Delayed Gratification by Jayne Capaldi

Read a runner-up entry in our 2007 short story competition

Jayne, 36, works for an estate agent in Ironbridge, Shropshire. She lives with her two children, Beth, seven, and Dominic, five.

Delayed Gratification
I haven't always travelled by donkey. The ever-increasing circles of raw flesh on my nether cheeks are testament to the unfamiliarity. But here I am. I swear that the sweat gathering down the back of my Marks and Spencer 'high legs' is backing up and any minute now is going to start brimming at my waistband like an urban water feature. And although I keep reassuring myself that Esona – my little donkey – is used to being over baked whilst carrying twice her body-weight in white woman, I cant help feeling that we ought to at least take turns. I tried lowering my feet to the ground and sort of scooting myself along a bit but Marcus, my 'rear' guide indicated loudly and firmly that this was not wise. I can't fault his judgement it has to be said as, with all the grace of Rod Hull and Emu, I had almost derailed the donkey train. And we have to get there. I promised.

When I told John I was going to go back he replied with characteristic bluntness 'You're bloody mad, you!' in twenty-three years I have never had to 'wonder' how he felt about anything. As infuriating as it can be it's probably one of the things I love about him most. With the benefit of distance and, if I'm brutally honest, the detachment of youth, Amy and Nick were more supportive. Or maybe they just weren't listening; it's hard to tell over the phone.

The long, surprisingly rigid grass whips against my khaki combat trousers; not as robust as they looked in the catalogue. Flinching, I peer down fully expecting to see a crimson stain seeping in a slash formation just below the teeth of my zip-offs. None appears. I do notice that despite my very best pre-travel efforts I still glow 'tourist', but now that I'm here I don't care.

I'm suddenly distracted by the long, lean arm of Thabo, our lead guide. I have to confess that his long, lean body, chalk white hair and blue-black skin are also a distraction but I know that his raised arm signals a stop. This time he just needs to reposition the animal's freight. The track ahead is narrowing and, although I haven't noticed until now, we are gaining height. Its only six months since my last, and also first, visit here but id forgotten the strangeness of the landscape. The heat wasn't as suffocating then either. And although I was warned to expect 'extremely high temperatures' no part of that phrase could have conjured up what I'm experiencing now. When the wind picks up it is not dissimilar to a salon hairdryer on high-heat and turbo-setting positioned an inch from your face.

Thabo is suddenly beside me. He grips my hand firmly and I dismount. Well, less of a 'dismount' than a combination of peeing god position followed by wobbly gymnast finale. He stands, immovable, while the wind chases the Jaffa cake orange material of his tunic around his body like a Mexican wave. He has a calm greatness that wouldn't look out of place in a Hollywood epic. I picture him, his presence dwarfing the mountain he stands upon, rallying his people and leading them to a better life. I'd follow him anywhere.

It was Thabo who brought John and me here last time. We had wanted to experience a bit of the 'real Africa' without having a clue what that meant. I mean, its all real: the staggering National Parks; gloriously wild safaris; and breathtaking cities. There was just something else we were supposed to see. Probably me more than John, but he was happy to go wherever that took us. So that's how we came to meet Thabo.

With three days left of our holiday we sat at our 'usual' table at Mama Africa's; we'd been once before and on our return were welcomed as long-lost family. The bamboo-lined walls, rainbow-coloured chairs, and animal print lampshades spoke to the kitsch-lover within me. Sofia, who Mama presented as Daughter Africa, carried to out table giant sunflower-yellow plates tumbling with home-cooked bounty. I hadn't been able to convince John to try the surprisingly delicate crocodile kebabs basking in a lumpy lagoon of peanut sauce. Mama Africa was more persuasive. I don't know whether it was her velvety, melted milk chocolate skin, or the azure blue robes coating her body that mesmerised him most. Whichever it was, John opened up like a guppy. 'Mmm, delicious' he observed, I think in response to the crocodile.

At the end of our feast, pinned to our chairs by the volume of food we'd consumed, Mama joined us for a steamy Amarula coffee. To be honest, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to get it down without the crocodile resurfacing but I didn't want to appear ungrateful. We exchanged tales of our grown-up children and took comfort in the uniting perils of parenthood. It felt like being at school again and finding a new 'best friend forever' within twelve seconds of hanging up your pristine blazer.

Reluctantly John and I eventually got up to leave. Hugging Mama, who by now we were calling Myeisha, we booked a table for our last night. She took my hands in her vanilla palms and studied my face before settling on my eyes. 'Tomorrow I take you to Thabo. He will show you.'

