In my case, Skully, an unprepossessing wisp of humanity though he had a magician's gift with horses (maybe that's why I liked him so well), broke open one of the bales of hay, and built me a centaur's nest.
As I folded my legs beneath me and went lurching in a groundward direction, he said in his thick Irish brogue, "Don't go eatin' all that hay now. We've got a lot of miles and hours to Africa."
I reached for my travel bag, and dug out a handful of Snickers, pears and grapes, an Edam cheese, crackers, a tin of sardines, and a ham sandwich prepared and lovingly wrapped by my sweet, indulgent momma who would have packed the same gargantuan Care package if I'd been flying first class on Delta airlines. My mother doesn't believe that anybody save herself can cook.
"Skully," I said. "I'm not a hay burner. Nor am I likely to go nuts and mount that attractive little thoroughbred mare either, so relax and go to sleep."
He grinned rather sheepishly (after this many years I'm virtually as telepathic as Tachyon when it comes to people's weird assed ideas about jokers — our manners, morals and tastes. I was right; he had been contemplating my sex life), and settled back to squat on his heels.
"So why are you heading to the dark continent?" he asked.
"I'm a doctor, and a Peace Corps volunteer." (You can tell from the order in which I placed those two conditions which one most pleased me.) "I'm going to be working with the joker community outside of Nairobi."
"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.