Chigger Alle, Chigger Yellem

It was past nine when Wren got off the bus, her legs stiff and
partly numb. The sun was down. It had been down at six in the morning
too, when she'd climbed aboard - the first allowed on, because she was
white. In the time it had taken for the sun to come, cross the
Meridian, spill like a yolk on the rocky horizon, and finally
disappear, she had only once left the bus. A ten minute break. She had
bought a tangawizi, and nearly smacked a small boy round the head for
shouting, "You!" at her. She had said, "Ich ierta. Zerezere yellem" to
packs of beggars and small, hunched, half-blind merchants. Then she had
retreated onto the bus and waited, hot and cramped, for the next leg of
the journey, while live chickens, strung together by their feet and
held upside down, were proffered through the window. For the entire
length of the journey, she had not exchanged a word with the tall,
white-teethed priest who sat next to her because she'd heard that even
polite conversation could be construed as flirting.

Fifteen hours. She shook each leg in turn to loosen them up. As it was
dark, and there was little street lighting, nothing much could be seen
of Harar. The dusty, blistered buildings differed little from those
edging the sidestreets of Addis. So too the steep roads that reminded
her of walks in the Peak District, and the small tides of people
seemingly going nowhere, their faces dark as aubergines in the dim
light of the bus depot. She was ridiculously tired, and decided it best
to concentrate on finding accommodation. The search could begin in
earnest tomorrow.

"You get your bag in the morning," the conductor told her, when asked
what was going on with the luggage on the roof.

"I can't?" Wren paused to clear her throat. "I can't wait till then. I
need it now."

"Not now. Morning."

"It's got my overnight things in it. Morning's no good. Please can you
get mine now - it'll only take you a moment."

She did her best to look utterly desperate, squeezing her fists tightly
round the straps of her smaller daypack, and biting her lower
lip.

"OK," the conductor relented, with a weary sigh. "Wait here."

He hoisted himself up the ladder at the back of the bus and unfixed one
edge of the tarpaulin. Wren's seventy-five litre rucksack was easy to
spot among the Ethiopians' canvas, string and cardboard bundles.
Revealing surprising strength for a slight man, the conductor lifted it
up and tossed it down into Wren's waiting arms. Catching it nearly
knocked the wind out of her.

"Thank you! Amasaganello!" she called, and fought to strap the bag onto
her back. It was heavier than she remembered it being. It always was.
Once it was as comfortable and secure as it was every going to be, she
straightened herself up and drew fronds of chestnut hair behind her
ears.

"English lady. You want me to carry?"

Wren tried to turn round, and stumbled. The hair fell in front of her
face again. She found, on correcting it, that the voice belonged to a
boy, not much shorter than her, with a military buzz cut and a
marble-pattern t-shirt that was positively poncho-like on him. Wren
thought she recognized the t-shirt, but said nothing of it.

"How did you know I'm English?"

The boy smirked, as if the question were somehow too forward.

"Accent. I'm good, yes? You want me to carry bag?"

"No. No, I'm fine thank you."

"You afraid?"

"No, I just?" Wren stalled, unable to conjure a suitable explanation.
"I? I like carrying it."

"Why? It is bad for your back."

"Then it would be wrong to make you carry it."

The boy laughed again, and wagged his finger as if to say 'Touch?!'
Wren, sensing a kind of victory, bowed her head quickly and started to
move off, only to find the boy right on her heels.

"You're wanting good hotel for the night, yes? I can get you good
hotel, and better prices. I know the owner."

"Thanks, but I'm already set on staying at the Tewodros."

"Yes, the Tewodros. That is the one I'm talking of. Also, Tewodros is
my name."

As they passed through the gates of the bus station, other boys
detached themselves from the milling crowd and ran to join them. It
became clear to Wren that her tail was the eldest of a pack.

"Carry your bag, miss?" one of the smaller boys sweetly enquired,
before Wren could comment on the coincidence of Tewodros' name.

Tewodros chased him aside with a wave, snapping something in Amharic.
Then he took Wren by the wrist, and steered her to the left.

"Hotel is this way. Come on. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," said Wren (at least, she thought, I'm only afraid
that you'll charge me steeply for all this kind consideration.)

"Good," said Tewodros. "What is your name? I will tell the owner you
are a friend of mine."

"My name is Wren."

They came to a crossroads, and cut straight across, avoiding potholes
the size of salad bowls. A dog watched them from the side of the road,
while to the party's right, groups of men lay knotted around oil lamps,
in open-fronted, skeletal wooden shacks, chewing chat and mumbling to
one another. The road before them sloped steeply downwards, towards the
centre of town.

"Wren? This is a common English name, yes?"

"I don't think so. It's actually my last name, but it's what I'm called
back home."

"Aha. Yes. I ask because a friend of mine who was here not so long ago
told me he had a girl back in England who's name was Wren."

Wren drew to a halt, scuffing the gravel.

"Hawley? John Hawley?"

Tewodros smiled; his teeth glowed like a mineral, a rare feature among
his people.

"You know Mr. Hawley, eh? Also, he give me this t-shirt, see?"

