Island Slowly Sinking

Population Count 78,000: Primal Ways

I winced at the thought of stealing from innocent people, but wasn't this for the good of also-innocent-but-mistreated people? Was it the Head's fault for leaving them to die as an Outcast, even though they wouldn't die but just be living in terrible conditions? What was good and evil, now that I thought of it? Was anything good, after all? If the evil ones killed the good ones, wouldn't it be the same as the good ones killing the evil ones?

The moral questions boggled my mind. Evil, after all, did what it did for a reason, and if people had to kill each other over food, wouldn't ending a life preserve another one? Wouldn't the scales of life and death be balanced?

As we continued walking under the blazing sun, I pondered the questions some more. I considered asking Gus for his opinion but then decided otherwise. Perhaps I would ask some other time, as it seemed quite awkward to do so when we just met. The day went on - walking, walking, walking, and then a break time, and then more walking, walking, walking. The most exciting thing was at night when the Outcasts were setting up the campfire and the sleeping tents as the sun began setting in the sky. They didn't have a spare tent for Chet and I, so we ended up having to sleep either with Gus or outside. While I didn't feel comfortable sleeping with someone who had armpit hair all the way to his fingers, I decided it was better than being at the mercy of the wild.

For dinner, we ate the canned fish that the Outcasts took from our refuge, and another man named Keith played on the banjo he brought. I found this funny, because, while others could barely walk with all the water tanks strapped to their backs, this person bothered to have the space for his musical instrument, which I realized was the only thing he carried.

"He's too light for the other things," Gus said, noticing how I stared at him. "Besides, he doesn't want to play and sing, but it does lighten up the mood around here."

"So you force him to do something against his own will," I translated. "And wouldn't the music alert the Heads?"

"Not unless they know where we are," Gus replied, winking. "And no, it's sorta a tradeoff. He wants to play the banjo, you know, but he's sorta shy until he starts going. The instrument is also pretty light, if you ask me, so I think he got the better deal."

"I guess."

Keith cleared his throat and then began strumming several chords before bursting into a song I heard several times as a preschooler. Under the current circumstances, one could call it ironic, but Gus was right - the song did kind-of take you away from your troubles.

Mele Kalikimaka is a thiiiiiiiing to say

On a briiiiiiiight hawaiiiiian Christmas daaaaaaaaay...

Why Christmas? It's September, and even if it was, the snow would probably be acidic.

That's the island greeting that we seeeeeeend to you

From the laaaaand that paaaalm trees swaaaaaaay...

Keith does several more verses before he's finally greeted by a half-hearted round of applause. Smiling and clearly regaining his courage, he goes into another, even more ironic song.

Don't worry, be happy...

Don't worry, be happy...

At last, it ended and another group of people went around the campfire, taking the place of Keith, and began doing a dance to the beat of clapping.

The dancing was followed by a quick throat-singing demonstration, which was followed by a sparring demonstration, which was followed by an acrobatics demonstration.

I'm glad that Chet and I didn't have to go up there, though. We would've died of humiliation.

The campfire soon died down and the sky darkened considerably, and we all went into our tents. Chet and I stayed as far away as possible from the armpit-man.