Chigger Alle, Chigger Yellem II

The hotel room didn't smell too bad, but there was nothing much to
keep out the mosquitoes; a slender, concrete balcony was separated from
the rest of the room by French windows that neither shut properly, nor
met the ceiling, and curtains so thin that the humming light rendered
them almost invisible. The bathroom lacked a door, or any glass to fill
the gap in its wall. The taps, the can, the shower - none seemed to
function in any capacity.

Wren found the porter sleeping in an alcove of the corridor. As she
passed, squinting in the darkness, a mound of material stirred, and
asked, "What is it?"

Wren's heart leapt.

"Ah," she said, raking a hand through her hair. "It's?the taps don't
seem to be working. There's no water coming through."

The mound grunted, and a head and shoulders emerged.

"I'll bring you some. You wait in your room."

"OK."

Ten minutes later, he arrived with a full bucket, and a cup, for
scooping. Wren thanked him, bid him goodnight, and filled the sink, cup
by cup, to wash her hair. Then she took a long time combing it. When
she was done, she unearthed her hairdryer from the jumble in her
rucksack, knowing there would be no socket, and laid it on the bed. She
took a novel from her daysack, and did the same with that. Then she set
up her mosquito net as best she could, and got undressed.

She rooted in her bag for the letters. Just one before going to sleep,
she decided. One from when he was in Tanzania, two countries down. She
found an envelope dated three days off three months ago, and carefully
opened it, then withdrew deep into the bed with maglite and sheaf of
paper. The hairdryer and novel rocked on top, as she wriggled into the
most comfortable reading position.

Hawley wrote her name with an extravagant, almost calligraphic capital
'W'.

Wren, he wrote (and as she began to read, the street outside filled
with the whooping of hyenas.)

Hope all is well.

I bought a book of Tanzanian socialist poetry, to give to you when I
get back, but I decided to read it myself, at the Meru Inn. Complete
crap. The first poem is about American bombs falling on women and
children, the second about the death of Che Guevara. Countless
references to the 'belly' of a 'big man', and a lengthy introduction by
the compilers, announcing their hope that future generations will study
the poems, and quoting (to excess) Mao at the Yemen Conference. Some
real gems:

Here, Hawley had quoted extensively from the 'gems', often interrupting
them with exclamation marks or a single, derogatory word, usually
abstract. Wren skipped over the quotes, using the interventions as
stepping stones:

(Camembert!)
("Bilge")
("Eggs")
("Suez")
("Castles")
("Rumdogs")
("Barricade")

Shortly after buying the book, I was accosted (as one so often is in
these parts,) by a friendly, young guide, and we got talking. His name
was Bariki, and he claimed to be one of the local maasai tribesman. For
twenty thousand Tanzanian dollars, he offered to take me on a tour
round various nearby maasai villages, then to his home for a drink. I
couldn't turn down the offer. As I told Bariki: "I'm a fan of the
maasai. I like their style."

More than that, I like the noble solitude of the bush maasai, when I
see him from the windows of buses, tracing the side of the road. Coiled
like an ammonite in the spiral shell of his scarlet robe, black as
crude opium oozing from its pod. I like that, because it looks like how
I feel when there is this distance between us. I suppose as well it is
the giddy European's love of the quaint.

In total, we passed through four villages, though it was hard to tell
where one ended and another began. As we passed ripe coffee bushes,
under the giant leaves of banana trees, Bariki announced that the first
was called Kibaani, and spelt it out for me. Shortly afterward, I felt
the sun scraping at my knuckles and wrists, and stopped to dig out the
lotion.

"What is the function of this?" Bariki asked, like it was some terrible
machine, as I slapped the stuff over myself.

I explained to him the vulnerability of pale skin, and showed him the
difference between the mustard brown of my forearms and the shell white
of my biceps. I did not show him the shoulders and clavicles that
belong to you - that lie beneath my vast Australian t-shirts like
nesting seagulls. I didn't even mention you at that point."

There came a rapping at the door that caused Wren's hands to jerk, and
the letter to slip onto her lap. She caught her breath before getting
out of bed, turning on the light and hurriedly making for the door. She
hoped, as she adjusted the hem of her nightie, that it would not be the
porter, or Tewodros.

