Papillon by Henri Charrière

I walked on until one in the afternoon. The bush ended, there wasn't a tree to be seen. The sea shimmered silver under the burning sun. I walked barefoot, my shoes hanging over my left shoulder. As I was deciding whether to lie down, I saw far away five or six trees-or perhaps they were rocks-set back from the beach. I tried to figure the distance: six miles or so. I took out a large piece of leaf and, chewing away, set off again. An hour later I was able to identify the five or six shapes: they were huts with thatched roofs of straw or some kind of light-brown leaf. Smoke was coming out of one of them. Then I saw people. They saw me. I could hear their voices and saw them gesturing in the direction of the sea. Then I saw four boats coming in to shore and about ten people getting out. Everybody gathered in front of the houses and looked in my direction. The men and women were naked except for small loincloths. I approached slowly.

Three of the men were leaning on bows, the arrows in their hands. They made no motion of either hostility or welcome. A dog let out a bark and rushed at me in a fury. He bit my calf and tore off a piece of my pants. When he lunged again, a small arrow from somewhere nipped his rear (I learned later it was shot from a blowpipe); he ran off howling and disappeared into a house. I limped on-for he had given me quite a bite. I was now perhaps thirty feet from the group. Not one of them moved or spoke, and the children hid behind their mothers. Their bodies were splendid: bronzed and well muscled. The women had firm, hard breasts with large nipples. There was only one with sagging breasts.