Prim white men in white safari outfits fall from the sky using cotton parachutes, and stand around in the meadow looking confused. Some wear pince-nez, and their mustaches are thin and neatly trimmed. A swarm of natives, darker skinned and sweaty, emerges from the surrounding bush, chummy smiles on their faces and their arms outstretched in welcome. Their hair is tied above their heads, so their heads look like they come to points. The white men start like pheasants and cast spears at the natives, who are too well-fed to be devious and have come unarmed. One native is struck through the chest and collapses noisily; instantly the others stop around him and release a massive breath, a Word.... When things return to focus the men from the sky can only see the natives as if through a thick mist, or across a great chasm. One of them breaks the silence, saying, "I think we'd better go. I suddenly have the feeling we're not welcome here any more." And with nothing more said they turn quietly and march away in a single line, following the course of a deep stream that leads nowhere I know.