The Prophet Of Amanga
Part One of “God The Banana”
Tim Ellis
Copyright 2014 Tim Ellis
Picture a diamond spinning against the dark,
flinging back the brilliance of a sun.
Move a little closer - you’ll be stunned
how lakes and oceans flash, how ice-caps spark.
Zoom in lower still and see the forests,
so vibrant, so intense your eyes will ache.
They sweep through archipelagos that arc
across the turquoise waters of the tropics.
Now select an island of that region.
Focus in on green until the stark
disfigurements become defined: the lesions
roaded into wildscape with no pity;
the oil palm tree plantations. Those pock-marks
are cattle plains, those giant squid are cities.
Then hover over one such. Be a bird
- a scavenging kite. Greedily eye the slim
parishioners of plastic sheeted slums
that make the creature’s long limbed outline blurred.
Note the ruins dotted round the place:
churches, shocked by seismic shifts, have tired,
have cracked and crumbed, and as they fell interred
the notions of a colonising race.
Swoop down on a square where scuttle squads
of vertebrates that teem like ants when stirred.
They mill round marble forms of many gods,
and taking up one plaza-side’s the regal
(though taste can vary, and some might say “absurd”)
mass of an immense Baroque cathedral.
Many thousand sticks of incense smoulder
blueing the gloomy hall within this building:
many thousand threads of vapour bending
wispily into the roof vaults out of holders
which smoke before a hundred pagan altars.
A cankerous crust of ash and dust and mildew
mottles myriad local gods which moulder
upon stone plinths. Slivers of sunlight filter
through the cerulean cloud and glint on marble
angels and cherubs overlooking older
divinities, from a rood screen depicting a garbled
tableau of Paradise. A throng of worshippers share
faith between Faiths, and bearded shamans rub shoulders
amicably with the clergy of Moshadir.
“As we enter look at the architrave...
…the saints are eating bananas, the fruit of Amanga.”
The tour guide’s clients look but they don’t linger,
just shuffle through the portal to the nave
where pigeons coo in the rafters. They squint through dinge
and gagging fug of incense. Harrumphs and coughs
are lost in the vast cathedral, dim as a cave
after the plaza. Some pious tourists cringe,
discerning pagan idols; they wrinkle noses,
look down at the floor and find it paved
with marble tombstones stained by trampled roses,
Coca-Cola, bananas, oranges and dates:
the names of colonial overlords engraved
on Christian memorials blotched by the secular state.
The tour guide waves an umbrella and starts his talk,
enthusing that this Holy City’s lucky
so many faiths can co-exist: these mucky
idols daubed with dyes and powdered chalk
are testament to indulgent native priests.
“This church at times is like a market hall...
…street-traders set up pitches here and hawk
their wares as offerings to the mythic beasts...
…even local rum is made libation.
Here is Graal, with head and neck of a stork,
and this...the phallic God of Procreation:
Imti Mentoo with his manhood…how do you say?...cocked?”
Some younger tourists snigger, others gawk.
The eldest and most staid seem somewhat shocked...
...to find such things revered inside a church.
A grey-haired lady asks how, in this town
where earthquake shattered monasteries abound,
this building’s ridden each new seismic lurch.
“Maybe it’s that Imti Mentoo god
that props it up!” a cheeky backpacker smirks.
The guide raps on a pillar: marble, smirched
by greasy fingers...but no...it’s odd:
a hollow wooden sound ascends to the rafters.
A dollop of plop descends from a pigeon perch.
The tour guide, dabbing his head, narrates above laughter
that a 17th century governor, Gonzalez-Bremmer,
concluded after several years’ research
that timber columns best absorb earth tremors.
To someone who is quietly watching them
this would be funny in more ways than one,
were he inclined to bear a sense of fun
beside the weight that’s crushing him, but then
there is no person in the world who’s stronger.
He’s checked this group already for the man
he’s looking for, inspecting all the men
who come in here, prepared to wait much longer.
The one he seeks has family history
carved in the floor - those names would see a “den
of thieves” in this church - they’d founded it to be
their symbol of power; a holy imperial palace.
The man is known to one and all as “Ben”
- Benjamin Bremmer. His grandfather dropped the “Gonzalez”.
He’d first caught sight of Ben some months ago
exploring the plaza outside the great cathedral.
Ben’s flaxen head in the dusky crowd looked regal.
The pink but friendly face appeared to glow
in the oven-hot afternoon but showed no sweat.
The type of young man women love to see
- or certainly two of his three companions thought so -
pale-skinned girls, one blonde and one brunette.
The watcher watched them: scrumptious giggly things
excited by the street stalls, browsing rows
of hand-made bracelets, necklaces and rings
quite unaware that they were being ogled;
treating the Central Plaza like a show
put on for their amusement by the locals.
