There are flies on your toes, ocean
waves in your ears, goat shit underfoot and great itching. There are army
generals with bags of khat marinating between their teeth and the sides of
their mouths, who, charged with sexual energy and far from their wives must
walk down to the sea or go up to the mountain to cool down and sleep. The tea
is sugary and the drums are made from sheep’s skin, warmed in fire and played
for hours in the company of your curious guests.
The men gather to eat and talk
and the women orbit in dark veils and beautiful robes, with piercing eyes and
giggling children. The beaches are littered with crab pyramids. The vultures
have scraggly yellow heads and the ghosts of Indian House Crows haunt the
trees. The sand dunes pile along the sides of great rock cliffs, rippling like
ocean water.
And the sound of Ismael’s voice is soothing and musical, flowing
over everything and making every rock, every sandy stretch, every shrub, every
ant, every hopeful hitchhiker, every great buzzing wasp, every delicious sweet
potato, every premature date, every fisherman and goat herder and gas station
attendant, every piece of garbage, every dusty jawbone, every severed goat leg,
every drop of turquoise water, every bug bite, every bowl of fresh bread, every
bottle of non-alcoholic Beck’s beer, every journal entry, every photograph,
every call to prayer, every short-wave radio signal, every ache and itch, every
dirt stain, every healing cut, every passport page, every winding road, every
fly, every hand shake, every cup of tea, every star-eyed child, every fish
carcass, every empty water bottle, every wet bathing suit, every civet cat
sighting, every cushion, every conversation, every straining squat, every
cramp, every circling buzzard, every flickering butterfly, every bare foot,
every biscuit and every flat tire a part of his stories.
And behind it all the
hazy threat of spider bites and scorpion stings, a mild electric current that
buzzes softly beneath the radio static, bird song and storytelling.
