I am unsure for what purpose I write this entry. Perhaps it is duty, though to whom this obligation is owed has not been revealed. It is unclear to me what can be learned from the observations transcribed below. And yet, as I am, at least to my knowledge, the first man of science to have reached this Isle, if I do not transcribe some of what I have seen, then the wisdom contained within might never pass to the custody of an intellect more capable of dissecting meaning than my own. Perhaps there is none to be found and I am just grasping at a void. Out of caution for this possibility, I will be brief and spare my reader the story of my journey, my arrival, or my arduous discernment of the local language, and instead move directly to the description of what I have seen.
It is perhaps wrong to refer to the Molorans as unusual people; rather, their geographic isolation must have caused them to develop customs so independent from our own that they seem alien. Yet our shared biological ancestry was apparent, and thus it appears evident to me that our own civilization's paths might have resembled theirs were it not for some unpredictable factors, such as different predators or a more temperate climate.
They kept livestock, but the purpose served by these livestock was ambiguous, as no wool or milk was harvested from the beasts, and the Molorans consumed an entirely pescatarian diet. This husbandry did not seem born of compassion, as the men were at times quite cruel, beating the animals with sticks and yelling when the dim creatures wandered from their cages or defecated in the wrong areas.
The Molorans used a species of green nut as a form of currency, trading the nuts for fruits, fish, and livestock at small markets. I discerned little in terms of political organization, but most worked in some capacity. Some spent their days gathering fruit or fishing. Others climbed trees and picked the currency nuts, which were never eaten. The nut pickers were by far the wealthiest of all the Molorans.
Moloran houses were quite plain and all seemed similar to one another, but there were clear preferences and status conferred upon owners of certain property.
One of the strangest cultural practices I have observed was an activity which we shall refer to as "The Claiming of Gerald." When congregated into groups, the Molorans would fall into this "claiming" much like men might form a bonfire or play cards. The staging would begin with one of the Molorans standing on a hill or some sort of elevation and peering out at the remainder of his clansmen. The stander would then announce:
"I am Gerald."
The announcement was sometimes accompanied by a physical exploit. I saw speakers perform backflips or handstands. Other times the accompanying movements were less impressive: simple head nods or humping gestures. Occasionally the statement "I am Gerald" was preceded by a description about the speaker or their surroundings.
"Look at my arms, I am Gerald."
"These hills are immortal, I am Gerald."
"Thirteen nuts for every one of us, I am Gerald."
Following this pronouncement of "I am Gerald," the members of the crowd would, without fail, respond in one of two ways: agreement or disagreement.
When agreeing, the crowd would in unison chant, "Big Boy Gerald! Big Boy Gerald!" After a few minutes of this chanting, the speaker would climb down from the elevated place on which he stood, and the whole lot of the Molorans would congratulate him, patting his back and applauding. They would give him nuts and fruits. I once saw Gerald blown in the street in front of everyone, although this was rare. Eventually the celebration would slow, and the Molorans would return to whatever they had been doing previously.
However, sometimes the crowd would denounce the proclamation of Geraldry. When this occurred, the entire mass would boo, yelling, "No Gerald of mine!" The speaker, always appearing distraught, would remove himself from the hill. Sometimes they threw things at the failed Gerald; other times he was beaten or outright ignored. The crowd would then yell, "Where is Gerald? Give us Gerald?" and a new Moloran would climb the hill to try his hand at claiming to be Gerald. Sometimes Gerald was found quickly. Other times the search would continue for hours, the sense of desperation throughout the crowd growing with each failure. The severity of the claims and actions of the speaker often intensified as the count of rejected Geralds grew higher.
"Here, take all my livestock, I am Gerald."
"I cut off my arm, I am Gerald."
"I have killed my brother, I am Gerald."
"Please. Please. I am Gerald."
Sometimes Gerald would arrive and end the madness, the celebration tinged with sighs of relief. But other times no Gerald came. The crowd's wails would grow dimmer, and they would stand silently, their gazes falling from the hill to the ground. It was in these instances that true despair fell over the Molorans. Despair that transcends language, transcends culture. And though I was a stranger, unaccustomed to these traditions, on these unhappy occasions I felt that I understood their pain. That, somehow, I too knew the agony of crying for Gerald, knowing no Gerald was coming.