I scrambled like a crazy man for the road. Finding it was easy enough, as the island is barely 50 feet wide. On the other side of the road/island lay another coral lagoon that glowed with health. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be flecked with empty Pepsi cans, plastic water bottles and the cardboard remains of Swanson TV dinners. More artery-clogging shit American food.
I could see the ghetto of Betio to the west, maybe a mile away.
I remembered Neal blathering earlier that the island was basically 25 miles of nodules linked by a long, thin path that at times became road-like. Well, at least I wasn’t in handcuffs and/or a prison cell. Small blessings. I was, however, at least 20 miles away from the hotel.
Two stray dogs growled at me amid the swath of roadside litter. I growled back. They growled louder. Fucking hell, all I needed now was to be attacked by dogs. I decided to ignore them and, thank Christ, they decided the same.
My sunburned scalp was stinging like mad. I removed my Cure T-shirt, put it over my head and tied its corners together into a square that fit snugly on my cranium. Yes, I looked just like a Gumby from Monty Python, but the sun was like X-rays.
Gumbys are recurring characters in Monty Python’s Flying Circus. They have toothbrush moustaches and wear handkerchiefs knotted at the corners on their heads, wire-rimmed spectacles, braces, Fair Isle knitted sweater vests, a shirt rolled up to the elbows, missing its detachable collar, trousers rolled up above their knees and Wellington boots. They usually hold their arms in an ape-like position, speak loudly and slowly, and pronounce words syllable by syllable. A popular Gumby catchphrase is “My brain hurts!”
Where next? The hotel. Right. Two teenage girls approached carrying bundles of laundry.
I decided to lay on some Gunt charm. “Loves, can you tell me where I might find the main hotel around here?”
They stared at me in shock and began to shriek, “Vakubati! Vakubati!” They ran away from me.
Vakubati? What the fuck?
“Hey, come on—all I want is directions to the fucking hotel,” I yelled, but they were gone.
From the direction of the pig, I heard LACEY calling, “RayCEY! RayCEY? Where are you, hunny-bunny?”
What would Jason Bourne do?
He would steal a car.
Where is a car to steal?
A car approached.
It was a 1986 Chrysler LeBaron, more oxide than metal, with its rear seat removed to make room for chicken hutches. Its front vinyl seats were, like most plastics on this island, disintegrating in the relentlessly destructive sun.
I waved frantically and the car pulled over. I began talking to the driver as I opened the door. “Hello. I just need a lift to my hotel. If you like, I can pay you, but I really can’t stay here much longer. I’m being followed by a woman with Buñuel’s syndrome.” By then, I was seated. “Chop-chop. Let’s go,” I said, then noticed the man behind the wheel: the driver we had left for dead. Mother of fucking God.
Dear The Gods,
What the fuck is wrong with you?
Yours,
Raymond Gunt
I launched a charm offensive. “Why, hello, good sir! It’s you! How are you feeling?”
“Okay, mon. I’m good.”
“It seems people on these delightful islands have a culture of forgiveness and peace,” I responded awkwardly.
“Whatever you say. Next hotel is one hour away. I don’t charge you, but instead you buy one of my fine hens.”
“Delightful idea. Let’s get going.”
“Delicious hens. Nuclear fallout makes them extra-delicious.”
“Doesn’t it, though!”
As the driver stepped on the gas, I caught a glimpse in the side mirror of LACEY emerging from a cluster of sea grape leaves with a puzzled expression on her face. She was clutching her plastic tote bag of corn nuts.
“So,” I said, “I take it you’re feeling better after this morning’s tiny bump?”
“Bump? I no get bump. I pass out in shrub from drinking too much ceremonial tak-tak. Not really remember much before that. I need to limit the amount of tak-tak I drink these days.”
“Well, don’t we all, don’t we all!”
Dear The Gods,
I take all that back.
Yours,
Raymond Gunt
We drove for a few miles or so. Lagoons. Litter. Stray dogs. Chickens in the back seat trying to peck my kidneys. I struggled to remember the name of the hotel Sarah had mentioned. The Douchewater? The Double-Anal? The Deet?
“Say, driver, have you heard of a hotel called the DEET?”
“Ah. The Deet. Nice place. Deet a proud part of island heritage. Hotel named to honour the mighty Deet.”
“Really now!” I expected to hear lurid tales of Marilyn Monroe circa 1958 shagging pretty much everyone alive in a popper-scented sling room in a rear bungalow. Or, maybe an international peace armistice signed behind the shed where they slaughter goats.