ever hit weaker people.
The arrival of a stranger in a remote village is usually something of an event. When Domenica Macdonald, though, arrived in the small pirate village on the coast of the Straits of Malacca, such interest as was shown by the villagers was discreet. As the party made its way down the path leading to Domenica’s bungalow, a group of women standing under a tree looked in its direction, but only for a few moments. A couple of children, bare to the waist and dragging a small puppy on a string, drifted over to the side of the path to get a better view of the new arrivals. But that was all; nobody came to greet them, nobody appeared to challenge the arrival of the anthropologist with Ling, her guide and mentor, and the teenage boy recruited to carry her suitcase.
Ling led the way to Domenica’s house. The young man whom they had spotted from afar now stood at the top of the steps.
He was wearing a pair of loose-fitting linen trousers and a white open-necked shirt. His feet were bare, and Domenica’s eyes were drawn to his toes. They were perfect, she thought. Perfect toes; 172
she had seen so many perfect toes in her times in the tropics –
toes unrestrained by shoes, allowed to grow as nature intended them.
The young man lowered his head, his hands held together in traditional greeting. “I am very happy,” he said.
Domenica returned his greeting.
Ling turned to Domenica. “He says he is happy,” he announced.
“So I heard,” said Domenica. “And I am happy too.”
These niceties over, Domenica went up the steps that led to the veranda. Behind her, Ling took the suitcase from the boy who had carried it from the village at the end of the track. The boy was sweating profusely; it had been a long walk and the suitcase was heavy. Ling rested the suitcase on a step and fished into his pocket for a few coins. These he tossed at the boy, who caught them in the palm of his hand, looked at them, and then stared imploringly at Ling.
Domenica watched this, uncertain as to whether she should interfere. It was obvious to her that Ling had underpaid the boy.
Of course, this is the East, she thought, and people work for very little, but it distressed her that she should be part of the process of exploitation. She looked at the boy; she had not paid much attention to his clothes, but now she saw them, as if for the first time. His shirt had been repaired several times, and his trousers were frayed about the pockets. He was obviously poor, and she, whose suitcase he carried, was by his standards, impossibly rich.
It would have been a simple matter for her to intervene. She had a pocketful of ringgits, and many more stashed away in her suitcase. It would have been easy for her to press a few notes into the boy’s hand to make up for Ling’s meanness, and she was on the point of doing this when she checked herself. One of the rules of anthropological fieldwork was: do not interfere.
A well-meaning interference in the community which one was studying could change relationships and distort results. The anthropologist should be invisible, as far as possible; an observer.
Of course, there were limits to this unobtrusiveness. One could
not stand by in the face of an egregious crime if one could do something to help; this, though, was hardly that. The real bar to her intervention lay in the fact that if she now gave money to the boy, Ling would lose face. Her act would imply that he had acted meanly (which he had) and reveal her as the one who was really in charge (which she was), and that could amount to an unforgivable loss of face.
Domenica looked at the boy. He was still staring at Ling and it seemed to her that he was on the brink of tears.
She turned to Ling. “Such a helpful boy,” she said. “And he has such a charming smile.”
Ling glanced at the boy. “He is just riff-raff,” he said. “The son of an assistant pirate.”
“But such appealing riff-raff,” persisted Domenica. “In fact, I really must photograph him – for my records.”
She had been carrying a small camera in her rucksack, and she now rummaged in the bag to retrieve it.
“I do not think you should photograph him,” said Ling, shooing the boy away with a gesture of his hand. “He must go away now.”
“But I must!” exclaimed Domenica. “I must have a complete record.”
Ignoring Ling, she moved towards the boy and led him gently away from the side of the veranda. At first he was perplexed, but when he realised what was happening his face broke into a grin and he stood co-operatively in front of a tree while Domenica took the photograph.
The picture taken, Domenica reached into her pocket and thrust a few banknotes into the boy’s hand.
“Why are you giving him money?” Ling called out. “I have paid him. Take the money back.”
“I’m not paying him for carrying the case,” Domenica said lightly, indicating to the now delighted boy that he should leave.
“That was for his photograph.” She glanced at Ling and smiled.
She felt pleased with herself. She had repaired the injustice without causing a loss of face to her guide. The natural order of things had not been disturbed, and the amount of happiness 174
The young man who was to be Domenica’s house-servant now picked up her suitcase and walked into the
