From my experiences in native vilages, I would thus characterise them:
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Dalpok - Political. My time there seemed to involve much debate about my intentions and what should be done with me. Although my language skills were insufficient to understand much of it, I left unscathed, and for that I was grateful, leaving a small donation in a hole outside the healing hut.
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Raktam - Mystical. Despite my slightly improved language skills, I was completely unable to follow the seemingly unending torrent of philosophy in the Raktam healing hut. I was killed which, however, seemed to be generally against the flow of philosophical opinion.
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Winter Palace of The Queen of Greater Raktam - Under investigation. My first attempt to enter the queen's winter palace was cut rather short by a one 'Teachdaire' Having run out of action points upon entry, I woke up to find myself a disembodied spirit. Unfortunately, I appear to have made the same mistake again with the action points.... Leading to 1) a brush with her body guard. 2) an interview with the queen herself, coupled with an invitation to attend her at her court. 3) Death by Ant Boy.
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Wiksik - Homocidal. It would, undeniably, be excruciatingly naive of me to expect to spend a number of days in any native medical hut without running the risk of being chopped to pieces. Even being handed the Empty Bottle of Peaceful Intentions by a one 'Wulla-mullung' did not lead me to greatly heighten my expections in THAT respect, expecially from anyone who would name themselves, for example, 'Slaughterhouse'. However, my stay in Wiksik instanced the first time that I observed the killing of a native by another native (Slaughterhouse again, this time killing a one 'Etherdrifter'). Another first - Jhonka took both of our heads.
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Interestingly today, as I passed through Raktam, I received a number of gifts from various natives. Unfortunately I forgot to make a note of the names of both of the natives who gave me a crab and a silver skull charm - which, it was explained to me, is a token for The Shargles of The Mountain (whoever they may be) - but it was rather hard not to remember the name of 'A Foul PKer', who - apologetically, it must be said - killed me as a protest against the Queen of Raktam's 'truce with outsiders'. Before finishing me off, however, he was kind enough to give to me my third gift of the day: A human skull. This was, apparently, to make up for the one that he intended to remove from my shoulders, which, although I may question the equitability of his exchange, made it hard for me to take my death at his hands too much to heart. Two questions keep nagging at me though: 1) How can A Foul Pker and Jhonga BOTH have my head? 2) Whose head do <I> have?
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Rakmogak - Taciturn. Cannibals, it seems, are not greatly given to loquacity.
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Derby - Hospitable. I suppose that, being outsiders like myself, it is a great deal easier for the denizens of Derby to read my profile, but I stil have to say that, in all honesty, I don't think that I've ever stood in one place for quite so long as I stood outside of the Derby medical hut without being casually murdered. In fact, I recieved the benefits of: The interesting (if somewhat distressing) autobiography of a little orphan girl; a conversation with Killy about The Jeans of The Future; a friendly greetings from Scott the Trader and Mill Wilkinson who, apparently, never forgets a heal; medical attentions from various persons; the less welcome attentions of a one Wambayak and his heavy sword, which fortunately was countered by; the gallantry of a Baron Robert Surcouf, who, disregarding any apprehensions he may have had over our possible cultural differences, healed me despite mistaking me for the English jurist and legal commentator, William Blackstone. I am, Baron, in fact, named after the Anglican minister and pioneering settler, William Blackstone (also spelt 'Blaxton'), who lived amongst the natives of what is now Boston, and whom Geoffry Firmin, the protagonist of of Malcolm Lowry's book 'Under The Volcano' aspires, if I remember correctly, to write a book about. So there you go.
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Thanks also to Janet Grey, for all the bottles of beer and water. I fully intend to take a knife into the jungle and do some serious juicing now.
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Midway Island - Idyllic. Although, as Simeon Carter pointed out to me himself, a name is merely a consensual label applied by people for the sake of identification, I have stuck with 'Midway' as the name of this island because it is apt and concise. The main residents appear to be Mr Carter and a native by the name of Arina, both of whom seem to enjoy the more peaceful existence that the island affords, being naturally defended by sharks and deep waters. That said, however, the island is not without visitors, and, even while I was there, we were graced by the presence of the winner of the Battle of the Waterfall, who had come to collect his winnings. Unfortunately, it seems, the winnings were to be collected from the Casino Royale, which is in fact at Port Breton, outside of Derby. Neither is the casino is the erstwhile Fort Creedy, outside of Durham, at the opposite end of the island, as was suggested to him. I hope that he does eventually get his winnings.