Bea and I sat together in the back seat of Damu's jeep on the way back. Despite the poor conditions of the road, Bea, her head on my shoulder, slept soundly.

We arrived back at the hotel in the early evening. I carried her up to our room, a feat that wouldn't have been possible a week before. It wasn't something I cherished. I missed the old Bea. This new, younger, version would take some time to grow accustomed to.

I kicked off my shoes, then stood next to the bed, watching Bea sleep, wondering who she was. Somehow she sensed my presence and awoke. She said something to me in whatever language Damu spoke.

"Hmmm? I don't understand." I shrugged and shook my head. She sat up and pulled me on to the bed. I laid down next to her nervously. She curled up next to me, half on me, and let loose a comfortable sigh. She promptly went back to sleep.

The next week made me feel twenty-five again. It was as though Bea and I had stepped into a time machine. The courting process had been reinitiated and we were freshly in love all over again. Flatulence was once again a thing of embarrassment. Strolls on the beach were once again magical, as well as desirable. Everything was perfect.

"Mister Leets! I must speak with you." Damu stopped me in the lobby one afternoon. "It is important, cannot wait."

I gave Bea the key to our room. "Go ahead, I'll be right up." She smiled and went upstairs.

"Tomorrow, you must come with me."

"Oh? Where?"

"There is a man who want to meet you."

"What for?"

"My brother tell him about you and your wife. He is very interested."

"I'm sure there would be a lot of people interested in my story. Tabloid magazines, for one. He's not from the tabloids is he?"

"No, he is not. He is a powerful man in a village to the north and east of here."

I thought about it for a few moments. "Gee, I don't think so. Bea and I have some plans."

Damu became very desperate. "Mister Leets, please! It is very important you meet him. Do this favor for me. Then we are even, yes?"

He was right, it did seem that I owed him a favor. "Ok, then we'll be even. When do you want to do this?"

"Good! Tomorrow we will go. I give you call."

I nodded and began up the stairs.

Damu called at eight the next morning. He seemed very excited to get going. Bea didn't want to go anywhere. Her morning crankiness was something that hadn't changed. I managed to get across how important to me it ws that she came, even with our language barrier. She had learned some english, and I some Punji (as Damu told me it was called), but it was not enough for us to hold a conversation. A lot of pointing and enunciating occurred.

We were on the road by a quarter to nine. Damu said the drive was quite a bit longer than the one to Baba's. He said it would be at least a few hours, up to five. Five hours in a jeep, on roads that would make a monster truck driver faint, was not my idea of a good time.

Bea and I tried to make the best of it; we began a game of "name that thing". I actually learned a lot of basic Punji terms that trip: Lahs, tree; munja, bird; dal, green; ihnaputi, spider. The spider reference was a particularly memorable one. At one point in our mountain drive, we bumped a tree, and an enormous black spider fell out. I was wearing a tourist-type straw hat and failed to notice its impact on my head.

Bea pointed and shouted, "Ihnaputi!", followed by a horrific scream. I thought she was referring to my hat. I pointed to it.

"Ihnaputi!", I shouted and replicated her scream to the best of my abilities.

Damu, disturbed by our shouting, swiveled his head to get a look at what we were talking about. He immediately spotted the spider on my hat.

"Ihnaputi! Ihnaputi!" he shrieked and jerked the wheel. The jeep's tire caught a rock, we spun 180 degrees, and drove up the shallow hill into the jungle. I noticed Damu was no longer in the vehicle. Afraid of what might happen to Bea and I in the back seat, I shoved her out and leapt after her. We rolled a few feet, then got up and brushed ourselves off. I made sure Bea was ok, then made for my hat, which lay a short ways away. As I reached for it, Damu sprinted up, stomped it furiously, then continued in the direction of his lumbering jeep.

As we waited for Damu, I had Bea try and explain to me what it was that had just happened. I learned that djasa was hat, not ihnaputi yaaaah!, and that the latter was spider. I too had somewhat of a distaste for the eight legged critters. I was glad I had not been aware of its presence.