Which in many ways of course it was.
In this Holy City of Moshadir,
all a visiting tourist ever hears
is “Give me!” “Hire me!” “I’m your guide!” because
Amanga panders to the foreign dollar
and anyone with slightly pallid flesh
gets mobbed by men with sticks of candy floss;
photographers with monkeys on their collars;
glue-eyed, snot-nosed boys with shoe-shine brushes;
jugglers and acrobats who toss
bright balls and one another; sellers of slushies;
snake charmers; palm readers; manic flamenco guitarists;
old women selling embroideries embossed
with quetzals, Jesus Christ, or Che Guevara.
Ben and the girls took a seat by a Baroque fountain.
The second man, a smirking, wire-haired bloke
returned with slushies he’d got from an ice-box bike
as gifts for his friends. The girls slurped, pouting
ungraciously, budged up to Ben in the pleasant
cooling spray ex
uding from fifty spurting
fish-shaped marble faucets, copiously spouting
light-splitting jets that glinted opalescent.
The foursome supped in silence awhile, all dreaming
separate thoughts with eyes turned upwards counting
ragged birds that rode the thermals seeming
almost to tickle their wings against the steaming
volcanic summit of Moshagonga Mountain.
The girl with the dark hair suddenly kicked off screaming:
“Oh my God!” Her eyes near popped, “What’s that?!!”
The blonde one shrieked as well. The wire-haired man
looked startled first and then unfurled a grin
perceiving what it was they bridled at.
A comic voice: “Dear Amy, meet my friend.
I promise his decorum is complete
even if he looks a total prat.”
“They call him Imti Mentoo,” added Ben.
The blonde one - Amy - blurted, “It’s obscene!
They’re kneeling to him...that thing’s too big and fat...
...there’s veins an’ all...ugh!...wha’ d’ya think Christine?”
Christine was sniggering, face just slightly red.
“Alec I think your friend looks like a twat!”
Alec hooted. “D’ya know what you just said?”
Ben interrupted their laughter: “We mustn’t dishonour
the native Amangan faith.” Alec snickered,
“What’s it to you? Your dad’s a bloody vicar!”
“A bishop actually, but he views all gods as one.”
A hawker showed them some charms, fired in pink clay:
thumb-size statuettes of the god with the prong.
A wink to Amy from Alec, “Do you wanna
bit of luck?” and he haggled a price to pay.
“This charm’s for you…you can put it beside your bath!”
He tried to press the ceramic figure on her.
“Git orf you! You’re disgustin’,” the blonde woman laughed.
Alec reprised his comic voice, “I think
the hour of a good stiff sundowner’s upon us!”
Christine looked puzzled. “I mean, let’s get a drink.”
The four were soon ensconced on a rooftop terrace
commanding views across the Holy City.
The waiter brought them cocktails: potent but pretty
local liquor with sliced banana and cherries.
“Amanga-Bangas!” Alec roared, “They’re grand!”
The girls shared one and Ben just took the merest
sips out of his. Alec got loud and merry
while Christine outlined trips the girls had planned,
blocking out as well as she was able
the helmet of a pink ceramic penis
rising above the edge of the restaurant table.
Amy lost her temper with the man.
“Oh put that thing away you’re such a menace!”
and snatched the figurine by its thumb-sized glans.
“How does he see where he’s going?” Amy pondered.
“I guess he just looks sideways,” Alec smirked
and even Ben was chuckling at the joke
but then addressed the girls, “I’m quite astounded
You’ve not seen Imti Mentoo. He’s everywhere.”
“We still got jet-lag. Ain’t seen nothin’ of Amanga.”
“Yea, an’ off to the beach tomorra…Lidonga.”
Then Amy paled, “Oh God! I hope he’s not THERE!
It’s meant to be clean ‘n’ modern...not like here.”
“I’m sure,” said Ben, “the desert, the coasts, the jungles...”
- Alec yawned and ordered a round of beers -
“...there’s one in every home...on every shelf.”
Christine questioned, blushing, “Ben...I wondered...
whether you’ll be going to Lidonga yourself?”
“We-ell...I dunno...I’ve come as a volunteer.
There’s an orphanage in the capital my father founded
in his missionary days. Our church helps fund it...”
“You should stay awhile in Moshadir,”
Alec leaned forward, “you’ll find it easier
with us to show you round, and Benny can bore
the pants off you.” He winked and slurped his beer.
“This Benny Boy’s a walking Wikipedia.”
“Well no...not really...my family’s had
Amangan connections for centuries, so my gap year
I’m following in the footsteps of my dad.”
