The African Joke

"Ay, you back", boomed a voice from the top of the stairs. "You look like she very fine meal. You enjoy?" And a seemingly endless long white arm reached out and helped him up the last two steps. "You had much beer. Ho ho."

"Too much beer", Tony said as he collapsed into a chair. "And wat. Wat is hot. Very hot. I need water."

"You sleep late tomorrow. Then you be all right."

He gulped down the water which only seemed to make his mouth burn more. "No, no," he spluttered. "I must get up early tomorrow. I need a taxi. Nine o'clock. Very important, catch plane, very.... nine o'clock." The tall man in white seemed to recede into a misty distance. Was he actually talking to this guy? Was he dreaming? Could the man understand? He tried to focus on the white blur somewhere ahead. But try as he might Tony couldn't stay awake.

He stood up unsteadily, put out a hand, but could see nothing on which to get a grip. There was a physical pain in trying to stand straight. It actually hurt his head to try and focus.

He was being led to his bedroom, no longer knowing what he was saying, and then no longer knowing anything.

Suddenly he woke. There was bright sunshine painting the woodwork. Bright columns of dust gradually fell towards the shadows, and a ripple of sunlight wobbled on the ceiling where the sun was reflected off his jug of water.

His head felt full of something very heavy. No part of his body wanted to move. He was stretched there, glued to the bed. But he had to get up. He had to catch the plane to Addis.

Tony levered himself out of bed and stuck his head in the bucket of cool water on the other side of the room. His mouth and lips were still sore from the fiery meal last night, and the mead, sticky-sweet, had set like concrete in his head.

There was a knock at the door. He lifted his head, the water, dripping off his hair and nose, splashed back into the bucket. He opened his eyes, and there was a long white shape. He looked up, and immediately his eyes filled with water.

"Ah, you wake," said a voice from the top of the white djellaba. The hotel man grinned. "You have good sleep? It time for you go get taxi. He here half hour."

Tony waved his arm in a lordly salute, and stuck his head back in the bucket.

Ten minutes later the parts that were awake dragged the other, still sleeping parts down the corridor for breakfast.

"No-one else here?" Tony asked.

"Oh no sir, they all finish. They go."

He sat down in the dining room while a child of about ten came and rearranged his table, putting out half a dozen empty cups of different sizes in front of him. She came back with several empty bowls, and arranged them around the table. He observed the ritual with amusement for a while. A solitary butterfly flew in thru the door and dodged to and fro before disappearing into a room beyond.

The little girl finished fiddling with the crockery, stood back, and smiled a broad open grin. Tony stared at all the empty bowls and tried not to think of time ticking remorselessly on.

Mustn't panic he told himself. They've ordered a taxi for the correct time. They've woken me up. Everything's organized, and I'm still on time. Everything will be o.k......so long as the taxi isn't late. And he started worrying again.

The little girl was still standing there beside a long wooden table. The sunlight lay in a bright bar across the brightly coloured top she was wearing, bringing out the richness of the colours. She smiled at him. He smiled back, picking up a bowl which he turned over, shrugging his shoulders.

The girl looked towards the door behind her, then smiled again. Almost immediately another girl, a year or two older perhaps, came in with a further bowl and placed it on the table. She smiled an adorable smile and went out again, taking the first girl with her.

Tony peered into the bowl. Pickled peppers. "Just the thing I need", he muttered, picking out one and turning it over speculatively.

Back came the older girl with a bowl of hot tea. He picked it up, wondering whether he was meant to drink it straight from the bowl, but decided against it. Then he puzzled over the problem of getting the tea into one of the cups. If he poured from the bowl tea would spill everywhere. Eventually he decided to dunk the cup in the bowl to scoop out some tea.

He put it to his lips and sucked. It was hot, sour, and tasted wonderful. Tony even chewed into a pepper.

He wondered whether it was time for the taxi yet, and looked around the room for a clock. But of course there was no clock in sight. Should he go to investigate? If it hadn't arrived there was very little he could do about it. He stared out of the window where he could see hollyhocks growing in a small muddy patch that passed for the garden. A sense of helpless resignation came over him. There was a timeless silence everywhere. Nothing moved. Suddenly the absurd idea came to him that nothing would ever move again, that he was fixed in a photograph.

