PYGMIES OF THE ITURI FOREST 351 



hut door, I looked out over the clearing and the dark- 

 ening forest that had been my home for many days. 

 Below, a baby's crying sent my thoughts to another 

 land among the mountains, for this tiny baby cried 

 just as do the babies of all chmes and colors; its voice 

 being the same as that of the baby next door at home 

 — the one that the milkman awakens every morning. 



When it grows older there will be no days at school, 

 no dressing for company, no reason to keep clean. If 

 it is a boy, he will simply learn to chant the tune of 

 the clan, to swing to the rhythm of the dance, to read 

 and send the messages of the drums, to hunt and ham- 

 string the elephant, to fashion a bow and arrows, to 

 make and throw a spear. If the baby is a girl, she will 

 learn the latest style in which to place her girdle of 

 leaves and will discuss with the other women the best 

 leaves for different types of beauty and where to find 

 them. She will watch the old women toast the green 

 bananas and mix the right portion of ashes with 

 the meat. 



The intense blackness of the night, the awful stillness 

 out in that ocean of trees, the dwarfs, and the winking 

 httle fires, all under a clear star-strewn sky, combined 

 to carry me back over the bridge of time into that long 

 ago when men with white skins wore loin cloths and 

 trod the wilderness trails in search of food and shelter. 

 I wondered if all the thousands of intervening years 

 had brought the measure of happiness to some of us 

 that these people enjoy, for they do enjoy life every 

 day, dancing and chanting, visiting one another, hunt- 

 ing when necessary. This is their life, simple in all 

 its elements, from the day of birth until death claims 

 their pygmy bodies. 



