Tom Robbins - Tibetan Peach Pie - A True Account of an Imaginative Life

Because they possessed and utilized those two machetes (gifts from compassionate Hmong), and wore odd pieces of clothing (a faded shirt here, ripped shorts there, foisted on them, surely, by missionaries traumatized by their casual attitude toward nudity), the Yellow Leaf People could not technically qualify as a Stone Age tribe. In all other respects, however, you’d have difficulty picking them out in a Neanderthal lineup. Having neither clocks nor calendars, having no names for the seasons, they live outside of time (though presumably not in a chemically or mystically altered state), a disposition all the more pronounced by their lack of a functional numerical system: they count only up to three. And not only do they not have a name for their tribe, individual members have no names either. Moreover, in their language there are no words for “I,” “me,” “my,” or “mine,” which puts them in bold, stark, dramatic contrast to another tribe with which I’d mingled at the Academy Awards in Hollywood four years earlier.

In 1991, I’d escorted Debra Winger to the Oscars. Debra was a presenter that year, so we had privileged seats; one row, in fact, behind Kevin Costner, who won the ’91 Best Actor award for Dances With Wolves ; and afterward we made the rounds of the parties, including Swifty Lazar’s “A-list” shindig at Spago. It was wall-to-wall celebrities (I’ve never been so hard to see), but while a big ego may be as necessary for a film star as a space suit for an astronaut, in comparing Hollywood actors unfavorably to Yellow Leaf People regarding their usage of the first-person singular, I hadn’t meant to imply that the players with whom I socialized that long, long evening were all annoying narcissists. In truth, I had engaging conversations with the likes of Sean Penn (whom I’d met previously) and Michael J. Fox; and as it turned out, it was my own ego that caused me difficulty, put me in some danger, and nearly spoiled my night among the stars.

Following the ceremony, there was a dinner backstage for the nominees, presenters, and entertainers. Ranks of tables had been set up in the surprisingly voluminous space, each table accommodating six persons. At my table there was seated, besides Debra and me, Al Pacino and his date (a British fashion model), and the character actor Danny Aiello (a lovely man) and his wife. The dinner was sponsored by Revlon, and at each place setting there was a gift: Revlon cosmetics for the women, Revlon cologne for the men. There was a considerable amount of table hopping: “Schmooze More, Eat Less” seemed the slogan for the dinner. Being invisible in this milieu, I remained seated, though, alas, not entirely subdued.

At one point, only Pacino, his date, and I were left at the table. Either because he was bored, wished to amuse his date, or both, Pacino, who’d removed his tuxedo jacket, sprinkled some cologne onto his hand and began dabbing it demonstratively in his armpits. Reacting as if this were a challenge, and not to be upstaged by Al Pacino (never mind that he was among the finest actors of his generation), I poured a finger of cologne into my water glass, toasted him and gulped it down. I failed to register Pacino’s reaction. I was too busy dying.

Seriously, I thought I’d killed myself. Unable to breathe, let alone utter so much as a gasp or a squeak, I sat there frozen, tears streaming, waiting in terror for everything to fade to black. How long I remained immobilized in airless panic, I cannot say; it was probably no more than ten or twelve seconds, but it seemed the length of an Ingmar Bergman double feature in Swedish without subtitles. When finally I could breathe again (thank you, God!), I tried to act blasé, not even glancing around, after wiping my eyes, to see who, aside from Pacino and friend, might have witnessed my performance.

As I look back on the scene, it seems a reenactment of those early episodes in which young Tommy Rotten would drink ink, topical antiseptic, and stringent household products intended for scouring. I’ve joked that I was born thirsty, but (not to put too fine a point on it), I think in reality I was born curious . It’s likely that many, if not most, of my adventures and misadventures, on the page and off, have been simply an attempt to feel more fully the sensation of being alive. Ironically, the quest for aliveness can sometimes put one in closer proximity to death, whether one is barreling down a crocodile-infested African river or asphyxiating in glittery Hollywood on a mouthful of Revlon cologne.

There are, as I’ve suggested, sticky situations, particularly those for which one has volunteered, that, for all the risk involved, are ultimately exhilarating, even life-enhancing. Then there are others, usually unbidden, that are merely creepy, and although one survives them, one feels violated by them, they leave a nasty taste in one’s mouth, and I’m not referring to cologne. Here are examples of both.

One night in Namibia, twenty or so wild elephants wandered into our camp. More specifically, they commenced to mill about in the clump of acacia trees in which Alexa and I (hoping to keep a quiet distance from Big Jim Pleyte and his snores) had pitched our little tan tent. Our guide assured us that if we’d just slip ever so quietly into the tent and go to sleep, we’d be safe. Well, after dinner we did manage to get into the tent unnoticed, crawling ever so stealthily the last few yards on our hands and knees. Sleeping, however, was another matter entirely.

“Elephants,” the guide told us, “have tender feet. If you notice the way they walk, especially on unfamiliar terrain, they set each foot down very, very carefully. They’re wary of stepping on a sharp stone or a sharp stick or thorns or something, so they’re not gonna want to step on your tent.” Well and good. What he neglected to tell us was that elephants feed sixteen hours a day (which is two hours more than I feed). All night long, separated from us only by a thin sheet of canvas, the big beasts tore limbs off of trees, munched loudly on bunches of acacia leaves, snorted, belched, and expelled big boom-boom pachyderm farts. (Yes, children, elephants do it, too.) Sleep?

Moreover, while the guide didn’t exactly dwell on it, it was made lucidly clear that should either of us venture outside the tent — say, to take a photograph or a pee — our too, too mortal flesh would likely be resembling the payload of fifty jelly doughnuts. And yet… and yet, rather than fret or bitch about our sleepless and potential fatal situation, we lay there in a state of prolonged elation, feeling more alive, more attuned to the rise and fall of the cosmic pumpkin (so to speak), than we’d ever felt at, say, a rock concert, a Fellini film, a New Year’s Eve celebration in Times Square, or (it should go without saying) a political rally. We were intoxicated on what Thoreau called “the tonic of wildness,” the base yet mysterious rightness of the natural world.

I’d experienced something similar a couple of years earlier when, during two weeks on the Rufiji River in Tanzania, our rubber rafts survived twelve separate charges by twelve different hippos, believed to be the most dangerous animal in Africa. The hippopotamus is a vegetarian but ferociously territorial (you might find that true of certain vegans you know), and will flip a raft or bite it in half: once one is in the water, the crocodiles show up like a bunch of starving hobos descending on a boxcar full of fried chicken.

When a hippo charged a raft, a guide who, except in a rapids, always stood in the rear of the craft, would slap the water with his oar, and since that area of Tanzania was totally devoid of human habitation, the unfamiliar sound of an oar swack! would startle the beast and momentarily slow it down. Meanwhile, we six paddlers, three on each side, would dig in and paddle as if our lives depended on it, which was certainly not out of the question. Once we had safely exited that particular hippo’s domain, we would relax, wipe our brows, and panting, revel in the primeval drama of it all. Occasionally, though, we’d leave the riverine realm of one nasty hippo and before we’d had a moment to rejoice or reflect, immediately intrude on the territory of an equally possessive fierce fat boy. But that’s another story.