Other Worlds Were Possible, page 19
“We saw their worth, almost straight away… Those steel axes! They were obviously better than our stone tools. And those matches! You know, it was far easier to make a fire with a match, than in the traditional way. One strike, and Mother Nature around us! You’ve got yourself a flame. An impressive flame.
“We couldn’t help but be enticed. So we took their medicine. We accepted their cloths, drinks and umbrellas. We felt rich, special; showered with all those gifts.”
The joy drained from Songbird’s face.
“Hmm… So, we always say that ‘Nature provides’. This is our way… You want a berry? You pick yourself a berry. You see it, you take it, you enjoy it, and that’s the end of that. If you want a hut, you collect a few branches, and you build yourself a hut… So, that’s exactly what we did: We took that cargo. We used it, enjoyed it, and thought nothing of it... But those Wogies… Hmm… Those crazy Wogies… They don’t think like us. They… They said we owed them. We had to ‘Pay’ for the gifts they’d given.”
Sunny scratched his head:
“Oh… Like when I tried to re-gift you for the ox, by giving you a buffalo?”
“Not exactly… Hmm… So with that, there was never any obligation. You were only really borrowing that ox. You could’ve returned the very same beast, and that would’ve cleared the debt. Although I rather wanted to maintain that debt; for you to over or under gift us. That way, you had a reason to return.
“These Wogies aren’t like that. They don’t care for relationships. Their debts have to be ‘Repaid’… And you can’t just borrow an axe and then return it once you’re done. You have to give them something similar, but different… Something new… Hmm… And if you don’t have anything to give, they charge ‘Interest’. You have to gift more than you were gifted. It’s a bit like a protection. If you don’t re-gift them… If you don’t repay them when they ask… Then they get all sorts of crazy. Impressive sorts of crazy.”
Sunny thought he understood. Then he had his doubts:
“Well…”
“So, at first, we just gave them some meat... In return for an axe, we might give them an ox’s leg. They were happy with that. But they kept on giving us cargo. And my sons kept on accepting it. They supposed it’d have been rude to say ‘No’.
“In the end, they were unable to re-gift… To repay their debt. They… They didn’t have anything left to give but themselves.”
Sunny frowned.
“You mean… They gave themselves up as slaves?”
Sunny had never met a slave himself, but he had heard of their existence. When tribes went to war, they took prisoners, who became war slaves. If a murder was committed, the murderer might be gifted to the victim’s clan, as a slave, as compensation for the blood debt which was owed. This prevented reprisal attacks. People could also surrender themselves into debt slavery, in order to clear their debts.
Songbird nodded.
“They thought they’d gift their time and skills, and that’d settle their debt. But no. Oh no!
“The who, the what and the why: My sons, that was the ‘Who’. The what: Those chains and those guns! The Wogies tied my babies in chains, along with half the members of our clan. Then they marched them away at gunpoint. And why? Because of this cargo… This strange, impressive debt.
“Our spy followed them to the Giant Waters. She watched on as they were led into the belly of a giant canoe. The Coast People told her they were being taken to a ‘Faraway Land’; that they’d never return; that they’d be slaves for the rest of their lives.”
Sunny raised his eyebrows.
This was not like any type of slavery he had heard of before. War slaves were usually integrated into their new clans. Debt slaves were freed, once their debts had been re-gifted. But this? To be sent to another land, never to return, never to be free again? It seemed deranged.
Songbird tensed her cheeks.
“This is why I came here. I’d already lost my sons. I feared they might take my daughter. And our clan was too weak to survive. Hmm… The Wogies took most of the adults. We were struggling to find food.
“As for the other natives in this camp… This town… So, each case is unique. Many came from clans who accepted the Wogies’ blankets. That was a trick. Those blankets contained diseases, which killed most of the people who used them. The clans-folk who didn’t die, came here to get the antidote. They stayed once they’d been cured, because their clans had been decimated. They didn’t have the numbers to get by on their own.
“Some people were brought here by force. You may have noticed the slaves in chains. Hmm… Others were enticed by missionaries. The Wogies took the most fertile earth, forcing the natives to retreat to barren lands. They became hungry and weak. Then the missionaries arrived, bribed them with food, and escorted them here.
“I even believe Father Ralph sweet-talked one of our clans, over at the Big Camp. I’ve seen them walking around, aimlessly, with sullen faces and greyish skin.
“But most of these people came from different tribes, with different dialects, cultures and traditions. Similar, but different… Still, the Wogies can’t tell the difference. They’re a simple bunch. Like the water that forgot to be wet.”
***
Sunny had been so engrossed by Songbird’s conversation, he had almost forgotten about Hope. The last time he had looked in her direction, she had looked somewhat miffed. Her eyes had narrowed and her nose had scrunched. Yet Sunny had been indifferent.
Struck by a pang of remorse, he turned to check on his lover, a little too abruptly. This resulted in a mild form of whiplash; the disorientating type, which does no damage in the long term, but can be a little dazzling in the moment.
He need not have worried. Hope was where he had left her, sitting on the floor, glaring out into space. Sunny knew her well enough to realise this was an act. She must have been just as intrigued as he was. How could she not be fascinated by these revelations?
