My Dear Kalbag,
I’m sending you this missive in case I don’t get out alive. I only hope my successor has more luck than I do and, if not, is able to get this to you before she meets a similar fate. Please tell my husband I love him.
My journey began on Friday and was supposed to last until Tuesday morning. I was greeted with great enthusiasm. Hugs and kisses from the affectionate crowd. Everyone talked at once, as we sat down to feast on local delicacies.
The next three days were everything I anticipated. We hiked through the surrounding woods, spotting local creatures. I brought games to share. Their naivete was delightful.
Because it was cold outside of their home – a large communal structure – we were forced to cook indoors. We melted marshmallows and popped corn.
At night, everyone crowded around me as we watched movies on my iPad. I worried about running out of power, but that wasn’t a problem.
All seemed right with the world. By Monday night, we were sad. I was supposed to leave the next morning. There was a talk of an approaching storm, so my departure would have to be earlier than anticipated so I could return to my responsibilities.
The natives were more excited than worried. I’d miss the innocence of this small tribe.
On Tuesday the snow came early, delaying my departure.
It was as if the natives had never seen the white stuff before. They cheered as it fell from the sky. Their daily routine forgotten as they rushed into a field to worship the falling frozen flakes. No one bothered donning the proper attire, or, at least when we in civilized society think is the proper attire. They ran out barefoot with socks on their hands. Fortunately, I was prepared and had gloves, scarves, jackets, boots and hats for everyone. Once sure they were warm, and I wouldn’t be treating anyone for frostbite later, I sat back and watched them enjoy the experience.
By evening, the situation took an ugly turn. The snacks ran out, and we lost power. The snow continued into Wednesday. I’m now hiding in the bathroom, writing this by candlelight. They’re pounding on the door, demanding food. I fear they’ve turned cannibal and are craving long pork.
This is the last time I agree to babysit my sister’s four kids!