The dust pirouettes waist-high and as quickly vanishes on the crumbling track ahead. This is the last rest stop before we reach the summit and begin what I recall as being something of a donkey derby descent. I drink greedily from one of the water bottles and watch helplessly as the last patch of pale grey on my tee shirt surrenders to the dark side. I am literally leaking; in one end and out every which way, like a many-punctured paddling pool in a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Thabo and Marcus check the donkeys' feet and secure the redistributed saddlebags. I read once that donkeys enjoy the company of people so much that they become depressed if deprived of it. I'm pretty sure it wasn't on a flyer from the Blackpool beach tourist board, but anyway I resolve to communicate with Esona much more on the last leg of our pilgrimage.
I watch the two men tending to their flock. There's not so much as a sweat patch between them, just an appealing sparkle hovering above the upper lip and a glisten to the forehead. They must think i'm about to keel over with some kind of deadly fever that my body in bravely purging. But they say nothing, they rarely do.

I stroll to the edge of the ridge where the knife-blade grasses clamber up to meet the path. The open sores on my bottom grate against each other with every step and I wonder if I can walk whilst holding my cheeks apart without drawing attention. Deciding that I cannot I slowly squat down to at least give them some time apart. In the distance a solitary tree leans as if showing us the way and faded green shrubs fleck the otherwise uninterrupted sandy landscape. Behind me the parched earth elevates to connect with the swimming-pool-blue sky. There is nothing else, no one else, just us.

John and Thabo connected almost immediately. One of those unspoken connections based on nothing more nor less than a mutual trust and understanding. True to her word Myeisha collected us from our hotel at seven o'clock in the morning. After about an hour we left behind the motorway and headed inland on more challenging terrain. Myeisha's black 4x4 held it's on for the most part; the same could not be said for my loosely supported chest. Catching sight of myself in the rear-view mirror, having fashioned a shelf from my folded arms, I silently wondered if the legend of Les Dawson had reached these shores. We still don't know exactly where were going and what it was that this Thabo could show us. John conjectured that it might be an ancient, indigenous tribe complete with bare-breasted womenfolk, face paints and fancy headgear. I think – galvanised by his National Geographic subscription – he envisaged us stooped round a campfire, snapping the legs off a flame-grilled prairie dog and chewing the fat, so to speak, with the elders. All that Myeisha would say was that Thabo was a good man who would take us to a good place. Looking at it from the outside it probably seemed less than wise to allow a relative stranger to drive us into the desert to meet a complete stranger who would take us to 'a good place'. If Amy or Nick had done anything life this, and returned unscathed, I would have gone apoplectic and told them they were very lucky not to have found themselves in some crack den with a bunch of axe-murderers looking to work on their swing. But this was us, the grown-ups, and so it was absolutely fine. And it would be. Much, much more than fine.

Thabo studies the sky and summons us to regroup. Neither he nor Marcus raises an eyebrow at my John Wayne swagger back to Esona. It's two hours since we left the shade of Thabo's homestead; a self-built, rectangular, teak building with one small window and a door. The donkey's shelter that stands adjacent is almost identical except for the open double-width doorway. I apologise to Esona for troubling her again and swing my right leg over her soft, brown back. She doesn't complain. The train jolts back to life and were on our way again. If I felt sorry for the donkeys before, especially my new gal pal Esona, imagine how I feel now that they have to drag their substantial burdens uphill. The track narrows almost immediately and every so often loose earth gives way and tumbles to a dusty death below; I will Esona with every damp fibre of my being to walk the line. We're so close. I couldn't let them down now. Although I wonder if they even know that we're coming. The last time, when I vowed I would come back because how could I not, Mrs Mageza had smiled and said 'It's a long way. Many people have promised before. They never come back.' I try to recall the features of her face but all I can see is her smile. I remember it vividly. It is luminous, not in a day-glo Hollywood kind of way, but rather in its sincerity.

The sun floats higher now and pins us up against the grey rock-face. I run my hand down Esona's course mane and rest it on her softer neck. Her right ear swivels in my direction and twitches; I take this as a sign that we are bonding but it could just as easily be donkey for 'leave me the hell alone and next time you're carrying your own bags.'