He proudly stretched out the front of the t-shirt as if offering a
finely crafted material. Wren immediately felt stupid for not asking
about it earlier; her chances of tracking Hawley down seemed greatly
affected if she couldn't even recognize an item of his clothing.

"Where is Hawley now? Where did he go?"

Tewodros continue to grin, stupidly now, and scratched the back of his
head.

"I don't know. I did not see him leave."

One of the other boys piped up: "There is another Englishman at the
hotel. He might know."

Tewodros shot a frown at the boy, then made to ruminate deeply, before
nodding in agreement.

"Yes, I think I see them together once. I do not know his name but I
will ask, and I will get you the room next to his. Come."

He took Wren's wrist again, his grip keen, and Wren reluctantly allowed
him to lead her onward. She noticed now that the tops of the walls
lining the street glittered with shards of bottle glass.

"What was Hawley like?" she asked, then, in answer to Tewodros' puzzled
glance: "I mean, did he seem particularly sad, or upset about
anything?"

"No. He was very happy."

The same younger boy, now loping gleefully alongside Wren, tugged at
her other hand like a bell rope, and said, "He is a great man. Famous
in England, yes?"

"Moderately," said Wren.

"He drew pictures of the town. Brilliant artist. He, he?"

"He give some to me," Tewodros interrupted. "I get them for you, and
show you them tomorrow. Also, I show you my money collection."

"Money collection?"

"Yes, I collect the notes and the coins from all different countries. I
show you tomorrow. Mr. Hawley give me notes from Tanzania, and American
dollars. You have any notes from foreign countries?"

Ah. The catch. Wren certainly carried American dollars on her, but they
were strictly for plane fares. The rest of her cash was Ethiopian birr,
thin as tissue, and the colour of suede, due to time spent stashed in
anal cavities.

"I don't know. I'll have a look around for you. I think I only have
traveller's cheques though. Sorry."

"No worries. If you have then, I would like them. Tu parle francais,
Wren?"

"Non, je ne parle pas francais bien," said Wren, allowing herself a
smile. "I'm no good with languages. Hawley is."

"Also, that is why I ask. Mr. Hawley is good at everything, eh? His
pictures are incredible. Also, he is good at football, and he can speak
Amharic, and many other languages. More than me! I am trying to learn,
so I can speak to more tourists, because I want to be a guide. You
see?"

So (Wren thought,) Tewodros and his gang obviously wait for the bus
every day to see if any white tourists have arrived, and then befriend
them, presumably getting a small reward from the proprietors of all the
businesses they arrange to bring the tourists to.

"Did he show you his poetry?"

Tewodros looked baffled.

"Poetry? What is this?"

"It's the only thing he's famous for in England. Not drawing, or
football. He's a well know poet? if," (she added to herself, quietly,)
"such a thing exists."

"Yes? What is it? Is it like an orator? A politician?"

"No, not exactly. It's? well, it's like song lyrics," Wren said. "A
song you read instead of singing. They bring out books, instead of
CD's."

"Oh! So Mr. Hawley is like a pop star. Like Madonna, eh?"

Wren could see now that one of the buildings they were approaching bore
an illuminated sign, and that beneath the Amharic lettering there was
the smaller, English title: Tewodros Hotel. Her chest heaved in relief.
(She hoped it would not be construed as flirtatious.)

"Sure, a little like Madonna."

This caused a tremor of laughter from the small group. Tewodros finally
released Wren's wrist and turned to face her.

"Here is hotel. Good, eh? You wait here, while I go see to see the
owner, and he get you a room next to the other Englishman. OK?"

"OK. I'll wait."

Tewodros turned and fled, at pace, towards a high double-gate on one
side of the hotel. He shouted something, engaging in a brief exchange
with someone behind the gate before it was opened just a fraction.
Tewodros went through.

When he came back, about five minutes later, he wore his wide, white
smile loftily and dangled a key from his outstretched hand.

"OK, all is arranged. Is only 50birr a night, and your room is right
next to other Englishman's. My friend says he is out at the moment to
see the hyena man. You want me to take you to him?"

"Oh, no? I'm far, far too tired."

Wren yawned to demonstrate the point, and held her hand out for the
key.

"I'll see him tomorrow, but now I must go to bed."

"You sure?" Tewodros said, seeming disappointed. "Is not far. We go
there and fetch him, then come back."

He took her wrist again, locking eyes with her the way a man proposing
might.

"No, no, Tewodros," she said, taking a step in the direction of the
gate. "I need to sleep. I've been travelling all day."

Tewodros turned her hand palm upwards, and pressed the key into it.
Then released her.

"OK, I tell you what. I go to him and tell him you're here, then when
he comes back he can knock on your door."

"There's no need for that. Really. I'll be asleep"

"Is no problem!" he grinned. "Have a good sleep. I will see you in the
morning."

Wren's shoulders sagged. She hadn't the will to argue.

"OK."

She took another few steps towards the gate, then half-turned back
towards the dithering boys.

"What?." she said, slowly, carefully. "What did Hawley? say about
me?"

From the corner of her eye, she saw Tewodros shrug.

"I show him the coffee factory. He said, 'Wren would love the smell
here'. I said, 'Who is this Wren?' And he said, 'She is a girl I know
back in England.' I don't think he say anything else."