On a whim, I become an anthropologist. First thing, I go to a primitive tropical island. I get to know the locals, using my newly invented universal dialogue. They seem to be a sublime lot, blissed out by what they call the “Orchestra of the Gods.” This orchestra, the island folk explain, plays weekly in a sort of parade.
The rest of the week, I sleep fitfully and fear that I am coming down with the plague. Finally, the day of the parade arrives. The islanders line the island’s one dirt road and I plow my way to the front, my heart thumping with anticipation. An electric murmur runs through the crowd and I know the orchestra must be coming. Upon seeing them, I am automatically disappointed and enraged. They are a stick orchestra, making no noise whatsoever other than the clicking and clacking of the goddamn sticks. But they act as though they are playing real instruments—blowing into the sticks, strumming the sticks, beating the sticks against the air.
The crowd oohs and aahs.
I want to tell everyone there that this is a farce. But I can’t. I’m an anthropologist. An objective observer. A cultural chameleon. In an attempt to fit in, I unthinkingly hold up a lighter. It is the islanders’ assumption that their pathetic orchestra brought this canister of fire to them. After that, I become a god.
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