Climbing A hunter gestures in agreement to his colleague’s suggestion of coconut water. They are dark bodied; sinewy and strong and flexible like the roots of the tree they attend. They seek refreshment and argue in their strange language about which of the two tired men will climb and which will drink first. Time passes and they agree on a game to decide the winner and the loser. They turn their backs on each other, walk forwards five paces, and count to three. On the third, they both reach to the ground and race to draw an arc in the ground with their fingers. The winner would be the man to enter his opponent’s designated five pace squared area first and the first hunter draws the figurative short straw. A complex affair to explain, but effortlessly sensible; it worked. His fatigue doesn’t show as he scales the tree; his back dripping with an earthy sweat – a sweat which glistens in the dying sun, bringing into view the working of his muscles and bones. They contract and relax with a regular rhythm. He continues his ascent. A drop of the grubby sweat falls next to his resting partner at the tree’s foot. He looks up and urges his friend to hurry; to relieve him. He urges him in that universal language. I hear it, and so does the climber. The latter looks down and spits, laughing. He continues to climb. Another drop of sweat falls; his companion looks up as the climber’s head draws level with the nut of his choosing, and disappears in an instant.