Dispatches II

That was the week from hell. If I wasn’t able to laugh, I would have dissected someone with a spoon. You remember my luggage was delayed? Yes, well it finally arrived 40 hours later. But, and all power to them, my colleagues from the office in Khartoum rallied round and organized me some kit. ‘M’ lent me some socks and a pair of underpants. The latter were a cause for grave disquiet. Sort of boxers, but eye-wateringly tight and made of that odd semi-perforated material, the kind of thing your granddad used to wear. Or come to thing of it, the pants that they wear on cowboy movies; the scene were Eastwood experiences coitus interruptus when the Duke comes looking for his boy. ‘M’ and I are roughly the same size in most respects, but maybe my, um, rear is a bit bigger than his, (let’s go with that for the time being) and these puppies were a tad snug. Organising oneself to take a leak fell midway between an exercise in civil engineering and a surgical procedure. But never fear, the voice has recovered.
Being rather on the warm side, I also asked if the chaps could organize me some deodorant. It duly arrived. Come the hour, I opened the said can and prepared to spritz. But the universe, bless it, alerted me. The can just didn’t have the look and feel of deodorant. Not a word of English in sight, just German and French, and the name on the can said ‘Glanz’. Hmm.
Glow? Shine? Gleam? Funny name for a deo. A phrase in French; ‘Irritant pour le peau.’ Ah-ha! A deo that’s not to be sprayed on skin?
No, it was …aerosol wood polish. I might have smelled a bit peculiar, but I’m sure I would have buffed up to a lovely shine. Good for Pinocchio, not so good for me.

The following evening, I ordered some room service—there’s nothing quite as pathetic as eating alone in a restaurant. Simple order; some pasta, ice cream and tea. Twenty minutes later the order arrived, brought with due subservience by a peon whose name—Siddig—shall live eternally in my memory. No problem with the pasta. Ice cream? Spendid! But no tea! Horrors! Let me point out that an Englishman with out tea in darkest Africa is not unlike a ship without a rudder. I’ll drink Ethiopian coffee by the gallon at home, but abroad? Never. Tea it must be. There are certain standards to maintain, are there not?
After I pointed out the shortfall with something brusque and to the point, like ‘Where’s my bloody tea?’ Siddig scuttled off, duly apologetic, to return within minutes. He placed the remains of the order on the table with a triumphant grin and a fairly dramatic flourish. He mumbled something in Arabic, which presumably translated to ‘Sorted!’
One tiny problem. He had not brought tea, but three small, bright-yellow, fully-ripe…
bananas.
No, I’ve no idea either. Which just goes to show; truth can indeed be stranger than fiction. And yes, I did eventually get my tea. The rightful order of the universe was restored.