While we were talking, another man had arrived. He was not African, but fairly dark-skinned, small and lean of statue. His clothes were clean and well-cut, his eyes clear and intelligent. Compared to the other people he looked, and I hated to say this, well-off and educated. Someone with a WHITE tag.
I acknowledged him with a nod.
“Mr Wilson, my name is Dharma Yuwono.” He stopped as if that name was supposed to mean something to me. It didn’t.
I was getting to the stage where I felt terribly embarrassed by these people. I was supposed to know what skinny sickness was and maybe I was supposed to recognise this man’s name. Maybe I was even supposed to know the name of Charlie’s village because it had been mentioned on the news that I never watched because I no longer belonged on this eart