It was not. It was, as promised, the 'other Englishman': a tall, thin
man with Roman features - lips thin as two grass blades, eyebrows
steeply arched. Swishy locks. Good-looking.

"Uh?you're the one looking for Hawley, right?"

Wren leant on the doorframe and buried a hand in her hair.

"Yeah. Sorry - I didn't mean for the kid to go and drag you up here.
Once I mentioned it, he insisted?"

"It's OK - I'm only next door, and I'd nothing better to do."

"Yeah. Um?"

Wren scratched the back of her head.

"How was the err?hyena man?"

Almost as a counter-manoeuvre, the stranger raised a pair of slightly
yellowed fingers to his untidy stubble.

"Worth a visit, yeah. He lets you feed them yourself if you're up for
it. Dangle the meat over the end of a stick and you're away."

"Are they in cages or something?"

"No, not at all. Out in the open. They roam the town at night. Quite
tame though - more like cats than dogs?"

He paused, allowing her to knot her brow and dip her head, as if
approving of new flavours in her mouth while her gaze remained locked
on his shoes.

He wet his lips and asked, "How're you finding Ethiopia?"

She looked up.

"Fine! It's great, yeah. Interesting culture, friendly people. The
landscape out in the open is just incredible."

"Aha."

He nodded slowly, like a piston, then said, "OK, what's your name
again?"

"Oh, sorry! Wren."

"Right. I'm Paul."

He held out his hand for her to take. She took it, and they shook,
firmly.

"I'll make a deal with you, Wren."

Wren stopped leaning on the doorframe. She stood up straight, regarding
Paul with suspicion, waiting for his terms.

"I'll help you look for Hawley, starting tomorrow morning. But first
you're going to tell me how you really feel right now."

"How?how do you mean?"

"Well, forgive me if this sounds forward," Paul said, leaning back and
peering down the corridor, possibly for effect, "or if this is a grave
misjudgement? but you don't seem very settled."

"I'm just tired," said Wren.

"Nah ah."

Paul shook his head.

"That's not it. Look, I'm not coming onto you. But if you don't take a
leap of faith and tell me the truth, I'm not gonna? that is, I wouldn't
feel comfortable helping you track him down."

Wren rummaged in her hair some more, and bit her lower lip.

"Um?well."

She sighed.

"You'd better come in."

Paul followed her into the room, shutting the door behind him. He
remained standing, while Wren sat heavily on the bed and rested her
head in her hands.

"That a letter from him?"

With his eyes, Paul indicated the fan of paper on the bed. Wren didn't
need to look.

"Yeah?"

"Thought so. You're not here for the culture, are you?"

Wren sensed water gathering at the brims of her eyes, and immediately
felt stupid. She was about to gush in front of a total stranger, just
because that stranger was white, and good-looking. Might as well
explain as best she could.

"I'm not used to this. I hate this country, I hate their goddamn rainy
season, I don't like the people, and I've had it with travelling
already. It's hell. There's no one you can trust and everything's
broken, or falling apart. It's absolute fucking shit."

She sobbed the last word, and immediately covered her mouth, before
masking her face completely with her hands under a torrent of hair.
Paul walked slowly towards the French windows, taking time over his
reply.

"You can trust the hotel owners. Anything happens to you, they lose
business. And you'd be surprised at how cannily they hold the place
together. But I see where you're coming from. I understand."

Wren sniffed violently, and brushed some of the hair out of her
face.

"How can you? I've never been further out than France before. I've
never done anything remotely adventurous. God, I don't know what I'm
doing here."

"Neither do I."

Paul said this very firmly, from a position that was now three quarters
turned away from Wren.

"Believe you me, I have no traveller spirit," he continued. "But needs
must when the devil rides. We seem to share that approach."

Wren wiped her eyes.

"I don't know anything about you. Are you looking for someone
too?"

Paul ignored the question.

"You've fulfilled your part of the bargain now, I guess. Plenty of time
to get to know each other tomorrow."

