Tall Tales or Truth? This is how stupid I can get [part 2]

arthur.grafo (69)in #sfandf-fiction • 8 years ago

PART 2

Mombasa

Greeks normally enjoy playing backgammon with me - for a day or two. After that, they don’t enjoy winning as much as they did, since I am not a good player and keep losing. Not that I believe I am not a good player, I believe the dice don’t like me. If I need a five and six, and a three and four is going to lose me the game, no guesses needed for how the die will role. The captain, he never wearied of playing with me, would even bet a bottle of beer for each set, yet he rarely drank beer, preferring whiskey. I think he really did not like me. Not that I can understand why.

While the engine was being repaired in Cape Town, I found myself dreadfully bored, since the immigration official would not allow any crew to visit; perhaps they feared we might be planning to jump ship. I was glad to feel the throb of the engines when we finally sailed for Mombasa, Kenya. I had lived in what used to be Tanganyika, and had often visited Mombasa for holidays on the beach. All I remembered was very basic square whitewashed huts with thatch roofs and miles of empty pure white beaches.

Us children would follow the tide as it went out, holding pails, and any shells we found, we would place in the pails. Back at the fire, after grilling our meat, metal cans (ndebe) would be placed, filled with seawater and the shells we’d found, for boiling them.

It is odd how within one lifetime something like that has gone from acceptable to non-acceptable and then, to almost impossible, since shells are only very rarely found nowadays. Of course, now that it makes no difference, it is illegal to collect shells, so people make do with lying on the beach or sitting under thatch umbrellas, drinking alcohol, which is lethal in the equatorial heat.

The weather along the eastern coast of Africa was calm - and boring. The only living things I saw were fish that jump into the air and spread their fins, which almost look like wings, to glide for a small distance. I’d stand at the rail for hours and imagine funny scenarios: I guess it must confuse any predators chasing them. ‘Oh look, yummy food - huh?! It disappeared! Hey, how did it appear so far away!’ It sighs, ‘No point in chasing food that can teleport, maybe I can find a sardine or two…at least they are stupid and instead of teleporting, they swim in shoals, guaranteeing I’ll get to eat my fill.’

I’d been looking forward to going ashore in Mombasa, but when I did, it was an anticlimax! Nothing like the child in me remembered.

The streets were narrow, it was extremely hot and at times I could barely move, due to there being so many people. I found it strange that there were no tourists, the crowds of locals only including the odd Indian and Arab.

Learning that the owners son is aboard, the ship agent invited the captain and myself for a meal at a hotel restaurant, instead of going to the Indian restaurant some relative of his is bound to own. I couldn’t very well tell him that I enjoy a strong curry now and then, but made up for it by ordering lobster thermidor (lobster covered in mushrooms and cheese sauce).

After the two of them exchanged news, I asked why I don’t see any tourists in Mombasa. He explained that what tourists there are, stay away from Mombasa, mostly going to hotels in Malindi or directly to game farms.

“Kenya has very big unemployment problems and when people heard that tourists are coming to Mombasa, they came by the thousands, to work, to steal, to cheat, to sell their diseased bodies. It became so dangerous to visit here that the tourists stopped coming.” He chuckled. “I have a good story for you - have you heard of the white elephant of Malindi?”

I shook my head and the captain reassured him he has not. The captain thought he was talking of an actual elephant and was fascinated, imagining himself telling his children about there being white elephants in Africa. I know, because he asked me, in Greek, if I had heard of white elephants and keeping a straight face, I told him I have not.

“A man, an Italian,” he provided us with the name, but I no longer recall it, “a godfather of the Mafia in America, was hiding in Sicily because he was wanted by the Americans. There was no extradition treaty between the two governments, so he felt safe. But then he heard that Italy is negotiating a treaty which will allow the extradition of Mafiosi. He moved to Kenya where there is no treaty.

He only had a temporary visa, so he arranged to meet the daughter of Kenyatta, the first president of Kenya. He told her he is thinking of building a hotel in Malindi, the biggest and the best of all the hotels in Africa, and asked whether she would like to have a substantial share in his hotel, without having to pay anything for her shares. They negotiated and she agreed to arrange the permits and to ensure the government confirms that even if the Americans put pressure on them, they will not sign an extradition treaty.”

He leant forward to speak softly, his face sweaty and shining, despite the large fans swirling above us, “It is a big joke in Kenya, for they say it is the first time an African leader has been fooled like this. He built the hotel and it is amazing, nothing else like it in Africa. But, the Italian, he did not want guests, he wanted the hotel for the residence permit it gives him and for living in. He lives in the hotel on his own, with only his guards and the staff. In the lobby he has an enormous television screen, it is almost as big as our cinema screens, and he watches Italian movies he imports every month. It is such a pity, for the chef he brought from Italy, they say his food is the best in Kenya.”

He chuckled as he sat back and told the captain, confusing him further, “And so, dear Captain, it was, that the Africans learnt for the first time that maybe pink elephants don’t exist, but white ones do.”