Our host sits beside me smiling. He reaches for the battered, cylindrical can of tomato paste hanging from a wire around his waist.

He removes a thick rubber band holding a bark lid over the can and extracts a Bic lighter. Tobacco and dried banana leaf follow. I’m offered and refuse one of two cigarettes he expertly rolls on his thigh and seals with saliva. He shrugs and smokes both.

“Allah who ah bee,” he says through a cloud of smoke.

“Sorry. I don’t understand,” I reply.

“Allah who ah bee,” he repeats and nods. I look at Budi for translation.

“He mean Allah-O-Akbar (God is great.) Sarimani show you he good Muslim.”.

Sarimani giggles. It’s more like the high-pitched cackle of an old woman than the laugh of a dignified medicine man. He hugs me. I smile. He hugs me again and repeats something I can’t understand.

“Budi,” I interrupt our loquacious guide from another one of his stories, “what is he saying?”

Budi laughs “Sarimani want you to think of him as uncle. He like you very much. Say you very handsome, good boy.”

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