John Goldbach - It Is an Honest Ghost

Boris said, ‘Hey man, is it just me or is there something distinctly Jewish looking about these donkeys?’

We both laughed and I left him at the jetty waiting for Osama and company, and I started making my way back to Yumbe House.

I decided I’d lie low till the barbecue and party later in the evening, on Manda Island, at Diamond Beach Village.

Leaving the jetty, I walked inland, back to the mazes, trying to negotiate the city’s core. There were many beautiful things for sale — some of the nicest, more ornately wood-carved furniture I’d ever seen, for example, and plenty of jewellery, beaded and silver — but I wasn’t in the mood to buy.

Then, I spotted Stanley walking by the various sellers and he smiled at me.

‘John, man, how’re you?’ he said. ‘You’ve survived Lamu so far.’

‘Barely,’ I said. ‘But I’m all right.’

‘I’m just on my way to Jannat House, the inn I’m staying at, to drop off some papers,’ he said, referencing a full folder under his arm. ‘But then I’m going to watch some football. Do you want to join me?’

‘I’ll walk you to Jannat House,’ I said. ‘What’s the football match?’

‘Well, I’m a Chelsea fan,’ he said, ‘because of Boris, actually, and my predilection for all things Russian. Roman Abramovich, Chelsea’s owner, kind of looks like our comrade Boris and he’s a Russian Jew, too.’

‘I think that’s where the commonalities end,’ I said.

‘Maybe, ha,’ said Stanley, ‘but there’s a place that’s playing videos of the game from a few days ago, Wigan Athletic and Chelsea, and another match, too. Anyway, I missed the match and don’t know the outcome, so I bought a ticket earlier to watch it in a little theatre this afternoon.’

‘That’s really cool,’ I said, as we walked to Jannat House. ‘How’re your accommodations?’

‘Nice,’ said Stanley, ‘but I get tired of Lamu very quickly.’

‘Really, why? It’s beautiful.’

‘It is. But I get sick of the donkey shit. I’m a city guy,’ he said.

Like many of the buildings in Lamu, Jannat House was very white, with thatched roofs, and it had a courtyard with a little pool and a window where one could order drinks: Stanley ordered a beer and I ordered a bottle of water, not wanting to drink early in the afternoon.

We sat by the pool and chatted for a while. I told Stanley I hadn’t been feeling well and that I thought maybe the malaria medication had something to do with it.

‘Are you taking anything?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It never even crossed my mind.’

He went to get ready for his football match and I headed back to Yumbe House. I told him I’d see him down at the jetty, around seven, when we were taking a boat to Manda Island.

Back in the streets I heard a seller yell, ‘You, the Canadian, come here,’ he said. So I stopped and turned around.

‘How’d you know I was Canadian?’ I said.

‘Lucky guess,’ said the man standing behind his counter, with shiny silverwork everywhere on black fabric. ‘My name’s Slim.’

‘John,’ I said.

‘Nice to meet you, John,’ he said. ‘Are you looking for anything? A gift for a girlfriend?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Oh come on. I’m sure you are. How about a nice ring,’ he said. ‘I’ll sell it cheap. Very cheap. It’s beautiful work. I’m an expert silversmith. And it’s very inexpensive here. This ring,’ he said, holding up a small weaved silver ring, ‘only thirty American dollars.’

‘I’ll give you twenty,’ I said.

‘For forty I’ll give you this ring and these earrings,’ he said, holding a simple but elegant pair of dangling silver earrings.

‘Thirty,’ I said.

‘No, John, forty’s a good deal. The ring’s thirty dollars, which is a good price, and the earrings are thirty-five dollars, which is also a good price, and it’d be much more expensive in the United States. Or Canada, sorry,’ he said.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘forty dollars.’

‘Nice doing business with you, John,’ he said, and started carefully wrapping the jewellery, and putting it in plastic Ziploc baggies. ‘Send me a postcard,’ he said, handing me a business card. ‘I have postcards from everywhere.’ He motioned to postcards pinned up to the borders of his booth. ‘What city do you live in in Canada?’

‘Montreal.’

‘I’ve already got postcards from Montreal and Toronto,’ he said. ‘Can you send me one from Calgary? I don’t have one from Calgary.’

I’d no intention of buying anything but Slim quickly had convinced me and, besides, his jewellery was appealing, though I remembered Stacey didn’t like jewellery, but it didn’t matter, I thought, someone would want it.

Somehow, while daydreaming, I made it back to Yumbe House unassisted. And I felt a genuine sense of satisfaction. I thought I’d try and nap before the party.

We arrived at Diamond Beach at dusk. Bamboo torches lit the way from the beach in the semidarkness to the village. Again, we’d taken a large sailboat, then a small rowboat to the shore, though Manda Island was very close and we could see Lamu from the beach, and I kept thinking about all the people over the centuries viewing the island entrepôt for the first time from the sea.

It was the starriest night yet. We were all excited. A bonfire blazed as we walked up to the resort village. There were barbecues cooking up meats and fishes and we were served drinks immediately, a sort of punch.

There were Christmas lights, too, around some of the buildings, powered by a generator.

A young woman in a kikoy and a bikini top welcomed us as we piled into the village, and she told us about how she visited Lamu backpacking, in the late nineties, for y2k, in fact, and she’d decided to make Lamu her home. She’d been back to the U.K. twice in the seven years since she’d moved, but Manda Island’s now her home, she told us, and that’s why she’d opened the resort, a resort built like a Swahili village. Indeed, it was beautiful and simple there. ‘Today, also,’ she said, ‘is the first day of Kwanzaa. So happy Kwanzaa to all of you here, especially our American guests.’

A mix of mostly reggae and pop played as people ate and mingled and danced. I approached Boris, who introduced me to a young South African poet named Max in a HIV POSITIVE T-shirt. Max had flown in from Johannesburg for the festival and we made small talk for a few minutes and then Max moved on. Boris looked a little sunburnt, and I asked him how his boat trip went.

‘Oh amazing, man. Osama really is an expert in the region. Nice smart guy, really,’ said Boris. ‘And he may not drink but he had one of those, like, fishing boxes … ’

‘A tackle box.’

‘Yeah he had a tackle box full of different marijuanas and hashishes and smoked all day long,’ said Boris. ‘He’s a hippie.’

‘I think he hates me like poison,’ I said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Are you taking antimalarials?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I never do. They have them around if you get malaria and need them.’

Then, a poet, Ed, from the southern United States, joined us.

‘Hey, Ed,’ said Boris. ‘We’re just talking about malaria.’

‘I got malaria in Uganda,’ said Ed, ‘years ago.’

‘Are you serious?’ Boris said.

‘Yes, it was serious. I wasn’t anywhere near a hospital so the villagers took care of me. I was delirious and people kept bringing me these sugar cakes. I was so feverish, sweating nonstop, having wild nightmares, which seemed so real, terrifying, and one night I thought I was in the hut but I woke up in the middle of a dirt road a mile or so from the village.’