The Gwaii Hotel
Lawerence Winkler
‘There’s nothing nobler than to put up with a few inconveniences
like snakes and dust for the sake of absolute freedom.
Jack Kerouac, Lonesome Traveler
It is said that the worst thing to happen to Africa was the arrival of the white man. And that the second worst thing was his departure. I arrived smack dab in the middle, climbing into the cab of a flatbed tractor-trailer, hauling sandbags north. The tall bald black driver grinned with his single peg yellow tooth and gave me that double grip Ndebele handshake that requires you to count your fingers on the way out. I thought I would make it to Victoria Falls that day for sure.
Right on dusk, the truck pulled over and the driver motioned me out. I got the part about how he was turning down a thin forlorn grooved track, but I wasn’t sure he got the part about how it was getting dark in the middle of the Matabeleland bush. He gestured with his index finger that I should carry on down the Falls Road. I thanked him, and descended into the blood red stillness, while he turned into a receding cloud of dust.
The sun goes down quickly in Africa. Like a pinball spiraling into a hole. It was black in a minute. Then the noise started, first with insects and then working its way up the food chain. I believe it was the low guttural moaning that got my legs moving. I started to whistle and thought better of it. I wasn’t sure what the precise definition of landing in shit was in Africa, but I was convinced I might be converging on it. Way off in the distance, I thought I saw a light. As I paced along the lighter shadow between the two dark ones, I grew more hopeful I was right. Maybe the toothless black bald bastard was pointing to something after all. Twenty minutes later, slathered in sweat, I came left and down off the road, over a short narrow bridge, and into a clearing surrounded by mature trees. There were monkeys. I walked past a warthog sitting beside the path. He looked at me like he had been expecting me. I ducked under and through the large bats swooping in the air above me. Aerobatics, I thought to myself. In front of me was my light. It was at the top of a stone stairway that led through an open door, into a foyer decorated with the heads and skins of African game. The sound of animated conversation and clinking glasses came from around the corner. I walked past a full gun rack towards the source of the activity and came into a bar. Paper money from all over the world was plastered on the river stone wall, behind the bottles. And, plastered in front of that, were three old white men with large moustaches in fellies and long socks, quaffing mugs of Lion and Castle lager. It was a scene out of an old British safari film. Even though I must have looked a sight, they didn’t skip a beat.
“I say, old boy.” Said the one in the middle, obviously the ringleader. “Won’t you sit and have a drink with us?” I didn’t want a drink, but I needed one. I sat down with them. The black bartender had it on the bar before my backside hit the stool. My head may have been in Zimbabwe, but my butt was in Rhodesia.
“Where are you from?” Said the ringleader.
“Canada.” I said. That was the only question they ever asked me. Like the rest didn’t matter. Wherever I was from, whatever my story, I was now with them, and that was all that counted.
“This is Harold.” Offered Morris, one of the other moustaches. “He’s the owner and proprietor of the Gwaii River Hotel. He pointed at the ringleader. “And a bloody fine host he is, as well, for an old farmer.” He added.
“The Gwaii River Hotel. Is that where this is?” I inquired.
“Where else, dear boy? And where else would you rather be?” Asked Harold. He had me there.
It turns out that the other two moustaches were tobacco farmer friends of Harold. It was their guns in the rack in the lobby. Just as I finished my drink, another appeared.
“Have you any plans for dinner, Wink?” Harold asked. As if.
“Not really.” I said.
“Well, I’d be delighted if you’d be my guest.” The tobacco farmers seemed to think this was a “jolly good idea.” I told them I’d be delighted too. In my wildest imagination, I couldn’t make up the next part.
We all shuffled off next door which, dark though it was, I recognized as the dining room. As we sat down at one of the tables, I was drawn to something moving on the ceiling above us. It seemed to be a large carpet, swinging languidly back and forth, providing a bit of welcome ventilation. It was attached, through a system of cords and pulleys to a giant black man standing in one corner. He was wearing a fez and pulling a long rope up and down in two-four time.
“How do you like our punkah wallah, Wink?” Harold asked. I liked him fine.
Birds flew in and out of the room. Another big black man loomed above me. I figured he was the headwaiter. He had a beauty queen sash on his colonial uniform that said ‘Headwaiter.’ I was on a roll.
“This is ‘Millions.’ He’s our headwaiter.” Said Harold. Got it.
