Travel Log 006 - Calika

Campfire on the Dust Road, Central Calika - Tonight’s bivouac under the acacia moon turned lively when a wandering troupe - the Fananu Alfajr, "Dawn’s Lanterns" in their tongue - ambled into our fire‑light. Agile storytellers all, they spun sagas of desert wars and frankincense gods until ember sparks danced like captive stars. Mid‑tale their troupe master pulled me aside: their principal dancer lay feverish, and an eager village two miles on awaited a promised performance. The choreography, he assured me, was simple; would I fill in? Flattered (and still hopeful of repaying Calikan hospitality without further body‑painting), I agreed.   Only after I accepted did the true requirements emerge: the costume, if one can call three ribbons and a hip scarf a costume, and an enormous sand‑coloured boa meant to coil about the performer’s arms "for grace and symbolism." Symbolism, perhaps - grace, decidedly not. The snake delighted in sliding beneath the ribbons, teasing them loose, forcing a frantic tug‑of‑war lest the entire ensemble abandon me to the desert night. Each spin of the dance became a duel: me versus reptile, dignity versus scales. The onlookers loved it - cheering every squeak and shriek - mistaking my desperate grappling for choreographed flair.   When the drums finally faded I was flushed, half‑dressed, and newly appreciative of professional dancers everywhere. The snake was returned to its wicker crate with what I fervently hope was mutual relief. The troupe rewarded me with a pouch of candied dates and a promise that the "Legend of the Ribbon Serpent" will surely enter their repertoire. As for me, I shall sleep knowing I have further expanded my résumé: scholar, inadvertent icon, and now, snake‑wrestling showgirl. May tomorrow involve trousers.   -- G. Smallbottom, When North Is South - Finding Your Way Through A Desert    

Nameless Way‑station, Inner Calika - Charakur’s sandstone minarets have dwindled to smudges behind me, replaced by a patchwork of bristly scrub and thirsty steppe. Villages here sprout only where a spring breaks the surface, each cluster of mud‑brick huts clinging to a single well like barnacles round a lone pier‑post. After six hours’ plodding under a bleached sky, I arrived at one such hamlet just as the goats were coming in - and immediately became the afternoon spectacle.   Children jabbed fingers at me, then toward a tumble of boulders a stone’s throw off the track. An elder with a spine like a scythe beckoned, so I followed. There, carved into the sun‑pocked granite, were a series of crude gnome figures striking heroic (and somewhat lopsided) poses. The old man pressed his calloused palm against a carving, then cupped my cheeks with the same measuring deliberation a tailor reserves for silk. Satisfied, he began to chant; the villagers joined in a ragged chorus, and someone thrust a gnarled staff into my hands - as if anointing me patron sprite of the rock pile.   They quartered me in a reed‑roof hut for the night. Come dawn, the elder stood waiting outside, flanked by men wielding pots of viscous brown dye and thin brushes made from goat hair. I was ushered to a flat stone slab splashed with brilliant colours, instructed (via vigorous mime) to disrobe, and summarily transformed into an upright canvas. From nape to tailbone they painted coiling symbols and stylised gnome silhouettes; the session lasted until sunset, punctuated only by my increasingly plaintive requests for tea.   Attempting to wash the pigment away proved futile - the stuff clings like optimism in a doomsayer’s sermon. I tried to slip off under cover of starlight, but my would‑be custodians were light sleepers. For five additional days they laboured, decorating every inch of skin front, back, and limb. By the time they reached my chest I had abandoned modesty entirely, though not without spectacular hiccups brought on by mortification and dust inhalation.   At last, on the seventh night, I effected an undignified escape: scaling a goat pen, sprinting across thorn scrub, and vowing never to underestimate rural hospitality again. I now glitter beneath the moon with a full‑body mural no soap can budge, a pilfered staff for walking, and a lingering case of the hiccups that punctuate every other breath. Pride? Misplaced somewhere between shoulder blade and shin, beneath a handsome depiction of a triumphant gnome waving a turnip.   Onward, then. Surely someone in the next town sells a cloak long enough to hide an entire gallery.   -- G. Smallbottom, Pigments of Faith  

Thorn Hills Backcountry, Calika - I departed the mural‑mad village at a sprint, staff thumping, pride flapping behind like a torn banner. The route east led into cracked ochre highlands where thorn‑bush thickets bristled with tiny yellow berries that stain worse than squid ink. Mid‑afternoon I paused in a dusty clearing to mend my beleaguered blouse, gave it a cursory wash with canteen water, and spread it over a scrubby branch to dry.   Enter a troop of long‑tailed hill apes - thieves of admirable coordination. One snatched the blouse and, hooting triumph, vaulted into the canopy while comrades provided a cacophonous escort. I charged after the airborne laundry, slipping between briars that tore fresh ventilation into my skirt. Just as I lunged for a dangling sleeve my boot snagged a looped root; momentum did the rest. I tumbled downhill in a whirl of dust, curses, and detached dignity, coming to rest waist‑deep in a warm, glutinous mud pool.   The apes gathered at a polite distance, chatter suddenly subdued. Only then did I notice what rose from the centre of the mire: a great overgrown arc of withered stone, half‑buried yet unmistakably fashioned - not a natural outcrop. Its surface felt cold even through the sun‑baked air and pulsed with a faint hum beneath the mud. The primates refused to approach, as though instinct warned them off.   I remain stuck up to the hips, blouse lost, marveling at this enigmatic arch and wondering whether it marks a doorway, a monument, or some relic best left entombed. First priority: extricate myself without sinking further. Second: retrieve my garment before the apes repurpose it as hammock. Adventure insists on wardrobe malfunctions; I must insist on survival.   -- G. Smallbottom, Running In Circles