"Won't real people let you work on them?" he asked. There wasn't any malice in the phrasing, just an honest curiosity, and that almost endearing lack of sensitivity which typifies most nats.
"Not real willingly," I said. "But that really isn't the reason. Jokers offer a fascinating range of physiological and epidemiological problems. That's candy to a doctor." I paused, wondering how to phrase this so I wouldn't sound like a sanctimonious asshole. I couldn't think of one so I shrugged and just said it. "And I am one hell of a lucky joker so I feel like I ought be giving a little back."
Skully shook his head. "Not me. If I had the brains and education I'd be making money...." His voice rose to accentuate the final word, then trailed away into sadness.
I smiled at him. "There's plenty of time for that."
"For you, Doc." He pulled the piece of hay from his mouth, and tossed it away. He rose, and followed it.
Again I felt that gulf - not because I was a joker, but because I carried around the curse (or blessing) of my family's wealth like a camel carries humps. I decided I couldn't solve the financial inequalities of the world right then, so arranging my tail across my flank, (it gets cold in those planes) I pillowed my head on my arm, and went to sleep.
***
Nairobi wasn't what I'd expected. Africa had always been this place of wonderful mystery for me. Tarzan movies (the good ones with Johnny Weissmuller, not Jack Braun), H. Rider Haggard, lost cities; all the usual WASP bullshit.
So, imagine my surprise and chagrin when I fetched up in this modern city with skyscrapers, traffic jams, people in business suits and tailored dresses. I shook my head over my own silliness, and grabbing my tote, suitcase and medical bag, I approached a policeman, and asked directions to my hotel. He told me in elegantly accented English, and I started jogging away, only to be arrested by his soft, "Sir."
I slewed around, and stared back across my hindquarters at him. "Yes?"
"Kenya ... is an Islamic nation ... primarily."
"Yeah, so?" (And yeah, I was very stupid, what can I say.)
"According to the teachings of Islam, victims of the wild card are considered cursed of Allah."
It was great; I had found probably the only politically correct cop in all of Nairobi, but I could tell from the expression in his dark eyes that he thought the teachings were spot on the money.
"I appreciate the warning," I said. "But I really do need to reach my hotel. I'll keep my head down, and move fast." We nodded politely to one another, and I headed on my way.
In addition to traveling fast I can also travel light. Shirts, ties, and a couple of jackets, that's the entirety of my wardrobe. One nun at the parochial school I attended sent me home on the grounds I was indecent, and insisting that Mom and Dad fit me out with a pair of trousers. I can still remember Dad's bellow - he said I'd look like a bad vaudeville act - and that was my last day in parochial school ... thank God. (Sorry I'm losing the thread here.)
This being Africa it was warm, and the suitcase began to hang like an anvil off my right hand. I briefly regretted not phoning ahead, and arranging for my version of a limo - guy with a truck and horse trailer - but I'm not an animal, and resent being treated like one. I also have this weird recurring nightmare where they get me in one of those enclosed horse vans like the Brits use, and they trundle me away to the knackers. Not a nice dream.
As I trotted, I considered priorities. I needed to get to Kilango Cha Jaha, the village where many of Kenya's jokers were now squatting, and report to my superior, Dr. Etienne Faneuil. Now, while I'm a robust boy, and enjoy an aerobic workout as much as the next fellow, I didn't really want to travel around Nairobi and environs at the steady 4.2 miles an hour I can maintain when jogging, nor did I want to reduce travel time by running. The sight of a pony centaur galloping through city streets generally causes comment, and I'm always worried some asshole's going to decide it's round-up time and he's a cowboy.
So, the bottom line was I needed wheels; a custom jobbie, a van with handicapped controls on the steering wheel, a sliding side door, and the seats ripped out. Correction, all but one seat ripped out. I do occasionally have passengers, and pretty ladies don't like to sit on the floor, or stand like commuters on a subway.
I had been so deeply engrossed in my own ruminations that I didn't notice the cars which had fallen in behind me like a secret service escort. By the time I did notice one had jumped the curb, and angled across the sidewalk in front of me. Another was in the process of completing the trap to my rear.
I had a strong sensation their motives weren't friendly, so I let fly with both hind feet, and caught the opening car door just below the handle. One of my kicks generates a lot of power. I heard a yell and a curse in something that sounded suspiciously like raghead chatter from the driver of car number two as the door slammed back and caught his leg and hand as he tried to exit. That still left me with two assailants. And there was no doubt now they were assailants. They were brandishing tire irons, and I sure as hell knew I didn't have a flat.
There was a high fence on my right, and beyond those walls I could see the tops of trees. I clumsily threw my suitcase at the two men in front of me. They easily dodged, and I felt a strong sense of ill use. This kind of thing always works in the movies my dad produces. My attempt at Rambo having failed, I opted for flight, and bolted across the hood of their Mazda. My hooves didn't do much for either the body work or the paint job. My agility seemed to surprise one guy. He just gaped as I went clattering past. His partner was less impressed. He swung the iron, and caught me high on the left shoulder. It hurt like a motherfucker, but I was down on the sidewalk again, and with the width of a car between them and me.
Grimly clutching my tote and my medical bag I galloped for the gate some fifty yards ahead with the two guys running and shouting in pursuit. I heard a lot of Allah's and Nur al Allah's going past as I yanked open the latch, and raced through. It was a park. Beautiful, pristine, peaceful. Later I found out I'd entered the Nairobi National Park. One hundred and ten kilometers of virgin wilderness almost completely within the confines of a major metropolitan center.
Wilderness ... complete with wild animals.
Like lions.
It was not a good afternoon. I dislike being regarded as lunch almost as much as I resent being regarded as a monster. Let's just say I finally reached the peaceful shores of that paean to modern civilization - the Hilton Hotel.
***
My welcoming committee in Nairobi should have prepared me for the realities of Kilango Cha Jaha, but as I was waved through the gates by a pair of Kenyan military guards I couldn't help but wonder if the fences were to keep the jokers in as much to keep the fanatics out.
Kilango was your usual third world shit hole, and as I drove I ruminated bitterly on the irony of the village's name - Kilango Cha Jaha, Gate of Paradise - yeah, right. There was a small river meandering through the mud and thatch huts, and a pall of cook smoke hung like a memory of a bad hangover across the entire village. Children, many of them completely normal, frolicked in the dusty streets, or paddled in the river. Somewhere a radio was blasting out Somali rock and roll.
I wondered at the lack of adult jokers. Were they all hiding shyly in their huts venturing out only at night when darkness could disguise their deformities? Did they all have jobs (unlikely), and were at work? Jokers tend to fall into two categories - the ashamed, who keep so low a profile as to be almost invisible, and the flaunters, who delight in shocking the normal world which surrounds them. I'm unusual (or at least I pride myself that I am) because I don't fall into either category. I just do my thing, and hope things don't get too uncomfortable in return. Still, I was bothered by the missing jokers.