you are not entirely comfortable walking on two legs -- and they lock their shy smiles on you. Their hands constantly move, gesture, spin in and out of sight, as if they are carrying on a conversation. The men of the village scamper in, scrunching their faces into monkey curiosity, playing to the crowds, and soon the entire village is prancing, laughing, drinking. The fire gives off a scent like musk, and the villagers' skins grow red, their clothes dropping to the ground, as if they are trans-forming into a new kind of being. Yes, you think. This is just right. You have your own ceremony to perform, your own necessity, and this crude human approx-imation is just similar enough. Taken with the beat, you jump in place, inflections and counter-points ruling your hips and knees, your feet stamping downbeats on the forgiving earth. The village roars approval, steps back to admire your crazy foreign dance. Even the girls giggle Lin Page 14 and put demure hands to mouths at your display. But your spasms have purpose, hard and certain as the soil that begs for sustenance. As your movements hit their zenith, you throw up your arms, and the clouds break. Within seconds, the fire has been extinguished by the pouring rain. Undaunted, the sheltered orchestra hurtles on, as the storm drowns out everything but the thud-ding beats. You continue twirling, jumping toward the skies in thanks, and then falling on your knees to pound at the mud, gobs of it spattering your legs and chest. You think: Almost like being underwater. Almost like how it once was. This is important, you may be on the verge of remembering something, but the taxi driver breaks in -- he is yelling at you to get inside -- It is a mon-soon -- and one of the dancing girls, her lips pursed in a Cupid's bow of puzzlement, approaches you. You stop for a moment, and she looks at you with wide eyes. Perhaps she knows,