Bert the Donkey

Bert the Donkey made his way slowly up the dry wadi, pausing here and there in the shade of willow thickets. Water trickled into a nearby limestone pool and Indian rollers chirped overhead. Ali the village boy was after him and every few minutes he heard the boy's shouts.

“Walid! Walid!” he called, searching the thickets a good distance away. “Walid,” he called again, Arabic for “boy,” Bert's new name. Bert moved carefully up the wadi searching for a quiet resting place. Ali was stupid; Bert mused, and was unlikely to find him without his father's help. It was November in Oman , the cool season in the mountainous Arab country, long on scenery and colorful villages but short of oil.

This was Bert's second visit to Oman , a great winter break from the miserable weather of his native Amsterdam . The previous year he'd hiked a very similar wadi with his British friend Jon, who worked for Shell in Muscat , the capital. The famous canyon of Jobel Shams was near here, the Oman ; Grand Canyon it was called, near the 3000 meter summit of Shams, the highest peak in this part of Arabia .

Bert looked down at his hoofs and paused. One disadvantage of being a donkey was the conspicuous tracks you made, unless he was careful even the pin-head Ali could find him. He changed strategy, hopping over several limestone slabs, hoofs clattering then waded through water a ways, getting a drink and trying a taste of good-smelling weeds. He heard Ali call again, far behind. The child really expected him to come like a dog so he could enjoy his bony arse digging into his back and be whacked constantly with a willow switch? No thanks.

Last year's trip had gone better, to say the least. He'd met Jon's coworker Heather, toured the country a bit in Jon's old Land Rover, even gotten laid. True, Heather was a rather plain girl, a geologist, and single, in an Arab country with almost no single Western men. A bit on the desperate side perhaps. But Bert wasn't a bad looking guy – tall, like many Dutch, prominent nose and ears, glasses, in good shape. He was an engineer for Philips, the big electronics firm, writing software for satellite TV and cell phone systems. Still single at 30 but that's normal for Europe . He and Heather had had a nice time bumping along in the Lonnie, Heather driving, she stopped here and there to tell him about the geology. They had a picnic by a pleasant spring near a grove of date palms and Bert would listen to the geologic history of the area while trying to undo her shirt buttons.

“This is where the Semail thrust sheet slams into the Arabian plate, a huge fault runs through here and that's why you have the springs,” she told him, pushing his hand away playfully. “Beyond here everything's metamorphic,” she said. “You promise?” he asked smiling. “What do you plan to metamorph into?” “You're not listening to a damn thing I say. Anybody ever tells you how unattractive that is?” she asked with annoyance.

(2)

“I'm listening. I like the part about the thrust sheet,” Bert said playfully.

“You Dutch are a vulgar lot. Let's go look for garnets, they're in the gravel here,” she said escaping his grasp and clumping away in her hiking boots. They searched the gravel and found several dozen purple garnets, like small grapes.

“You have no small talent as a garnet hunter mister Dutchman; Heather said, examining the hoard with a hand lens.

“My name's Bert,” he reminded her, opening wine.

“I know your name, Bert. You have other talents perhaps?” she said, spreading out an Iranian wool blanket she'd brought along. He joined her on the blanket with the wine.

They had a fun afternoon, Bert recalled, resting a moment in a cool shady spot next to a clear water pool. Small fish dimpled the water and frogs jumped in, alarmed at the donkey's presence Things had certainly changed. Heather was sent by Shell to Nigeria , Jon to Malaysia . And Bert was now a donkey, thanks to a small accident he'd had in the Mutrah Souq. There wasn't a soul in the country he knew, no one to help him. Bert dozed a bit, thinking once again about Heather.

After their romp on the rug they had a nice skinny dip. Large tadpoles and minnows nibbled them relentlessly in the clear pool, provoking howls of laughter. Heather laughed till the tears came when tadpoles gathered around poor Bert's privates, he struggled to fight then off.

“Guess they've never seen a tadpole guise that size Bert,” she quipped.

“Very funny, I wish they'd come gear you,” he said as the creatures came at him from all directions like a swarm of bees. “Ouch, dammit,” he said whey they attacked sensitive spots. She lay back and relaxed, minnows picked dead skin off an old sunburn.