A girl's laughter suddenly cracked across the picture.

Of course he should hassle for some action, but then again he felt so dreadful he didn't even want to get up.

There was a movement behind him as the hotel man came in beaming with boundless goodwill. "You taxi, he here. He very good time. Yes?" The white teeth grinned. Tony smiled back at him, observing the black face; white djellaba, black feet, white teeth, black hair, white skull cap. "And your friend last night. This morning he came early. He give letter for you." White arm, black hand, white envelope.

Tony stood up, caught at the table, then took the letter. "Thanks. How much for the bed, and er..." he looked at the array of empty bowls ".....breakfast?"

The man mentioned a sum of money so Tony gave him two notes. "And thank you for everything. For last night. For getting the taxi, and ......everything."

He walked out to the verandah, opening the letter as he went. The message was very brief. "Hope you enjoyed the meal, and you got back to your hotel on safe legs...." What a wonderful expression, he thought; most appropriate for someone as drunk as he'd been.

"This morning I remember that this week all airplane times change. They are early one hour. You will leave for airport for catching plane by 9.20."

Tony stared at the sentence again, and rushed back into the lobby, almost colliding with the tall, ever-smiling patron. He shoved the letter into his hands. "The plane goes at twenty past nine, not twenty past ten," he wailed. "Where's that taxi?"

"Taxi he right here. He go now. No problem."

Tony picked up his bags and followed the man's flowing white robes as he calmly walked round to the side of the building where, under a row of eucalyptus trees was the taxi. "But where's the driver?" yelled Tony as he looked round. There was no-one in sight.

The silvery trees were motionless in the hot dry air. Gigantic poinsettias clustered round the steps, their deep red glowing in the morning sun. Between the two a large black car stood silently on the grey powdery drive. Nothing moved, and once again Tony was struck by the thought that nothing would ever move again. One solitary bird twittered erratically from high in the trees, and this lone sound merely served to emphasize the underlying silence.

Tony opened the back door of the taxi and threw his luggage onto the seat. What was the use of the blighter being on time if he then disappeared? Blast and damn the man! It was after nine and the plane went in less than twenty minutes. How the hell was he going to get there now?

Mr Andersen would be at the airport to meet the plane. The hotel in Addis was already booked and paid for by Mr Anderson. How in god's name was he going to get the documents to him if this blasted, wretched, pestilential so-and-so of a driver didn't get his confounded...?

"Ah. You ready to go?" came a happy, carefree voice behind him.

"What?"

"You ready go now?" It was the taxi driver.

"Yes, I ready go now," Tony said irritably, getting into the taxi. "And plane ready go now too. We have ten minutes, o.k.? Ten minutes. Plane go one hour early, O.K.? You understand? Ten minutes to get plane."

"Yes yes, no problem. Plane he wait. Plane he never go soon." And he climbed lugubriously into the driver's seat and turned to face Tony. "You like here?"

"You go. Never bloody mind if I like. I like aeroplane. Go now. Now. Pronto."

"Pronto? What is pronto?"

Tony was ready to explode. He swore under his breath. He felt like dragging the wretched fellow out of his seat and driving the taxi onto the airfield himself, except he didn't know in which direction to go.

"Pronto means start the car and drive very damn fast. I pay two times the price if I catch plane." He held up two fingers.

The driver smiled, and started the engine. At long last the car eased out from under the trees and made for the road at a snail's pace.

"Faster, faster. The plane is going," Tony screamed.

The car gathered speed. The streets of the town were almost deserted, yet the driver never ventured above twenty-five miles an hour.

Tony was bobbing up and down in the back seat, swearing under his breath. The cursed taxi driver was doing it on purpose. They all did it on purpose. These wretched, infuriating people. They smiled sweetly while giving you incorrect information. They pretended to be helpful by arriving on time, then disappearing for hours. They let you think everything was under control and then smiled benignly as they screwed you up, and ruined everything. And when they saw the mess they'd made they still smiled sweetly, shrugged their shoulders and said it didn't matter.

Just listen to the so-and-so, thought Tony. The driver was humming a tune to himself as he pottered at thirty miles an hour along the open road.

