Tropical Climes and Portable Tribes
Wherever we travel, our people travel with us. We often feel this when we travel alone, when the anchor has been raised and the mooring line loosed. We like to think of ourselves as individuals, but identity is social. Part of the way we are unique are the village of others we carry with us. The chains that bind us all, the chains that bind us few.
Morbid little monkeys, do little but sprawl, the tropic heat, the sweat, the floppy hands, the half-arsed stretch, the yawn, showing teeth, meaning nothing. A friend passes, we groan a greeting, Hey! Been trying to meet you…but not that hard. Some things can’t fall apart. But they do, the sea takes them in the night and washes them up on another shore, like a coconut grown into another bowed palm, waiting for a hammock, a hawker and a deal; the stream of mortal ties.