Millions didn’t speak much English, but he was able to figure out what we wanted anyway. What we wanted, apparently, was roast guinea fowl and tumblers of scotch. Long after the sumptuous meal and stimulating conversation, the farmers took their leave, and Harold asked the next obvious question.
“Had you made any arrangements for tonight, Wink?” He asked diplomatically. I told him I hadn’t.
“Then you shall be my guest.” This was a special human being, I thought.
“Morgan.” He shouted, “Give Wink the key to Room Number 9.”
Morgan appeared with the key. I thanked Harold again and bid him goodnight. I had no idea what was behind the door to Room Number 9.
I put the key in the lock and turned the handle. The door opened easily, and I switched on the light. The spacious room smelled of straw. Under the large window on the far wall there were two beds facing me. Zimbabwean counterpanes were tucked snugly around the mattresses. On the headboard of the right-hand bed was the largest spider I had ever seen.
Even from the door, I could see its mouthparts moving. Fangs protruded below its moustache. As I entered the room it folded its front half up off the headboard and began waving the striped underside of its front legs around in an agitated threatening posture. Its mouthparts moved faster but no sound came out. Of either of us.
I was in the lobby. I was done.
“Harold!” I called. Repeatedly.
“What is it, Wink?” His voice arrived from down the hall.
“There’s a giant spider in my room.” I said, pretending calm.
“Don’t worry.” He said. “It’s just a rain spider. Palystesjohnstoni.” Now I felt better.
“Do they bite?” Just curious.
“Oh, yes, but they’re not particularly venomous.” He said. I had to think about that one a bit. It must be an African distinction, I thought. “Just ignore him and he probably won’t give you any trouble.” He said, trying to reassure me, and failing miserably.
I tried to be reasonable. It would simply be ingratitude to show any further weakness. Here was a kind old man offering me hospitality of the first order, and I was raising a fuss over an arachnid he was not the least bit concerned about. I needed to get a grip.
I went back to Room Number 9, opened the door, and switched on the light. Nope, I decided, I was right the first time. There he still was folded up off the headboard waving those striped legs around, and twitching his fangs, like he was playing ‘chopsticks’ on the piano with his index fingers.
I needed a distraction. I went into the adjacent room and started running a bath. Back in the bedroom, I went over to the dresser and pulled all the newspaper out of the bottom of all the drawers. I rolled it into a tight baton and sat in the bath, washing and drying myself off with just my left hand. Refreshed, I went back into the bedroom and pulled down the covers on my bed, without taking my eyes off the headboard of the other. I was just about to crawl in when I decided that I absolutely must act. I wouldn’t sleep otherwise, knowing that Shelob was conducting an orchestra right next door. I swung my newspaper baton way back, lined up the target and…
What I didn’t know was that Harold turned off the generator every night at 11 pm. The lights gave up their life slowly, taking all hope along for the ride. I didn’t panic. At least I couldn’t see him anymore. I simply turned and crawled under my sheets, newspaper baton held high in my right hand. I felt myself exhale. I told myself to relax and closed one eye. I closed the other. And then, the largest spider I’d ever seen walked right across my face and under the covers.
I found myself back in the lobby. I may have been screaming.
“What is it, Wink? Are you OK?” Harold came out of his room this time too. He had a flashlight.
I told Harold I was fine but, no matter his degree of reassurance, I just couldn’t do the rain spider. He called for Morgan.
“Morgan, give Wink the key to Room Number 17.” He said. I wondered but I didn’t say it.
“Thanks, Harold.”
“Not at all, Wink. Now try and get some sleep.” I promised to try.
I put the key in the lock to Room Number 17. I opened the door, but I didn’t have any light. I went over to my bed and pulled back the covers. I crawled under the sheets. My eyes closed. I fell asleep.
I awoke refreshed next morning and stretched awake. I rolled over to a ray of diffuse sunlight coming through the open window. It fell on the pillow of the next bed. On the puff adder curled up in the warm dappled sunbeam, on the pillow of the next bed.
“How did you sleep in the end?” Asked Harold at breakfast, back in the restaurant. Two zebras were drinking out of the swimming pool, flicking their ears at the flies.
“Like the dead, Harold.” I said. “Almost like the dead.”
like snakes and dust for the sake of absolute freedom.
