THE CASEBOOK OF GEEZA VERMIES
Idiot! Fork in the road - I should have seen that one coming, I really should. I am obviously taking myself far too seriously. She must have been laughing her head off at me!
From there it was easy. The road wound around the outskirts of the town and there was only one scattered cluster of buildings to be found before the road rejoined the main highway to Mombassa. We pulled over and got out. It felt good to stretch the old legs - something I don’t tend to notice as a rule, the stiffness. The Durban Poison usually keeps it well under control, but I ran out of that before I came away.
I took a deep gulp of air, breathed the place in and raised my eyebrows in greeting to an old, grizzled man sitting on an upturned crate of Fanta under a tree. He made the slightest of movements with his head in response. It was hot here. You saved your energy wherever you could. Cripplesby got a drink out of the back, and offered me one, but I wasn’t thirsty. The old boy was though, so I handed him a green bottle of Sprite and said “Ramona?”
He took a long drink from the bottle then looked hard at me. He seemed to deliberate for a moment or two before pointing with his chin to a whitewashed breeze block building with a new corrugated iron roof shining brightly on top of it. I thanked him and went in. Elliot followed behind.
Inside was dark, cool and fragrant. It was empty of people, apart from Ramona herself, a sturdy woman of indeterminate age; not young, but by no means old. She wore the long, flowing dress particular to the area, a hand-dyed mixture of natural browns and reds, with a just smattering of purple here and there. A tightly wrapped headscarf kept her hair out of the way as she worked.
She was currently in the process of grinding up some bark and peelings on a roughly hewn wooden table. She looked up as we walked in, but stayed seated and silent. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that she was smiling quizzically as she looked at me. Shaking her head, but still grinning from ear to ear she made a clucking noise and laughed, motioning for us to sit down.
Once we were seated upon the hard, wobbly bench, she asked us with one word if we wanted a drink. There is a universally accepted etiquette to follow in these situations, so we accepted. I was glad of the delay, as she rose to pour some thick, black coffee into three small cups, and I began to think about how on Earth I was going to try to explain my situation to her. Frankly I had no idea how I was going to even start. However, returning to the table and setting the coffees down before us she made it easy for me.
“Denubari?” she asked, with highly arched eyebrows. Elliot looked perplexed, but I nodded my head and said yes. She burst out into a spluttering laugh, shaking her head all the while. Then she caught me square in the eyes, her gaze holding me still for a moment. “Tulu?” she asked, but reading confusion on my face she continued. “Omfali? Malika?”
The penny dropped and I replied quickly before she carried on. “Malika, yes.”
She shook her head again, sighing through her broad smile. She muttered something to herself which I did not understand, but ended “Oh, Malika!” Catching my eye again, she said, “Wait, eh?”
She then rose once more and started bustling about the place, picking out handfuls or pinches of herbs, leaves and powders from various jars and pots. Poor old Elliot was right out of his depth here and just sat there taking polite sips from his strong, bitter coffee – and that looked like it was a bit of an effort. His face screwed up like he’d bitten into a lemon every time he put the tiny clay cup to his lips. It was bitter though; strong.
I guess I’ll have to explain all this to him as well, later on, though I’m not sure how he’s going to take it. Ramona returned to her seat before too long, humming a tune to herself. She cleared a space on the table before plonking down all she had collected and then got to work.
Having chopped and pounded away for about ten minutes she placed various concoctions in a number of hand stitched bags. She held up one particular package, making sure I could pick it out from the rest. There was only a pinch or two of herbs in there. She looked at me and said “First, eh?” I nodded my head.
She then stood up and shoved all the pouches she had made across the table. “Thirty dollars, American,” she stated, wiping her hands on a cloth hanging on a hook in the wall behind her, smiling all the while. I looked at Elliot and she followed my gaze. To his credit, although he must have had no idea what was going on, he took out the money and handed it over. I thanked them both and we left.
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