Several minutes passed before Damu returned with his jeep. He was covered from head to toe with mud, sticks, leaves, and a good smattering of white feathers.

"What happened to you?" I asked, in awe of his appearance.

"I will not talk about it." As we got in the back seat again, he turned towards us. "No more games!" he said, shaking his finger. For the most part, save several minutes of laughter over our recent experience, we remained silent the rest of the trip.

When we reached the village, were greeted by a fascinating group of people. About eight of them approached us as we pulled into the edge of the village. They appeared to be wearing diapers, which turned out to be large pieces of cloth delicately twisted, knotted, and wrapped into a fair representation of a pair of skivvies. It appeared that Bea, Damu, and I had arrived far overdressed for the occasion.

They approached Damu and exchanged greetings. They were quite curious about his state of dress. One of the natives wiped some mud off Damu's face, sniffed it, and then seemed to ask, "what's this all about?" Damu didn't give a very long answer. He turned to me.

"I go to wash up, will be back," he said and wandered off.

Bea and I were left with the eight villagers. She did all of the talking. As she spoke to the men, I looked about the camp. It was curious to see what kind of conditions these people lived in. It is not very often average American citizens are granted access to obscure, isolated, villages.

The housing of the village was much like Baba's domicile. They were small huts made out of drain-pipe sized sticks, covered with leaves of some sort. I imagined this covering would have to be replaced on a regular basis. Otherwise, sleeping in a rainstorm would end up being a very wet affair.

The village was laid out in an open square. The little shacks were positioned on the perimeter, and the center was open, save one single, large tree. Around the tree was a flower garden, measuring about twenty feet to a side. I wandered up to it. The flowers planted in the garden were of the same variety as Bea had been. Electricity surged through my body for a moment, as if I had been struck by lightning.

"Oy!" shouted a voice from my left. I turned to find a sandy-haired gentleman sitting in the shade of one of the huts. He was dressed as the villagers, but was obviously not one of them. "Don't get too close old chap, they'll cut off your hands."

"Eh??

"Those are Manjaya plants, sacred.?

"You're a Brit?" I asked, walking towards him.

"Byron George, at your service. People 'round here call me Dwaba."

"Dwaba?" I asked.

"Roughly translates to 'Whitey'" he laughed. "What brings you here?"

"Well, apparently there is someone here who wanted to meet me. Is it you?"

"Not me. It must be the chief. No one from the outside comes up here to see anyone but the chief."

"I wonder what he wants with me."

Bea wandered over, smiling.

"This is my wife, Beautrice."

"Pleasure to meet you." he said to her. She didn't respond.

"Try Punji" I said.

He repeated his greeting in the local language. She acknowleged and responded.

"She's Punja?" He asked, surprised.

"No, she's from somewhere in Asia or Australia, India maybe. I'm not sure."

He appeared very confused. "Where did you meet her?"

"Fargo, North Dakota."

"America?"

"Yup."

His confusion continued. I decided the best course of action at this point would be to explain the entire story to him. I began by telling him how it all started with an opera I saw at home.

"Gladiola Days?" he inquired.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Extrordinary! Continue, please."

I continued the story, telling him about the coughing fits, the flower petals, the dreams. He became more and more excited the more I spoke.

"And there she was, turned into a plant, lying on the floor below the phone."

He nodded and cackled gleefully, as if it were the most wonderful story he'd ever heard. I told him about smuggling her with me to Acapulco.

"Why Acapulco?" he asked.

"Why?"

"Yes, why not Barbados, or Jamaica, or Hawaii?"

"I don't know. It was the first place that sprang to mind."

"Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful! Continue!"

I explained my meeting Damu and then the experience in Baba's hut. Byron was beside himself with enjoyment.

"And that brings us up to today. Here we are."

"Smashing! You're in for a surprise, let me tell you!"

"Why, what..." I was interrupted by Damu, who had appeared by my side.

"Mister Leets, it is time now. Come with me."

I looked to Byron uncomfortably.

"Don't worry old chap, I wouldn't miss this for anything."