“These guys are my cleaner fish. Try to relax, it's not bad,” she said, eyes closed, meditating while the army of cleaners worked. “Sort of like a full body facial, exfoliation treatment you know.”

“Ouch, Yeah just great. I've never heard of tadpoles that bite like this,” Bert said, fending them off.

“Would you relax? They can smell fear. Relax and they'll leave you alone,” she said.

Bert tried to but couldn't tolerate it. “I'm getting out, had enough of these guys,” he said, saying more ouches as his tender feet encountered sharp rocks.

“I'm not sure we can have much of a relationship if you don't like my friends,” Heather chuckled, relaxing and doing some breast stroke.

(3)

That evening Heather had taken him out to dinner at an Arabic majlis restaurant in Muscat . They had kebabs and rice on the floor with hot flat bread and honey; it was excellent if a little dry with no beer.

“Say, have you been to the Mutrah Soug?” she asked as she paid the bill.

“No, Never. It's interesting?” Bert asked.

“It's really cool. I call it the witch's souq. It's got all these old crones who mix perfumes; they can copy any perfume you name. They also mix home remedies, all kinds of cool exotic stuff. Let's go check it out,” she said. He said OK and they went out, walking by the scenic old harbor. He gave her a friendly pat on the behind and said thanks for dinner.

“You're welcome. Easy on the PDA's Bert, they're forbidden here. It's an Arab thing,” she said. Families were out strolling, kids on rollerblades, a few tourists, mostly European looking. She pointed out the Old Portuguese fort from the 1600s, built on an island in the harbor. Teakwood traditional dhows bobbed at anchor along side a few sailboats, world cruises on their way to Indian or up the Red Sea .

“So what's the weather like in Amsterdam now?” Heather asked.

“Cold as hell and raining. This place is fantastic in winter, perfect,” Bert replied, enjoying the cool clear evening along the harbor, high mountains visible as dark outlines behind the city. “Doesn't anyone live up in the hills?” he asked.

“No water, no soil. Even goats can't find much up there,” She replied.

“What was that place we had the picnic today?” he asked.

“Picnic? Bit more than a picnic,” she replied with a wink. “That is Wadi Han-pa. It has year-round water and supports a few small villages, some date groves and herds of goats. I drilled a well there for Shell last year, dry hole unfortunately.”

The entrance to the souq wasn't much, just an alleyway with no sign. They descended several steps and walked among a labyrinth of small clothing shops, music stores, shops selling spices and dried fruit. Heather stopped at one and bought some raisings and dried apricots, a friendly Omani man digging into fragrant, colorful piles of dried fruit with a small silver shovel. Next she stopped at “Arabian Honey World,” a shop with dozens of varieties of honey from nearly clear to dark as molasses. She knew the owner and had Bert try several samples on Popsicle sticks. She bought a jar of Iranian honey with comb inside, her favorite.

Heather continued the tour, taking Bert next for tea at a tiny stall, then a music store where he bought several bootleg CDs.

(4)

“Check this out, Oracle 8.3. Software, costs a thousand bucks a copy. How much is this CD?” he asked. She conversed the price, fifty cents she said. “That's a good price,” he said, picking out a few others.

They went deeper into the souq, the old part, shabby and poorly lit the walkway uneven and damp in places. Bert had to duck his head in a few places. Withered old men offered to carry their bundles and old women in black cloaks looked at them curiously. Cats darted across their path.

“Wouldn't take much to make a Halloween spook house out of this,” Bert remarked.

They stopped at a perfume shop, an old woman in black cloak and copper-colored face mask was mixing something with mortar and pestle. She was tiny and wrinkled, the copper mask beak-shaped, covering her nose and mouth. She greeted Heather with a nod, continuing her work.

“A taxi man told me about this old lady. She can summon jinn. You've heard of the jinn?” Heather asked. Bert softly.

“No, not really; he replied.

“They're somewhere between ghosts and genies, they live in some alternative reality, usually invisible. Now see that incense she has burning> Watch a few minutes,” Heather said, the woman ignoring them. A thin stream of smoke came up from the fragrant incense and to Bert's astonishment it appeared to hang in the air in a vaguely human form. Head and shoulders were outlines; it was a turbaned figure, a man. As if guided by an unseen hand the smoke stream added details – a mustache, a prominent nose. Just then a younger woman came through a curtain and joined the old lady, disrupting the still air, the strange vision vanished.

