PART SEVEN: On The Lam In Which Our Intrepid Traveler Is Hunted For No Reason; Suffers Great Indignities At The Hands Of Fate; And Contrives A Plan Of Unwavering Radiant Brilliance. I'm being eaten alive by bugs. Renato is being eaten alive by bugs. Booma, I notice, is untouched. Nobody screws with Booma, not even bugs. We are hiding deep in the forest heart of Brazil, under a makeshift canopy. The buzzing of the bugs that eat us alive but wisely leave Booma untouched makes for the only sound we hear all day, save for the distant, punctuated cries of the Tobatu, who prowl the surrounding jungle in search of us. I ask Renato what will happen if they find us. He tells me. I immediately wish he hadn't. Every once in a while a Tobatu voice calls out, very close to our hiding spot, too close, and my heart stops. So far, though, our luck has held out. Relatively speaking, of course. In actuality, we have no rations, are miles away from civilization, and are being hunted by a tribe of angry locals, whose leader we have accidentally killed. Honestly, who eats nails? Booma has so far stuck with Renato and me, out of duty, I guess. However, I don't kid myself that he'll still be around if the Tobatu manage to find our hiding spot. I wonder: will he sell us out, reveal the location of our hideaway? I would have if I were him. Days ago. In a heartbeat, unprompted. I still have the Luger, of course. However, Renato is not as soothed by its presence as I am. "There are over a hundred armed Tobatu warriors," he explains, pointing to the weapon as if it were a drowned rat. "You only have twenty bullets." "Yes, well, they don't know that," I say. "I suspect they might catch on when you run out of bullets and they kill us," he concludes. I find myself at a loss to argue with this reasoning. The Luger returns to my pocket. Night falls on us like a sweltering blanket. Because we are starving, Renato and I once again paw through the knapsack in search of food we know isn't there. Booma does not moveÑhas not moved, or talked, the entire day. I would find his presence more reassuring if he weren't always doing spooky stuff like this. Renato empties the contents of the knapsack onto the ground, and we ravage the pile for the twelfth time today for anything remotely edible. This search proves more fruitful than the others, as Renato finds a stick of mushy Dentyne gum that somehow got lodged in my Walkman. We split the stick three ways and keep looking. A flashlight. Some shirts. Five cartons of cigarettes. A map. A butane grill that we could use to cook food, should we actually ever find food. Our inventory has once again refused to change itself into something else upon examination, and Renato soon loses interest. I suddenly remember that cigarettes are an appetite suppressant, and we all unanimously vote to take up smoking. Midway through a pack of Camels, enveloped in thick Virginia smoke, I get an idea. "I've got an idea," I say, then collapse to the ground in a fit of coughing. The next morning, Tobatu warriors return from their hunt to find a carton of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter leaning innocently against one of their holy shrines. A large tribesmanÑthe leader of the hunting party, I presumeÑinches forward and pokes at the smokes with his spear. "This is the stupidest idea I've ever seen," bitches Renato from our hiding spot in a nearby tree. Booma shushes him. "You have no faith, Renato," I whisper. "Untouched by civilization or not, those are teenagers down there. The need for a teenager to look immensely cool transcends all cultures." I look down at our quarry. "And there is nothing cooler than smoking." As if to prove my point, the leader rips open a pack and sniffs curiously at one of the cigarettes. He puts it in his mouth, tastes it, then takes it out and puts it in the other way, by the filter. This tastes better, and he turns to face his peers, who nod appreciatively at the cigarette dangling from his mouth. A further twenty minutes pass while they figure out how to work a Zippo. The occasional scream rings out as the warrior teens learn how not to. Finally a flame is achieved, and the boys walk around holding it to one another's cheers, looking immensely pleased with themselves. "I don't believe this," says Renato, clutching the bridge of his nose. "Wait for it," I say, pointing. "Wait for it." An idea hits them suddenly, and the leader's face lights up. Ten seconds later, the leader himself lights up. The lusty, full-bodied sounds of the smoker's cough fill theTobatu camp for the first time. A collective gasp escapes the Tobatu warriors, as their leader puffs, first awkwardly, then like a seasoned pro, at a smoke. He leans casually against a nearby hut. The smoke dangles from his mouth at a rakish angle. He gets an eyeful of smoke. The smoke returns to his mouth at a slightly different rakish angle. This seems to work, and he gives a small nod to his admiring audience before returning to his cigarette. "Oooooooo," the Tobatu warriors say, their eyes as wide as saucers. Within three days, the entire Tobatu tribe of Brazil, the last indigenous people on Earth untouched by the grasp of modern life, are in Flavour Country. intro / 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8