achieve; this now had thinned out to a fine grey drizzle, but the earth road had turned into something resembling the consistency of a badly-made blancmange.* Luna, undeterred by the weather, the surface of the road and the doubtful driving capabilities of our driver, the fate of our clean shirts and the fact that the roof of the station-wagon leaked daintily but persistently, sang happily to himself as we slithered and swooped along the road to Oran.

We had been travelling some three-quarters of an hour when our driver, concentrating more on harmonising with Luna in a mournful song than on the car, rounded a corner on two wheels, and as we slithered miraculously on to the straight again I saw something ahead that made my heart sink. Before us lay a torrent of red, froth-flecked water some four hundred yards across. At the edge of this, like a line of depressed elephants, stood three lorries, while in mid-stream, twisted to one side by the force of the water, another lorry was being laboriously dragged across to the opposite bank by a thing like a gigantic tractor, fitted with a winch and steel cable. Our driver joined the line of waiting lorries, switched off his engine and beamed at us.