Wild life
Clap trap
Aldan Hartley
There are only three kinds of men in Africa,' my old Dad used to say. 'Those who have got the clap, or have had the clap, or are going to get the clap.' In my case, I earned my spurs not in Africa but at Oxford after attending a fancy dress party as a Mexican. The sombrero went down a storm, except that when the girl in my arms woke up at first light she gave a start. 'Who the hell are you? Last night you had a beard.' Imagine my embarrassment several days later when I entered the Radcliffe clinic and came face-to-face with half my English year. But all this is beside the point.
Fast forward 14 years to the other day, when my friends Nick and Heather asked me to manage their ranch northwest of Mount Kenya while they took a break over- seas. I was up there like a shot, since their spread is my idea of what heaven will be: wide open spaces full of game, horses, nutty neighbours and thousands of sheep. Before they left, Nick showed me around the farm. As we all know, sheep constantly get sick and my job entailed a regimen of dipping and injecting to stem the relentless tide of oviform death. But I also had to take care of dozens of shepherds, a bunch of wild, lop-eared tribesmen with weather- beaten faces who lived out with the flocks in bomas scattered across the plain. 'This is the medicine cabinet,' said Nick, pointing to a locked cabinet in the farm office. `Inside you'll find everything you need for the workers.'
I was out among the bomas several days later, chatting to the shepherds in Swahili, when one demanded some 'compshools'. He didn't look at all happy but I couldn't help him. I had no idea what he was talking about. After that, others began to ask for the same thing. Soon there was a clamour for 'compshools'. One morning I found a queue of men doubled up outside the office. When I asked them what they want- ed, you can guess what they replied. Then they pointed to the medicine cabinet. Inside, I found two very large plastic tubs. One was full of elephant tranquilliser-sized white tablets. The shepherds shook their heads. The other container was full of red and yellow antibiotic capsules. The truth dawned on me as my patients nodded hap- pily and exclaimed: `Compshools!' On the tub's lid Nick had written DOSAGE GIVE ONE, so I blithely handed out a capsule to each man. They limped off, but next morning they were back again. This went on for some days. Eventually I put my foot down and demanded an explanation. Sheepishly, because let's face it these were shepherds, one of them came forward and spilled the beans. His tale was that a lady of ill repute, a sort of wandering whore of the wild north, had gone from boma to boma servicing every male on the property. Hence the limps and the capsules: my entire workforce had gonorrhea.
Oh my lord, I thought. I've been handing these antibiotics out like smarties, only in dosages too low to kill off the clap. The bacteria were just going to get stronger and build resistance to all magic bullet drugs known to modern science. And sitting out there in that remote corner of the African bush, the horrible realisation came to me that I was single-handedly nurturing the next global super bug. And these poor shepherds were my guinea pigs. There was nothing for it. I loaded up the Land Rover with a couple of leathery old cull ewes along with about ten shepherds, then drove across the plains to the nearest village of Suguta Lol Marmar. This frontier spot is like a spaghetti western set, equipped with a single bar run by an enor- mously obese and charming Kikuyu rogue named Mwangi. But Suguta also has a small clinic. Here I dropped my load of shepherds to go and have their whopping injections of penicillin while I nipped across the road to flog the cull ewes to fat Mwangi. By the time he had handed over the cash, popped the cap off a Tusker beer for me and sent the ewes off to be barbe- qued for his patrons, the shepherds had begun to emerge from the clinic rubbing their buttocks and grinning like prep school kids who had just been caned. I went back and forth between farm and Suguta over the next week, until all the shepherds had been properly treated. I'm glad to announce that my part in the next world pandemic is a closed chapter, but to where the wandering whore of the wild north van- ished is what I'd like to know.
Previous page
