‘We are making palm oil,’ Christian says, ‘would you like to see?’
He leads me through a landscape of palm, elephant grass, and smoky patches of last week’s slash and burn.
Christian points to a tree that looks like all the others,
‘I kill a white cobra there last week,’ he says,
‘Knocked it out with a stick.’
I look behind me,
and to the side,
and follow so closely I can smell his sweat,
hear the wisp of his machete kissing the grass.
Be careful they say,
Quicksand near the river!
I wait, tentative, the water beckons until some girls appear
as if out of my fog.