Jack Kerouac, Lonesome Traveler
It is said that the worst thing to happen to Africa was the arrival of the white man. And that the second worst thing was his departure. I arrived smack dab in the middle, climbing into the cab of a flatbed tractor-trailer, hauling sandbags north. The tall bald black driver grinned with his single peg yellow tooth and gave me that double grip Ndebele handshake that requires you to count your fingers on the way out. I thought I would make it to Victoria Falls that day for sure.
Right on dusk, the truck pulled over and the driver motioned me out. I got the part about how he was turning down a thin forlorn grooved track, but I wasn’t sure he got the part about how it was getting dark in the middle of the Matabeleland bush. He gestured with his index finger that I should carry on down the Falls Road. I thanked him, and descended into the blood red stillness, while he turned into a receding cloud of dust.
The sun goes down quickly in Africa. Like a pinball spiraling into a hole. It was black in a minute. Then the noise started, first with insects and then working its way up the food chain. I believe it was the low guttural moaning that got my legs moving. I started to whistle and thought better of it. I wasn’t sure what the precise definition of landing in shit was in Africa, but I was convinced I might be converging on it. Way off in the distance, I thought I saw a light. As I paced along the lighter shadow between the two dark ones, I grew more hopeful I was right. Maybe the toothless black bald bastard was pointing to something after all. Twenty minutes later, slathered in sweat, I came left and down off the road, over a short narrow bridge, and into a clearing surrounded by mature trees. There were monkeys. I walked past a warthog sitting beside the path. He looked at me like he had been expecting me. I ducked under and through the large bats swooping in the air above me. Aerobatics, I thought to myself. In front of me was my light. It was at the top of a stone stairway that led through an open door, into a foyer decorated with the heads and skins of African game. The sound of animated conversation and clinking glasses came from around the corner. I walked past a full gun rack towards the source of the activity and came into a bar. Paper money from all over the world was plastered on the river stone wall, behind the bottles. And, plastered in front of that, were three old white men with large moustaches in fellies and long socks, quaffing mugs of Lion and Castle lager. It was a scene out of an old British safari film. Even though I must have looked a sight, they didn’t skip a beat.
“I say, old boy.” Said the one in the middle, obviously the ringleader. “Won’t you sit and have a drink with us?” I didn’t want a drink, but I needed one. I sat down with them. The black bartender had it on the bar before my backside hit the stool. My head may have been in Zimbabwe, but my butt was in Rhodesia.
“Where are you from?” Said the ringleader.
“Canada.” I said. That was the only question they ever asked me. Like the rest didn’t matter. Wherever I was from, whatever my story, I was now with them, and that was all that counted.
“This is Harold.” Offered Morris, one of the other moustaches. “He’s the owner and proprietor of the Gwaii River Hotel. He pointed at the ringleader. “And a bloody fine host he is, as well, for an old farmer.” He added.
“The Gwaii River Hotel. Is that where this is?” I inquired.
“Where else, dear boy? And where else would you rather be?” Asked Harold. He had me there.
It turns out that the other two moustaches were tobacco farmer friends of Harold. It was their guns in the rack in the lobby. Just as I finished my drink, another appeared.
“Have you any plans for dinner, Wink?” Harold asked. As if.
“Not really.” I said.
“Well, I’d be delighted if you’d be my guest.” The tobacco farmers seemed to think this was a “jolly good idea.” I told them I’d be delighted too. In my wildest imagination, I couldn’t make up the next part.
We all shuffled off next door which, dark though it was, I recognized as the dining room. As we sat down at one of the tables, I was drawn to something moving on the ceiling above us. It seemed to be a large carpet, swinging languidly back and forth, providing a bit of welcome ventilation. It was attached, through a system of cords and pulleys to a giant black man standing in one corner. He was wearing a fez and pulling a long rope up and down in two-four time.
“How do you like our punkah wallah, Wink?” Harold asked. I liked him fine.
Birds flew in and out of the room. Another big black man loomed above me. I figured he was the headwaiter. He had a beauty queen sash on his colonial uniform that said ‘Headwaiter.’ I was on a roll.
“This is ‘Millions.’ He’s our headwaiter.” Said Harold. Got it.
Millions didn’t speak much English, but he was able to figure out what we wanted anyway. What we wanted, apparently, was roast guinea fowl and tumblers of scotch. Long after the sumptuous meal and stimulating conversation, the farmers took their leave, and Harold asked the next obvious question.