Perhaps, just perhaps, thought Tony, the plane would be late. After all, everything else was. He was just beginning to convince himself that everything would be all right in the end, and that he was working himself into a state for nothing when they rounded a bend where the trees suddenly stopped, and there before them stretched the airfield.

The driver pointed across the field. "There. See. Plane. I said she no go."

There at the side of the field was a small plane. In the distance, right on the other side of the field was a shed, like a cricket pavillion.

The road was running alongside the field now. Tony realized it must be his plane standing there ready for take-off. "Stop, stop!" he screamed. "I'm getting out here. That's my plane."

The driver slowed to a standstill. Tony threw a note at him, grabbed his bags and leaped from the car, jumped a small ditch and started racing across the field.

The plane began moving slowly forward with a bouncy gait. It was as if the confounded thing had deliberately waited till he'd reached the field before starting its takeoff There it was taunting him. He couldn't see the front, but he knew there was a big grin on its ugly face.

He chased diagonally across the field. His tartan bag was in one hand, his typewriter and backgammon board in the other. They banged and clattered against his legs as he ran forward at a cracking pace.

The plane gathered speed and began to roar across the field. Tony raised his hand, the typewriter and backgammon board swinging violently above his head. "Stop, stop!" he screamed. "Wait you buggers!" And he lurched desperately down the runway after the disappearing plane.

It was obvious to the meanest intelligence that the plane was not going to stop. What pilot in his right mind would stop even if he did happen to notice a maniac waving a typewriter and backgammon board at him as he raced across a field? Such a sight was more likely to put the fear of god into him and make him leap for the joystick sooner than usual.

At the other end of the field the plane rose into the sky, heaving itself above the distant trees. Tony stopped running and stared at it as it slowly dwindled and disappeared from view. Then he turned, his heart thumping wildly, and walked with a grumpy determination towards the cricket pavillion.

As he walked angrily thru the door he was greeted with the now familiar happy smiles all round; smiles guaranteed to irritate him beyond measure.

"You missed him," said one particularly close smiling face. A statement of such devastating obviousness that no reply was possible.

"He come tomorrow one time," said another. "You want beer? You too much hot."

Tony put down his things in the middle of the room. "Where does the next plane go to?"

"Next plane to Addis go tomorrow, same time."

"Are there no other planes today?"

"No more planes to Addis today."

"No more planes to anywhere today?"

"Oh yes, more planes."

"When's the next one?"

"At half past eleven."

"And where does that go?"

"Lalibela."

"Then I'll go to Lalibela. Give me a ticket." Tony slumped into a seat.

"Thirtysix dollar."

"O.K., O.K., no problem. I've got thirtysix dollars. Now I'll have that drink. Cold. Ice cold, and no tej. Right?"

Everybody smiled again. "You have too much tej last night so you miss plane? Ho ho." And they all roared with laughter.

Tony wanted to be livid about it, but in the face of such universal good humour what could he do but smile? "Yes, I had too much drink last night. And this morning I'm still too much drunk."

They all laughed again.

Five minutes later they were drinking cold drinks, and a backgammon tournament had begun, which was still raging amidst much shouting and back slapping when the next plane arrived.

The two passengers who had arrived off the flight naturally wanted to join in the game, and Tony very nearly missed the next flight.

An hour later he was standing at the edge of a cliff where a friendly motorist from Lalibela airport had dropped him, looking up at churches hewn from the face of the rock. He could see the windows and towers high above him as he bartered with another smiling gentleman over the cost of hiring a donkey to get him up the cliff.

As he paid his dollars he smiled, suddenly thinking of Mr Anderson waiting for him at Addis airport. He burst out laughing as if seeing for the first time the great African joke. The donkey man smiled back questioningly.

"I should be at Addis airport meeting someone," said Tony, "yet here I am, hundreds of miles away in Lalibela sitting on a donkey looking at churches. I wonder if the guy's still waiting for me. He's probably looking at his watch and getting cross."

The joke needed no more explanation. They both laughed uproariously. A little man sitting by the side of the road almost completely covered in a brown burnous asked what was the matter, and soon there were half a dozen people grinning and cackling all round Tony. He only hoped Mr Anderson would see the joke too.

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