Sign Language

One problem. During the volcano roadtrip, taking a hike in the jungle, heading back to the van from a waterfall, down a ways from the most inventive TV-reception scheme I’ve ever seen, on a single-file path I realized earlier qualified as a jungle street, there to provide access via motorbike to jungle homes, near the spot where the re-taped electricity line can take your head off at night as it heads down the mountainside, I talked with a man high in a fruit tree. A very happy man, chucking oodles of delicious fresh fruit called mangostin down at us. Peel it, and get eight small sections of sticky white fruit that only grows on Bali. But I wasn’t really talking, and I should have been. We were laughing and smiling and gesturing and playing with my ten-word vocabulary… six months – it’s time to eat the language.


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