“Had you made any arrangements for tonight, Wink?” He asked diplomatically. I told him I hadn’t.
“Then you shall be my guest.” This was a special human being, I thought.
“Morgan.” He shouted, “Give Wink the key to Room Number 9.”
Morgan appeared with the key. I thanked Harold again and bid him goodnight. I had no idea what was behind the door to Room Number 9.
I put the key in the lock and turned the handle. The door opened easily, and I switched on the light. The spacious room smelled of straw. Under the large window on the far wall there were two beds facing me. Zimbabwean counterpanes were tucked snugly around the mattresses. On the headboard of the right-hand bed was the largest spider I had ever seen.
Even from the door, I could see its mouthparts moving. Fangs protruded below its moustache. As I entered the room it folded its front half up off the headboard and began waving the striped underside of its front legs around in an agitated threatening posture. Its mouthparts moved faster but no sound came out. Of either of us.
I was in the lobby. I was done.
“Harold!” I called. Repeatedly.
“What is it, Wink?” His voice arrived from down the hall.
“There’s a giant spider in my room.” I said, pretending calm.
“Don’t worry.” He said. “It’s just a rain spider. Palystesjohnstoni.” Now I felt better.
“Do they bite?” Just curious.
“Oh, yes, but they’re not particularly venomous.” He said. I had to think about that one a bit. It must be an African distinction, I thought. “Just ignore him and he probably won’t give you any trouble.” He said, trying to reassure me, and failing miserably.
I tried to be reasonable. It would simply be ingratitude to show any further weakness. Here was a kind old man offering me hospitality of the first order, and I was raising a fuss over an arachnid he was not the least bit concerned about. I needed to get a grip.
I went back to Room Number 9, opened the door, and switched on the light. Nope, I decided, I was right the first time. There he still was folded up off the headboard waving those striped legs around, and twitching his fangs, like he was playing ‘chopsticks’ on the piano with his index fingers.
I needed a distraction. I went into the adjacent room and started running a bath. Back in the bedroom, I went over to the dresser and pulled all the newspaper out of the bottom of all the drawers. I rolled it into a tight baton and sat in the bath, washing and drying myself off with just my left hand. Refreshed, I went back into the bedroom and pulled down the covers on my bed, without taking my eyes off the headboard of the other. I was just about to crawl in when I decided that I absolutely must act. I wouldn’t sleep otherwise, knowing that Shelob was conducting an orchestra right next door. I swung my newspaper baton way back, lined up the target and…
What I didn’t know was that Harold turned off the generator every night at 11 pm. The lights gave up their life slowly, taking all hope along for the ride. I didn’t panic. At least I couldn’t see him anymore. I simply turned and crawled under my sheets, newspaper baton held high in my right hand. I felt myself exhale. I told myself to relax and closed one eye. I closed the other. And then, the largest spider I’d ever seen walked right across my face and under the covers.
I found myself back in the lobby. I may have been screaming.
“What is it, Wink? Are you OK?” Harold came out of his room this time too. He had a flashlight.
I told Harold I was fine but, no matter his degree of reassurance, I just couldn’t do the rain spider. He called for Morgan.
“Morgan, give Wink the key to Room Number 17.” He said. I wondered but I didn’t say it.
“Thanks, Harold.”
“Not at all, Wink. Now try and get some sleep.” I promised to try.
I put the key in the lock to Room Number 17. I opened the door, but I didn’t have any light. I went over to my bed and pulled back the covers. I crawled under the sheets. My eyes closed. I fell asleep.
I awoke refreshed next morning and stretched awake. I rolled over to a ray of diffuse sunlight coming through the open window. It fell on the pillow of the next bed. On the puff adder curled up in the warm dappled sunbeam, on the pillow of the next bed.
“How did you sleep in the end?” Asked Harold at breakfast, back in the restaurant. Two zebras were drinking out of the swimming pool, flicking their ears at the flies.
“Like the dead, Harold.” I said. “Almost like the dead.”
|
Lawrence Winkler is a retired physician, traveler, and natural philosopher. His métier has morphed from medicine to manuscript. He lives on Vancouver Island, tending his gardens and vineyards, and dreams. His writings have previously been published in The Montreal Review and many other literary journals. His books can be found online at www.lawrencewinkler.com.
|
