Part 1 (scroll down for Part 2)
In Western Australia, we’ve been fortunate in avoiding the prolonged pandemic lockdowns that the rest of the world refers to as ‘the new normal’. Kit assured me that any kind of normal would be new territory for me. In any case, last week, Kit and I were resigned to spending the week in lockdown with no one for company but each other.
“It’s so unfair!” Kit exclaimed petulantly, stamping his hind paw.
Ignoring that thinly disguised insult, I told him, “When I was a little girl and my grandmother came to stay, she used to make up stories to tell me. How about we try that?”
“That sounds less boring than the TV programs you let me watch,” Kit conceded, “I’ll go first in case you do one that sounds like a lecture.”
“Fine,” I agreed magnanimously.
Kit’s story went something like this.
In the olden days, about 2002, far away, in the wilds of Tanzania, my Grandpa Meerkat joined an expedition to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. In case he got bored, he invited his human sidekick, Uncle Dave to tag along.
Grandpa Meerkat was well versed in the modern technology of the time and booked the expedition through the internet. But you couldn’t pay online back then. In the end most of his luggage consisted of cash. He was quite pleased he had invited Uncle Dave, who had a great many pockets, and generously agreed to carry the money.
Anyway, once the tour was booked, Grandpa and Uncle Dave travelled on the back of a truck from Botswana all the way through Zambia to Tanzania. The trip was largely uneventful, as there were no windows in the back of the truck, which was a complete waste of scenery. Grandpa described the journey as being not unlike that time he got trapped in a tumble dryer- hot, dark, bumpy, and smelling slightly of elephant dung.
Eventually they arrived in the town of Moshi and made their way to meet the others at a small, ramshackle guesthouse, curiously named, The Grand Hotel.
The party consisted of the usual assortment of overprivileged westerners, who sat around drinking sugarcane liquor and trying to outdo each other with the number and variety of animals they had spotted on safari (and also the number and variety of drinks they could hold down).
Once it was established that everyone claimed to have seen the Big Five, the conversation moved to bird species. By this stage, some of them were quite drunk. I paid careful attention when Grandpa relayed the bird names, so I remember them all: the dowdy long-beaked wallflower, raging pipsqueak and wrong-bottomed scoundrel. I hope to see them all in the wild someday. They’re obviously all very rare, as I haven’t found them mentioned on Google. And I might be wrong about the raging pipsqueak. That might have been Uncle Dave’s nickname for Grandpa.
Part 2
Eventually, Grandpa found himself endeavouring to make polite conversation with a young gentleman in such a state that no one was going to be offering him their car keys any time soon. After introducing himself as a meerkat adventurer, he asked the young man what he did for a living.
“I’m an assassin,” the young man slurred.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell people,” Grandpa replied, unphased.
“I didn’t say I was a good one,” the assassin explained.
“How many meerkats have you killed?” Grandpa asked carefully, eyeing the exits.
“None. You lot don’t go around making trouble. I mainly focus on humans,” he replied, squinting and failing to focus on anything at all.
Grandpa exhaled, “So how many people have you killed?”
“Just one so far. But I’ve killed him a lot.”
“So, is he actually dead, then?”
“Mostly. Sort of. He’s very unwell. I’m actually still studying, so I’m practicing on him. I’ve been killing him once a month for ages.”
“Poor guy.”
“Poor guy?! He’s killed a lot more people than I have. A lot,” he repeated despondently, staring into his drink.
“Right. Well, carry on then, ha-ha!” Grandpa squeaked scurrying off to the relative safety of the rest of the party, who were now eagerly engaged in the process of setting fire to their drinks, and in several cases, their nostril hair.
Grandpa approached Uncle Dave, “I’m out of here!” he declared in a loud whisper, “This lot are crazier than a man mowing his astroturf.”
“But don’t you want to conquer the mountain?” Uncle Dave asked in surprise, casually extinguishing his nostril hair.
“Not particularly,” Grandpa replied, “In hindsight, climbing a mountain that starts with, Kill a Man isn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. Some people around here might be inclined to take that a bit too literally. I’m going to hitch a ride home and do some bird-watching on the way.”
Kit concluded, “So, Grandpa Meerkat hitch-hiked back to Botswana, describing, naming and dodging many bird species along the way, including my favourite, the gold-plated twerking twit. I did find a picture of this one on Google, but they got the name wrong.”