Wren adjusted her nightie.

"I?I wouldn't mind if you stayed the night."

She expected him to reel round in surprise, or something, but he
remained impassive, thin lips pressed tightly together. After leaving
sufficient space for her proposal to unfold, and mingle with the
atmosphere, he said, "I'm only next door, Wren. That's close as you
need."

And he was right, she realized. Too honourable to be entirely
trustworthy, but right. Nevertheless, she felt deflated, rejected.
Ugly.

"Meet for coffee tomorrow?" he asked, suddenly active, making for the
door. "Downstairs?"

"Sure?" Wren said, quietly.

"Ethiopia's the home of coffee, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. Hawley said."

Paul seemed troubled by this offhand remark.

"Funny. Thought the idea would excite you. He told me that you were a
great coffee-lover."

Wren felt her breath turn inside her. She quickly doused the flame of
joy that leapt up - she smothered it in a snow of thought.

"He talked to you about me? He really said that?"

A smile flickered on Paul's face.

"He told me lots about you. But it can wait til the morning."

He halted in the doorway, and looked back at her, as if recontemplating
some action.

"You want me to turn the light off?"

He started to lift his hand, but Wren cut him off.

"No. No, leave it on."

Paul said nothing. His hand dropped to his side again, and left the
room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Wren withdrew under the mosquito net, which, when she lay back on the
bed, rested like a bridal veil upon her face. Then, not sweeping it
aside, she took up Hawley's letter again and continued from roughly
where she had left off:

The second village was called Olevolos - and here, Bariki said he would
take me into the huts themselves, and that I could photograph them if I
wanted. One small plot of land was amusingly like an English garden,
bordered as it was by a hedge and gate. Precious few flowers, however,
as you might expect.

But Wren. The girl who greeted us at the gate, carrying a bucket of
water on her head without using her hands - she looked exactly like
you. Yes, she was a black African, but even so - I was struck. I was
shaken. The same silvery eyes, small mouth. The same look - the Umpala
look - attentively waiting for my next move. I was reminded, in
particular, of the first night I kissed you for real, although I
couldn't remember the line I used. It was good, wasn't it? Second hand
from another girl - probably third or forth hand, in fact - but good,
nevertheless.

When Bariki opened the gate and led us through, the father emerged from
the hut, and the girl immediately retreated behind him. The rest of the
family - seven or eight kids, and a well utilised wife - quickly gushed
out and filled the tiny, sandy garden. They eagerly greeted us - the
father's left ear was deformed by jewellery; it dangled, gelatinous,
and trembled as he grinned and shook my hand. I was polite as I could
be, whilst trying hard to get another look at the water-carrying girl.
It was useless - I didn't see her again until we had moved off,
whereupon she peered cautiously from behind the hedge. Bariki noticed
my reluctance to carry on, and asked (grinning big and white, as all
Tanzanians do,) if I wanted to marry her. I saw no harm in telling him
exactly why she had caught my attention.

"It's like Bob Marley says," he opined. "One people. Different colour.
Right, my friend?"

"Yes, yes, yes," I said.

Somewhere between Olevolos and the third village, Kimnyaki, we met a
band of young farmers and bought swords of sugarcane from them. The
cane was dexterously hewn and skinned with a machete, right before my
eyes, and a short time later my hands glistened in the sun with
dribbles of sweetness, and crystals from the fountains of dust I was
kicking up. My feet ached from the stones that passed with increasing
frequency between sole and sandal, and my jaw throbbed from having to
bite right into the cane. I longed for a shirt press, to crush the
juice from the splinters, collect it in cups and share it with you.
Then I thought that you would probably find it too sickly.

And as you are a coffee connoisseur, this next detail may also offend
you. At Ngorontoni market, we bought a fresh bag of the stuff, so that
Bariki could make up a good, strong cup when we reached his house. It
turned out his method of making coffee was to mix a small spoonful of
the ground beans with warm water and serve immediately. But then, he
doesn't need to put iodine in his water and wait ten minutes before
drinking it. Same race, different colour.

At this juncture, Wren shut her eyes, and sleep overcame her.