“Well…” He tried to ask a question, even though he had not yet thought of a question to ask. “Yes… That, err, explains why you came here… But… Well, it doesn’t explain this… It doesn’t explain this and that and this.”
Sunny gestured with an open palm; presenting the bed, pots, fireplace, wood pile, vegetables and ginger.
“I mean… You’re not a slave. Slaves wouldn’t have this ‘Cargo’.”
Songbird smiled. It was a monstrous thing to behold; gargantuan, solid, pulsating; a joyous expression, which clashed with her sorrowful tales.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “Most slaves couldn’t possess such things… I’m not really a slave… Not in that way. I’m not in shackles and chains. Hmm… Yet I’m not exactly free…”
Songbird’s smile faded as she spoke. She looked solemn, once again, which made Sunny feel solemn himself. It was not a matter of empathy. It was more a matter of shame. He blamed himself for picking at the scars which must have taken an age to heal.
But he was keen to find out more. So, he did not tell Songbird to stop. He waited to see if she had anything else to say. And he used the intervening time to inspect one of the pots.
It was made of clay, which was not so peculiar. The pot they had lost, whilst fleeing from the Desert Wogies, had also been made of clay. It was this pot’s design which was so unusual. It featured the image of a person, who was making love to a second person, who was attacking an animal with a spear. And there was another thing: This pot appeared to glisten.
“It’s hard to explain. You can’t… Hmm… So, you can’t just pick the food you need. If you ate something you’d gathered, something the Wogies had planted in one of those fields, they’d say you were ‘Stealing’, and they’d cut off one of your hands. If you did the same thing again, they’d probably murder you.”
Sunny’s mouth opened wide. It became so large, it demanded to be seen; escaping from the shadow of his oversized nose and broken chin.
Could it really be so? Would the Wogies murder a person because they had eaten the food they had gathered? It was far too barbaric to believe.
“You mean they have a store? A place where a Women’s Council hands out food to anyone who’s hungry?”
Songbird tensed her cheeks.
“They have stores, where they store things. And they have ‘Shops’, where you can get food. Hmm… That food… It isn’t distributed according to need. It’s not gifted. They… Hmm… It’s so strange, it’s hard to explain. It took me an age to understand, and I still struggle to accept it… So, you need to do this thing they call ‘Work’. You need to make something which someone else might want to use, at an unspecified point in the future. If you do this, you’ll get given these beads they call ‘Money’. And if you gift those beads… This money… Then they’ll gift you something else. If you’re lucky, they’ll gift you something to eat.”
Sunny scratched his head.
“But… Hang on… What if you don’t have this money? Doesn’t that mean you can’t get any food? So you’d starve to death?… Or you’d go and gather some food. But if you did that, you’d get killed to death?”
Songbird nodded. But she did not appear to believe her own gesture.
Sunny continued:
“Well… Doesn’t that enforce a certain type of… Of equivalency? Like, do you have to gift a certain number of monies, to get a certain amount of food?”
Songbird nodded with slightly more conviction than before.
“It’s just… Don’t these Wogies understand that it feels good to give, without expecting anything in return? That giving is the best thing you can receive? And that receiving is the best thing you can give?”
Songbird shrugged.
“And… Well, what about the pots? I was asking about this cargo. And then you told me about food. But what about the pots?”
“Oh, them? I used money to buy those.”
“I thought this ‘Money’ was used to get food.”
“And pots.”
“Pots and food?”
“Everything! Pots, food, cloths…”
Sunny guffawed. He could not help himself. His lungs expelled the air they were holding, without seeking his permission. This caused his lips to quiver, his cheeks to shake, and a chortling sound to gurgle up from an unspecified location deep within his chest.
It was not because Sunny was opposed to alternative means of exchange. The members of their clan used one system when they were alone; combining their food, before eating it as a group. They adopted a different system in their Big Camp; establishing a Women’s Council, which distributed the tribe’s possessions. Sunny had practised debt exchange; borrowing an ox from Songbird, returning with a buffalo, and then taking a chicken to maintain the debt. Sparrow had made a direct exchange with the Dog Clan; gifting them four spears in return for one of their goats. And his mother had played patolli; a game of chance, to exchange the beads she had made for a different type of bead.
Sunny would have been happy to use any of these systems. He would have been happy to adopt the Wogies’ system, if it had benefitted the clan. He had heard of a neighbouring tribe who used wampum; strings of purple beads, made from seashells, which might have looked like this “Money”. Wampum was used to mark agreements. It could be offered as compensation. But it was never exchanged for food.
This “Money”? It was too ridiculous for words.
“So, hang on… Let’s return to the moment of conception. To this… What did you call it?... This whirr… whirr… This work. Dearest auntie: How do you get this work? How do you get this money in the first place?”
“My work… So, I find clay, bring it home, and turn it into pots, containers and beakers. The Wogies gift me money for each item I make.”
“Hang on… Let’s arrange our firewood in a neat and tidy stack… You make pots. You gift those pots to the Wogies. They give you this money. You give that money back to the Wogies. And they return the pots you only just made?”
