Refuse – by Hei Gou
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLY
The detritus of our civilisation preceded us: children’s dolls, an empty toolbox, shards of coloured glass: we found them in the camp’s smouldering firepit, charred and singed but not wholly burned: objects acquired through trade with other tribes, with whom we’d already made contact: we speculated that they’d been submitted to the flames as part of a ritual, perhaps to exorcise foul spirits, but our native guide claimed they’d been jettisoned because they were useless and burned to remove the tribe’s scent, which hunters – he didn’t have to add like us - might try to exploit.
The second camp was set on a small sandy beach and had been abandoned for several days. There we found a toy car, a pen, a few colourful beads and more shards of glass. These too had been left among the scorched logs and sticks. The third camp was on the edge of a forest, a week’s journey inland from the second camp. It was freshly deserted, having been occupied for no more than two days. Although the firepit had been buried, an assortment of singed paperbacks, melted cassettes and videotapes and outmoded mobile phones was recovered from the warm dirt.
The native guide said the tribe had gone into the forest: he could track them, but it would be difficult: he recommended we pause and wait for the tribe to emerge. The interior cannot sustain life: they will have to return to the coast eventually.
Ignoring his advice, we dumped our bulkier equipment at the third camp and set off on their trail. The air was heavy and humid, the terrain arduous, and many among us quickly became too sick or weary to continue, establishing makeshift camps wherever they stopped, leaning against tree trunks or resting on beds of leaves. We trekked for five days through dense and mountainous scrub until, coming over a ridge, we spotted the tribe asleep in a clearing at the bottom of a valley, huddled together like sleeping kittens. Finally glimpsing them for the first time, though mindful of raising their suspicions, we couldn’t resist waving and yelling out, our voices flowing over the quiet hills.
It took twelve hours to hike down to the clearing. By the time we reached the camp, all that remained of the tribe was a rusted car and a fax machine, neither burned nor hidden. Why didn’t they want to make contact? Had they heard rumours of our people, stories from the colonial days, or were these discarded items enough to condemn us? Eager to conclude the expedition, the native guide said that if we gave chase now, we could catch up to the tribe and ask them ourselves, but we were too tired and disheartened to go on. We decided to camp in the clearing on the floor of the valley and set out again in the morning. We spent the next week following a trail littered with cracked lightbulbs, expired credit cards, old phone books and dot-matrix printers. As the days went on, the vegetation thinned and the ground hardened and gave way to smooth, golden stone, which in turn gave way to a pale white plain so flat and sparse that the tribe could be spied in the distance, edging into the horizon.
The native guide said we couldn’t go any further: this land was not suitable for us. This place is the heart of the island, the furthest point from the coast. The only reason to come here is to bury something, to hide it away out of sight and mind, as far from life as possible.
What about the tribe, then? we asked. How would they survive?
Many of them will die as well, he replied. The best course of action was to retrace our path and return to our ship, collecting those members of our party who’d stopped along the way. We protested. The tribe was so close: if we just hurried across the plain, we might meet them within an hour.
The native guide wouldn’t budge: he refused to accompany us into the desert where our bones now lie, blanched beneath the sun beside chunks of concrete, half-melted CDs, faded travel guides and address books, broken watches and worn-out batteries of every size and shape. In our final effort, we approached as close as one hundred metres to the remnants of the tribe. We called out to them, employing the few words of their language that we knew, but they swiftly strode away, not even turning back to see what they’d left behind.
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Image: The Tawakal - Unsplash
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