Read Online Terroir by Graham Mort - Free Book Online Page B

and pointing at my thigh. They wanted me to unpack my theodolite. Christ knows why, but they were good - natured enough. James chatted away in the corporal’s own language. It turned out he was a westerner, too. We gave them a crate of warm beer – something small – and after shaking hands they let us bounce back to Kampala past the tea and sugar cane plantations spaced out along that fucked - up road. Back to running water and flushing toilets and clean sheets. McKenzie had got bitten by mosquitoes all over his arms and he sat behind me in the truck scratching away and hissing through his front teeth. I caught James’ eye once or twice and could have sworn he was smiling as he drove, humming gospel songs. McKenzie was new to Africa, all freckles and ginger hair and blue - eyed naivety. But I’d worked with worse. I’d worked with Armstrong for almost six months and he was an arsehole. Pure and simple. I wondered where Armstrong was now. Last thing I heard he was checking out an irrigation scheme in Zambia, but who knows? I liked to think that worse things might have come his way.
    I got up and took a shower. There was a trickle of warm brown water and I washed the soap off carefully. There was no shortage of cold water and it cleared my head to have that sheet of ice gushing over my face. Africa could be dangerous in unexpected ways. Once I’d slipped in the shower and shot out like a greased pig. There was more chance of dying from a broken electrical socket when shaving or in a shagged - out taxi after a few beers than being eaten by wildlife.
    No shave today. I dried myself off, pulled on some clean clothes and dropped last night’s shirt into the laundry basket. It stank of sweat, mosquito repellent, smoke and dope. Swigging water and remembering to take a malaria tablet, I checked the fridge. A row of Bell’s lager bottles gloated. The pain in my head pulsed. I swung the door shut and pulled on some shoes. Yesterday evening we’d stashed the gear at the company compound, drawn some cash – a satisfying wad of Ugandan currency in ten thousand shilling notes – then cleaned up at the guesthouse where we were staying this visit. I hated the Sheraton and the tourists who frequented it. There was something down to earth and unpretentious about Makerere University and its accommodation. I liked the staff too; they were attentive without being obsequious. It was James’ idea to go to Al’s, which, for a born - again Christian, was pretty cool. After a steak and a couple of beers and a quick spray of Jungle Formula we were ready for the night – which turned out to be more than ready for us.
    I went down the corridor towards breakfast. CNN news was on the television in the dining room. The usual stuff: an earthquake, a financial crisis, diplomacy in the Middle East. I took bacon, sausages, and two pale yellow eggs from the tureens. Then plenty of strong coffee. A sign above the picture of President Museveni advertised Bell lager with the stylized rays of a rising sun lighting up one customer’s happy face. The idea seemed to be that you woke up feeling good. The waiter, Moses, took my plate.
    â€“ More, sah?
    I shook my head. No way. He’d worked here for years and never seemed to find anything better. I nodded to Sister Agnes who was talking the hind leg off the guy from Colorado. He had a grey moustache and the sagging features of a Bassett hound. She was in full rig. I got up quickly before she caught my eye. Having breakfast with her was like sitting down with the headmistress to talk through your school report.
    McKenzie would be spark - out half the morning, so I decided to walk through Wandegeya and into town. I picked up my bush hat, stuffed a roll of bank notes into my pocket, and took a bottle of water from the fridge. The power had failed again and the water was at blood heat. I walked out of the compound. Past the acacia trees at the entrance.