Dear Diary,
Once upon a time, when I was 13ish, I lived with my family in a remote village in the highlands of Papua, Indonesia. The Dani tribeswomen wore string skirts and no tops and would sit on the ground in a field on market day to sell greens and sweet potatoes, handing a dangling breast like it was a sandwich to whatever child was sitting next to them feeling peckish. The kids held the boobs like sandwiches, too — flattened with two hands and gnawing on the ends. The tribesmen wore hollowed, dried gourds tied with strings around their waists and up their butts like g-strings to cover their bits — the bigger the gourd the better, obvs — and they stood near the women to make change for their purchases, grabbing money out of their wallets, shuffling it around, and shoving it back inside when the transaction was complete. Their gourds weren’t just their penis covers, Diary; they were also their wallets. So we learned thorough hand washing and not to ever — EVER — put money in our mouths earlier than we otherwise might have. #LifeSkill But even though the men’s gourds were a feat of magic and engineering, I was WAY more fascinated by the boobs. Never had I ever seen body parts stretch so far. And the VARIETY. My goodness. The shapes and peaks and valleys were as varied as the mountains, each pair like a fingerprint — totally unique. And uniquely lovely, especially in their practicality. ...