“An ooorphanage! That’s sooo coool!” intoned
Amy, blanking Alec’s drunken leers.
“I’ve always wanted to work in a children’s home.”
“Is Ben your local guide?” Christine said scornfully.
“I’ll take you to the orphanage to look
although you might see things you won’t much like
...it’s different to home...” said Ben to Amy mournfully.
“They always need more helpers…” he appealed.
Alec muttered, “Shut it Ben, you’re boring me.”
“Ben, you can take me anywhere!” came saucily
from Amy’s lips. Ben reddened, Christine squealed
and Alec belched, too drunk now to be witty.
“Hey Alec, pipe down…you know these places can’t lawfully
serve alcohol - it’s banned in the Holy City.”
“Oh bugger religion!” said Alec and took the clay figure.
The comic voice: “I say, do you mind awfully...”
He dunked it in his glass of beer and sniggered.
“Help me! Help me! Help me! Oooh! I’m drowning!”
Alec wobbled the icon round the table.
“I’m dying of drink! Somebody fetch a Bible!”
A waiter drew up and eyed them, frowning.
Alec balanced the image on the railing.
The waiter glowered, appalled what the foreigner was doing,
arranging a bottle to look like the god was downing
a gut-full of beer. “Whoooaa....loook ooout...I’m falliiinngg...!”
The street below was manned with women who sold
corn tortillas. The setting sun was crowning
the copper domes of a local mosque with gold.
Providence teetered on a grain of sand.
Ben intervened, “Alec, I mean it...stop clowning!”
and snatched the little talisman from his hand.
“Hey! Gimme that ya cunt!” Alec effed
and blinded at his friend, but Ben resisted.
The girls got up and said if they insisted
on fighting they were leaving. And they left.
“Oh nice one, twat! I should’ve seen
a Jesus-Freak like you would cause a rift!
I find you some pussy..!” He threw up his hands, bereft.
“Amy was mine! Even you could’ve ‘ad Christine!”
“Alec I love you, you know, you numbskull...but sometimes...”
Ben shook his head and passed him some coins. “No theft,
but I’m keeping Imti Mentoo. It’s all sunshine
right now in this city…it would be a shame...
…Shamans…Christians…Jews...the slightest cleft
could send the sectarian ghettoes up in flames.”
“You God-Botherers! What do you do but feed
the flames yourselves, you and your sacred cows?”
Alec seemed to be more sober now.
“Look Ben mate, I know that we’d agreed
a month together...but now I’ve changed my plans...
truth is...y’know...we’re not the best-matched lads
an’ like they say...what is it? Destiny leads?”
Ben was absently fingering the figurine’s glans.
/>
He stuffed it in his pocket. There came a sound
of a slapped high-five, then Ben’s voice, “...Good Speed!”
and Alec again, fading, “I’ll see you some rounds
next time we meet...wish it could’ve been longer
but right now, the only thing I need…”
- barely audible – “...bus ticket to Lidonga.”
The watcher listened as Benjamin settled the drinks,
apologised and bade the waiter farewell
in fluent Amangan, descended a three-story stairwell
and out to the street. Vision was black as ink
but sound and smell suggested market stalls,
and out of a doorway he caught a little glimpse
of the man buying tortillas - heard the clink
of payment to a crone in a dirty shawl
and a man encamped in hills of dried fruit -
and weighing this evidence up, he ventured to think
he knew Ben’s objective, so jumped to the end of the route
to wait in the plaza encircled by tail-lights of cabs,
paraffin lamps of street stalls and amber winks
of charcoal braziers sizzling lamb kebabs.
Suddenly the plaza floodlights flared up, blazing
ubiquitous brilliance. Ben appeared, striding
full tilt towards the watcher, almost gliding,
his leonine locks haloed with blue smoke hazing,
tearing the bread like flesh, parting the people.
He scattered the crumbs and emptied a bag of raisins
on the plinth of the phallic colossus raising
its great tumescence to the old colonial cathedral.
He knelt and prayed for the friend who’d dared to mock it,
prostrated amongst a crowd of devotees praising
the priapic eminence. He fumbled in his pocket,
placed the charm on the altar slab and then
he looked the god in the face. A sideways-gazing
eye of Imti Mentoo looked back at Ben.
Which brings us back to Imti Mentoo waiting,
waiting for Ben Bremmer to arrive.
He looks out through unblinking stone-carved eyes
from a side-chapel in the cathedral, hating
the worshippers that come in here disdaining
their God of Procreation. Oblations they’re making
to Jesus and the other ones are grating
on his nerves when all the while he’s straining
with a load unthinkable to a person.
He glares at a Jesus carrying the cross. It’s frustrating
that humans consider such paltry weight a burden.
He checks again for Ben - he has a hunch