He first heard about tribal tourism from the barman in a nightclub.
He himself had taken on bar work over the years and knew the barman in question. He was intrigued with the idea and wanted to know more. He was told that the idea was to give people the chance to visit in order to see, and sometimes meet, the indigenous inhabitants of some of the world’s most out-of-the-way places. He was told that there were some that saw it as nothing more than a voyeuristic exercise, while others say it was a rare educational opportunity.
The way it was descried to him that evening made it sound both exciting and slightly dodgy. There had been unpleasant incidents with angering tribesmen, but this could happen while visiting any foreign country. He was also told that there were unlicensed tour operators out there, but was given the business card of a bona fide travel agency that were well versed in arranging such tours. It seemed the man passing all this information had taken a tour with his girlfriend the year before. He took the card and thanked him for all the information. He definitely came away thinking about it.
Two weeks later saw him making a booking. He’d done his research and looked at what a number of agencies had to offer before going with the one that had been recommended. The tour was one of the cheaper ones, but he was intrigued with the whole idea and figured this would be a good way to start. He booked for a week.
The tourist complex itself was pretty meagre with only six chalets for accommodation, a canteen, a toilet block and a small recreation hall for events. The night he arrived they put on a small firework display with a large bonfire on a section of waste ground in front of the buildings. Despite the heat coming from the fire the temperature was warm enough for him to wear just shorts and a t-shirt. There was lively music playing from somewhere and the canteen was serving drinks he’d never heard of from large, stone flagons. It was extremely strong alcohol-wise, and very cheap.
The relatively small number of guests were made up of singles and couples, with some groups sharing the accommodation. Most were drinking, dancing and singing around the fire late into the night. It was around that time that seeing a queue for the toilet he wandered of through the trees for a bit of privacy. Having gone some distance into the dark, no longer penetrated by the fire’s glow, and having relieved himself, he went on. The brochure had said that the beach was only six hundred metres from the tourist complex. He felt sure that he’d gone more than half way, and a short time later found himself standing on sand and looking out at an ocean lit dimly by a partial moon. It was really quite beautiful.
Feeling the effect of the drink growing stronger as he walked along the water’s edge, he wondered how long he could enjoy the freedom of what he was doing before heading back. A short time later, he found himself staggering. He stopped and looked around. There was no way of telling how long he’d been walking or how far he’d come. At first, looking back into the trees; he saw no sign of the fire’s glow. After staring hard for a while he could just make out a spot of orange light.
Slowly, he made his way back through the trees, becoming aware of how tired he was. The undergrowth seemed to be much thicker on the way back. Also, he noticed that although becoming more visible, the fire seemed to be much further away than he remembered. Exhaustion was probably the cause of both of these notions and he felt a strong need to stop and rest. He found a flat spot and sat down with his knees bent and his arms wrapped around them. Within minutes, he fell asleep.
Day was breaking when he woke. He could make out a thin column of smoke where the fire had been. He stood up, still feeling groggy, and made his way forward through a tangle that was definitely different to the way he’d come the night before.
When he had made it to the clearing where the ashes continued to smoulder, he could see that this was not the place where tribal tourists come for a holiday; nothing like it. He had been heading towards the wrong fire!
This was a tribal village. It was a large clearing with a dozen or more huts scattered around. As he approached the largest of them he became aware of movement in the trees around him. He stood listening, aware that he had entered the genuine habitat of an indigenous community that he knew nothing about. These people, whoever they were, had seen him coming. He had no idea how much danger he was in.
Around twenty tribesmen emerged at the same time, all carrying spears. All with black, bony bodies and wearing loincloths made from animal pelts. Gradually, they formed a wide circle around him and began pointing at him. The oldest man, apparently the leader or chief, approached wide eyed. He too was pointing, at his chest. He came close and seemed to be squinting at his t-shirt. Suddenly, shouting something unintelligible, he fell to his knees with his head bowed. The rest followed, dropping to their knees and making grunting noises that sounded like they were discussing something between them. This chatter grew louder until he old man shouted something and they instantly fell silent.
The village elder; that had to be who he was, moved closer and made it clear that he was pointing at the symbol on his t-shirt. The tourist froze as the elder moved forward and rested his fingertips on the motif.
The symbol that he was so fond of was a triskelion, a pattern of triple spirals. He’d had the motif screen-printed on several t-shirts of various colours. By some strange series of events it had made its way to this little island where it had taken on a completely different meaning!
The question was, did the symbol mark his coming as an evil omen or was he about to be worshiped?
All spears dropping to the ground had to be a good sign… didn’t it?