“Damn, it's not some trick?” Bert asked.

“Don't think so. When the image is complete they say this old woman can say a few words and summon the jinn. She doesn't because they can do mischief. Also they're hard to get rid of if they decide to stay. Spooky as hell, eh?” she asked.

“Yeah, how'd you learn so much about it?” Bert asked.

“They're some Oman 's at the office that are into this stuff. There are wild stories – people turned into animals, horses made into unicorns, that sort of thing. Lots of Oman 's come here for the local Viagra or other folk medicines. They have rhino horn too, brought up from Somalia ; she said pointing to rows of bottles in back. Along the back wall of the shop the old lady had posted magazine ads of all the perfumes she could copy, some decades old. An old ad by Catherine Nervure for Chanel had pride of place. Heather pointed to one she wanted, White Diamonds. The woman put aside her grinding

(5)

and got several small bottles from a cabinet, all dirty and opaque, and began mixing a liquid in a ceramic bowl. She added drops from two brown bottles, like eardrops. Then she took what looked like a piece of root and crushed it in her pestle, adding a few drops of this and that.

“Can she make a Margarita?” Bert asked, Heather shushing him. The lady gave Heather a sniff from her glass mortar, it smelled of cinnamon.

“No offense but I never took you for the perfume type. Do you wear it when you're out drilling for oil?” Bert asked.

“Hey, I've got a frou-frou side. I can dress up and be a girlie given the right occasion. Finding oil for the Sultan and waltzing at the British Embassy is all in a day's work. Mm, that smells good,” she said when the silent old woman let her smell from a bottle. The woman presented a tray of decorative glass bottles, dozens of types, for Heather to choose. She selected one and the woman filled it with amber liquid, it was done. She took another smell and let Bert try it.

“Now, I'm ready for the Invincible,” she said, paying the lady.

“The what?” Bert asked.

“HMS Invincible, the aircraft carrier, its coming next week, all secret of course but everybody knows. It's great; my dance card will be full. Hope you're not the jealous type,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Not at all,” he said.

“Good, let's go back to your place,” she said.

They caught a taxi back. Heather put on a silky teddy and her faux White Diamonds and gave Bert a full taste of her frou-frou side, romping till the wee hours in his rather shabby two-star room.

Bert stood up and shook himself; he'd had a good nap. He yawned and swished his tail at a pesky fly. He was hungry and it was nearly sunset. Ali had probably given up. He drank from the pool and continued up the wadi in deep shade, following his keen nose which smelled parsley and salad greens somewhere up ahead. Good chance there was a garden he could raid, maybe even a dirt hold for a dust bath. He kept his eyes open and sniffed the air for other donkeys, he'd heard of wild donkeys living in these canyons, free, nobody whacking them with willow branches or making them carry loads of water or firewood. If he had to be a donkey he at least would be free.

(6)

This second trip to Oman was nothing like the first. His friends were gone but he'd come anyway, enticed by the warm breezes and a break from horrible northern European winter weather. He's stayed at the same tacky hotel. He'd brought along a tourist guidebook. He'd consulted the US State Dept website on Oman ; it was full of the usual dire warnings about Arab states. One thing caught his eye – recently several tourists had vanished without a trace, their families and local police were still searching. Probably people that simply wanted to drop out of sight a while, Bert thought. Bert thought about vanishing sometimes, but he would choose some place like Uganda or Tanzania , not Oman . He had money saved and could buy a little house on the slope of a volcano in Uganda , hire a servant girl or two and just chill. Get a really tall, really hot girl friend. A guy at the office in Holland had a Ugandan wife, a model, who washed his feet and legs every night after work and danced to his favorite Bob Marley tunes. Everybody laughed at how the guy rushed out the door at quitting time, but who could blame him? What, he'd rather sip beer and have his feet washed by a model than debug UNIX scripts?

