by Khadijah M Chadly
From our bamboo hut on the beach, through the thin sari curtain of a door, the sound of the waves was like a mother washing her darling baby, dipping the soft yellow sponge again and again in the warm soapy water. In 1978 Goa, blue snowy-capped ocean, enveloping bowl sky, sweet smells of hashish floating through the air, but no species of toilet anywhere to be seen, Krishna, the very talkative hut manager, handed me a long bamboo staff and a clay cup of water, pointing to a faraway grove of date palms,
“Walk to that field between the ocean and the jungle, there you will experience many trees where no one will see you. You must hit this stick upon the ground many, many times. Do not stop. This not only for the snakes, but for the wild pigs who eat the humans’ potty wastes. Call; Shri Ram Jaya Ram Jaya Jay Ram and you will be protected. Don’t be scared.”
Checking my slightly stoned brain that what I heard was what I heard, walking down to the shady grove, hidden by the trees, digging a shallow hole in the soft sandy ground, squatting among the fallen coconut flowers and vines, settling in, before the snorting and grunting in the near distance signaled that I was no longer alone. Six of them waddling up and moving into position, encircling me, trapping me, with their hooves grinding into the earth. ‘Pig’ was a polite way to describe them. These were no buddies of Charlotte’s Web. They were boars. Wild ones. With big ugly ivory tusks. Squealing and jostling for position, the three behind me moved in closer and closer while the ones in front kept their beady eyes fixated on me.
Shri Ram Ram Jaya Ram! I pounded that stick like Keith Moon come back from the dead
while two of them moved in closer to sneak their long, hairy rooters under me. Shri Ram Ram Jaya Jay Ram! Scrambling, grabbing at my pants, getting the hell out of there as they closed in for their pungent feast with shlopping sounds of disgusting joy.
My parents had warned me, I had never understood the wisdom in it before, but running towards our hut, along the warm swoosh-swoosh waves of the shore, it hit me as an Existential Truth;
“Thou shalt not eat pork.”
Khadijah Chadly is a writer, potter, and documentary filmmaker based in the S.F. Bay Area who directed, filmed, and edited ZRAREET!, a film about rural Moroccan women which screened at the Mendocino Film Festival. Her essay "You Don't Look American" is forthcoming in Chicago Story Press.