I feel a long way from home. I realise that sounds ridiculous because obviously I am thousands of miles from home but, although I've known it I haven't felt it until now. Maybe it's the peace that is so unfamiliar. The strangely lulling purr of twenty-four hooves shuffling slowly onwards is the only sound. Although it is quite at home now, except for the holidays. I never thought I would yearn for the ceiling-shaking din that accompanies teenagers, but I do. Well, sometimes. It's funny, the things you miss. When the bed-time story routine faded out – and believe me, I didn't relinquish it readily – for a while I would peek round their bedroom door, just to get a glimpse of them captivated by whatever world was unfolding beneath the dust-jacket. I still love to see that now.

A pitch-black eagle with scarlet legs and face circles overhead, like one of those toy aeroplanes fixed to the ceiling by a horizontal length of taut wire. We're near the summit. The track is also much wider now so the colour slowly returns to my knuckles for now. There isn't time to stop but Thabo turns to check on his charges. He nods and I smile and suddenly long to know more about him. On the journey back from our first visit I had asked Myeisha what she knew of his history. She had pause before conceding that she knew very little except that he hadn't always lived alone. Staring into the darkness she had added, 'But his eyes speak of great sadness.'

I'm prepared for the descent this time. It wont exactly be Lawrence of Arabia but I am hoping that it will be less Benny Hill than my previous effort which was marred by a lack of sports bra and unfamiliarity with the downhill donkey technique. John had tried his best to be supportive and from his rear vantage point tendered suggestions which I recall rejecting in less than gracious terms. Now, suitably buoyed up I lean back and attempt to move with Esona's seesaw rhythm. The numbness that has crept over my lower half helps to lessen the impact of the chafing cheek sores which would otherwise have made this already challenging manoeuvre nothing less than excruciating. We creep down the steepest slopes. Some of them look impossible and I want to close my eyes and hold my breath like I do on roller coasters. But I don't, if only because I would be mortified to be caught out.

'There it is!' The words burst from my lips and puncture the heavy air before I can stop them. Not that it matters. I am allowed to speak, obviously. I've just grown accustomed to the comfortable silence of the last three hours. Thabo smiles at me indulgently as if I am a child glimpsing the sea, or an elephant, for the very first time. 'Not long now,' he promises.

And now I feel like a child; impatient and restless. 'Not long' is too long. I wonder if the 'Are we nearly there yet?' maxim translates but decide against testing it out. The winding pathway seems to take us further from our destination but, as far as I remember, there is only one route down so we must be on the right track.

Colour returns too. The grey that has encased us for more than an hour gives way to pockets of faded greens and dusty orange. Tall grasses re-emerge, lining the endless path on either side like a fringed rug. I no longer have to lean back.

I know we're expected when the first if them appears. Within seconds, wide smiling faces are colliding and careering through the doorway and into the open dust field like bubbles blown at a child's party. If I wasn't so damp and salty already I might have noticed the tears sliding down my face. For the first time I wonder if donkeys can canter. I needn't have worried. We barely reach the crease where mountain meets plain when we merge; they wrap around and envelope us. Their teacher Mrs Mageza, draped in floor-length emerald green robes, float behind them in our direction. There isn't time now to acknowledge each other's joy. I hurl myself off poor, buckling Esona in my eagerness to unload. I hug and hold and touch and squeeze the beautiful, hopeful faces I have dreamt about in these last months. Thabo guides the donkeys to me, carefully weaving his way through the glorious rainbow-coloured mosh pit. My great plans and orderly ques and informed choices are immediately abandoned. 'Harry Potter', 'Horrid Henry', 'Little Princess', and 'Rainbow Fairies' fly from my hands like seeds scattered over hungry soil. Biff, Chip and Kipper – this generations Janet and John – introduce themselves to new, welcoming friends. If Santa Claus saw this I swear he'd hand around until Christmas morning.

Like a celebrity collection at Top Shop, my stock has vanished within seconds. I resist the almost overwhelming urge to blurt out, 'I'll just pop back and get some more.' Next time. More next time. The donkeys, freed from their burdens, stock up at the water trough and bathe in the dust-clouds their rolling creates. Thabo and Marcus, still fresh and unspoilt by their journey, sit and watch and smile.

Beautiful, intricately braided heads bow down and begin to excavate their new treasure, not wanting to return to the shade of the small, wooden room that serves as their classroom. Some tug at my trouser-leg, some tap on my shoulder, and other pull my face to theirs. All want to share their story, with each other and with me. Rainbow-coloured jackets unfurl and offer up their secrets conjured up worlds away from here for children just like these. Like the eye of a storm, I stand silently and wonder at the forces of nature growing in strength around me. The mountains which will soon take me home return their laughter, and more besides. I sit, and watch, and smile.


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