Following the guidebook Bert had taken a tour of the Portuguese Fort, and a harbor tour. He had a bird book and identified several colorful species of migrating bird, Oman being between the lakes of East Africa and the Caspian region, a prime migration course. On the third day he was drawn back to the Mutrah souq. He had a light supper at the hotel and entered the winding, confusing labyrinth of tiny shops. He found the bootleg CD place again and bought a few items for friends. He stopped and tried colorful fried sweets like donut holes, very oily but good with hot sweet tea. He bought a damask tablecloth for his mom and a little silver teapot for a favorite aunt. He heard tapping and stopped and watched craftsmen hammer out small copper pots, next door was a knife maker he stopped and watched for a while.

And curiosity drove him back deep in the souq to the old perfume lady, her faded picture of the beautiful Catherine Nervure just a bit more faded after a year. Bert wanted to see the trick with the incense again and had a small camera hidden in his pocket. He selected a perfume for her to make and she began the task, crushing some black berries while a muscular young guy, her son maybe, was grinding some mineral, rock salt perhaps. The incense smoke rose in the still closeness of the cramped shop, the woman and son exchanging a few words while Bert stood and watched. The figure emerged, a turbaned, wizard-like man with a huge nose, deep-set eyes and sharp shin. Bert got his camera ready as the thin stream of incense smoked added detail, the unseen artist moving here and there. A robe emerged, arms and hands, in one hand a cane. How in the hell do they do it, the damn shop didn't even have electricity. Just then the woman and son paused and she said something to the figure. It began to turn like a hologram. Bert snapped a shot, another. The figure raised the hand with the cane and faced Bert; the cane was aimed at him. Holy Shit, he thought. Then something punched him in the gut, punched the air out of him and he collapsed, feeling the dirty wet concrete floor against his cheek, his glasses gone somewhere. He heard shouts and was being pulled along, partly raised, and dragged by strong hands. He smelled the cool outside air; he'd been taken outside somehow. Then everything faded.

(7)

The four footed version of Bert woke up in the back of a moving pickup, wind whistling between the wooden slats, a floor of dirty straw. He looked through a crack at the desert countryside of hills and canyons as the truck exited the highway and jolted along a rutted track toward a village. At the village he got out briefly and was shoved into a small barn, hay and a few wormy apples for supper, a few goats for company. He managed a few hours sleep.

Ali and his dad came the next morning and he was sold. A bridle was put on him and a wool saddle blanket with cinch straps. Ali hopped aboard, dug his bony behind into Bert's back, lay on the willow switch, and into the village they went, Ali shouting to all his pals to come look at “ Walid .” He discovered a donkey was quite a status symbol; Ali was one of the top dogs of the squalid, dusty village when he was astride his donkey.

Bert knew he had to get back to Muscat and find the Dutch embassy, get some help. It was fraught with difficulty of course. He was at least 100 kilos from the city and no taxi was likely to stop for him. If he got there, then what? Go to the consular section and ask to see an officer? He had no power of speech and could only scratch out words with a hoof. He had no documents, no passport, nobody was looking for him. First thing was to get away from Ali and the switch, get out in the hills and make a plan.

So the next day as Ali leaned over to pick a ripe pomegranate Bert gave a good buck, he landed in the dirt with a plop.

Bert galloped through the village and into the wadi , working his way upstream all morning while the boy looked for him. Now it was evening and he was hungry, he smelled gardens ahead and heard water trickling. Suddenly to one side he saw another donkey enjoying a dust bath, she saw him and stood up in a cloud of dust. She shook herself as he approaches, watching him. Wow, Bert thought. An attractive female and a dust bath, forget hunger. He approached her, they sniffed noses. She had a wound on her back which Bert examined; she turned away from him warily. She stood aside while Bert took a turn in the dust bath, raising an impressive cloud. He finished and on impulse took a palm frond in his teeth and smoothed an area. Then he took his hoof and wrote the word “Hello” in the dust. She came around to see it, eager, almost pushing him aside. Below it she wrote “ Francaise ,” and looked at him. Below it he wrote “Pays-bas.” She nodded her head and wrote “Come,” and walked quickly away up the wadi , turning for him to follow. Bert followed her and she showed him a succulent garden and spring nearby and further on, a spot where she'd trampled down the grass for a comfy bed. Her breath smelled like fresh cilantro and as the moon rose Bert thought he might be falling in love.

The End