Sunny howled with a kind of laughter which sounded joyful at first, but which grew more sinister the longer it lasted.
“Have I got that right?”
Songbird bowed her head.
“Not exactly.”
“No?”
“Hmm… So, say they give me five ‘Cents’ for a pot.”
Songbird rummaged about behind a pillar; retrieving a five-cent piece, which she passed across to Sunny.
He was far from impressed. The coin was less pretty than his mother’s beads, and it was less useful than a pot. But he kept his thoughts to himself.
“If I wished to take that pot, I might have to ‘Pay’ twenty cents.”
Sunny shook his head. His face barely moved, either to the left or the right. Yet it managed to travel across that tiny distance, back and forth, with eye-defying velocity:
“So… Hang on… If you gift them four pots, they’ll give you enough of this money to get one pot back?... You… They… Ha! They say ‘Squat’, and you say ‘How low?’.”
Songbird was too embarrassed to lift her head.
Sunny was too ashamed to speak in anything more than a whisper:
“I’m sorry. That was crass.”
But Hope was not so courteous. If anything, she was more scornful than supportive. She raised her nose and scoffed, creating a guttural noise which got stuck as it ascended her throat:
“Aargh-humph… So tell us, Miss Work For Money For Cargo: What happens to the other three pots you made?”
“People use money to get those.”
“But there’s not enough money to get back all the thingies you make. If you make four pots, you’ll only get enough money to reclaim one.”
“No, there is enough money. There’s an impressive amount of coins. It’s just that we don’t have them. The Wogies seem to get more money whenever they need it. They gift it to each other, even if they don’t make things themselves. They get it from money men; these people they call ‘Bankers’. And they get it from these men they call ‘Merchants’; people who paddle across the Giant Waters, take the things we’ve made, take slaves, and then make a gift of this money.”
Now it was Hope’s turn to scratch her head.
“So… Hang on… You’re saying that people get different amounts of money?”
Songbird nodded.
“Don’t the people who have lots of money, end up controlling the people who only have a little? And don’t the people who make the money, who can make an unlimited amount of these beads... These coins… Don’t they end up with an unlimited amount of power? Like a gigantic Uncle Crow?”
Songbird nodded again. Only this time, Hope remained silent.
“Yes. The Uncle Crows are in charge… Field-people are gifted less money than pot-makers, who get given less than animal-fur-removers. But it’s these bankers and merchants, all Wogies, who get the most. Well, them and the slugabeds they call ‘Officials’. Ha! Those men all work together, as a kind of clan; using this money to ‘Buy’ themselves a gang of guards, who they call ‘Police’. Those bullies subjugate everyone else; attacking anyone who refuses to obey the Woggy rules, which they call ‘Laws’.
“I don’t know who actually makes the money. Hmm… I suppose they must be the deadliest stonefish in the sea. But nobody’s ever mentioned such a person… They must exist, but I’ve yet to see them myself.”
Hope’s hunch had been correct. But it was a hollow victory. She wished she had been mistaken.
“This is why I said, ‘I’m not exactly free’. Hmm… I’m not a slave, not officially. But I still have to play by their rules. I have to do their ‘Work’ and gift their ‘Money’. That’s the who, the what and the why… Anyway, I still get to keep this cargo. So that’s pretty swell.”
Sunny furrowed his brow.
“Yes, about this. Did you build this hut yourself? It’s not like the one you lived in before.”
“Hut? They call this a ‘House’.”
“Oh.”
“I didn’t build it. I mean, me? Build this impressive thing?... No, it’s a Woggy design. A group of natives did the actual building.”
“Oh… Well, if it was built by the tribe, it must belong to the entire tribe.”
“So, no. Not exactly. This isn’t really a tribe. It’s… It’s similar, but different… Hmm… So the Wogies created something they called a ‘Mortgage’. I think it’s short for ‘Mortal Engagement’. They say that if I gift them some money every ‘Month’, every thirty or thirty-one days, then they’ll allow me to live here. Eventually, this house will be mine.”
Songbird looked to Hope and then to Sunny, attempting to gauge their thoughts. But she could not perceive a reaction, no matter how intently she stared. Her guests’ faces were vacuous; frozen, deadpan and pale.
Sensing she needed assistance, Songbird reached behind a beam, retrieved a piece of fabric, and showed them the images which were drawn on one side. It looked like a code. The icons had been put together in groups, which were separated by small gaps. But Sunny could not tell what those squiggles were supposed to represent. They did not look like the murals in their caves. They did not look like birds or trees, or anything else you might find in nature.
At the bottom was a square-shaped sketch.
“They call this the ‘Title Deed’. This image depicts the land which will belong to me. The land between the four corners of this house.”
Now Hope and Sunny did respond, snickering in unison.
It was Hope who offered a reply:
“Hee chuck-a-chuck hee-hee… They think an individual can possess the land? The actual land? The earth beneath our feet? Mother Nature’s flesh?... They think the land can be possessed; not by a tribe, not by a clan, but by a single person?... And people have to make stuff, to get money, so they can give that money back, to win the right to exist atop that land?... What else? Do you have to gift this money if you wish to take water, breathe the air, speak a word, or use the toilet?”
