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| From the Cotswolds to the Andes by CHERYL PALIN And then there are only llamas in a field. The nearest smirks at me like it knows something. ‘¿Qué?’ I say out loud and a bit messily (I’m eating a cereal bar). What’s your problem? A family in whispering rainwear moves on. The llama sees a tiny tear escape from my big, dark sunnies. It wibbles its mouth at me. ‘Nena,’ it says with those great loose lips. ‘Baby…we all a long, lonely way from home.’ ‘What is he actually saying?’ asks Frank. ‘Don’t be daft!’ I tell him. ‘It’s a llama. It can’t talk.’ I turn to Justin. ‘Focus in on their mouths.’ I tell him. ‘We’ll do a kind of Which animal’s this? thing. Start with a mouth and pan out ‘til we see the whole llama.’ It’s not as straightforward as it seems. We start with a mouth and end up with an arse. ‘Fuck!’ says Justin. And the llama sniggers. I go to get coffee from the restaurant building. Families in fleeces are steaming up the windows with their arguments and paninis. I’m stopped in my tracks for a moment by a man carrying a high chair. And then I smell wood smoke, wet bark, still water in river creeks. There’s a voice behind me, an old man’s voice. The voice speaks Spanish, but it’s not his native tongue. ‘Yes, it’s true,’ he’s saying. ‘My father-in-law passed away about a month ago and I saw him just this morning. Ah ha. In my garden. Hmn. He was a jaguar, leaping through the four o’ clock plants.’ Cesario? When I turn, I’m surprised I didn’t notice his hammock when I walked in. It’s over by the far wall next to the knives and forks. It’s Cesario alright, his bare feet swinging, not quite touching the floor even though the hammock is slung low. Those toes, curved towards each other like that, remind me of a thousand canoe rides through the Amazon. His eyes are solemn and red-rimmed, flooded – a sure sign that he’s recovering this morning from ayahuasca. I hold up my hand to wave to him, and the woman serving baked potatoes calls me. ‘Did you want something?’ ‘Coffee.’ ‘There’s a machine,’ she says. ‘Just a machine. Over by the far wall.’ ‘Next to the hammock?’ I ask. ‘No,’ she says, like she’s heard it all, over the years. ‘Next to the knives and forks, love.’ When I get back Justin is filming meerkats. ‘We’re not supposed to be filming meerkats,’ I say. ‘But they’re digging for apple and their noses are sandy,’ says Justin. ‘Can I have one?’ Frank asks. ‘Or maybe two?’ And I’m thinking the same thing. A couple of meerkats to watch over us, Frank and me. Now we’re here. The sun is low and ripe like a mango. There are goodie bags for the children and thank yous and waves bye-bye in the direction of the car park. Frank needs a wee and we head for the toilet block. ‘But I’m not going with you,’ he says. ‘I’m going in the men’s.’ |
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