O, die Donkie!*

or: The Curious Incident of the Donkey in Broad Daylight

Whoa! That donkey has suddenly sprinted like Usain . . *BANG!* My foot hit the brake as his head hit the left headlamp and Jess simultaneously said, Dad!

Donkey dead, Ford Ranger spilling radiator water. We would not be going anywhere in a hurry. We were about to get to know the people of Malale village in Limpopo province.

I hopped out, expecting an owner to come rushing out shouting this particular ass happened to be his prize mount with a very good chance in the upcoming Rothmans July Handicap, worth millions. But no. Villagers enquired after us, after our vehicle, but nobody mentioned the deceased donkey. No-one appeared to have any interest in the poor donkey. New friend Morris explained that an owner would be afraid I might ask him to pay for damages, and could he have the price of a beer for that information?

Meantime a young lady appeared at my elbow. She was about elbow height! Tiny but fully in charge. Like so many women in my life she sussed me out, saw I knew nothing and set to work. She phoned Oom Samie. Could he send a towtruck to rescue this ass? The live one. Oom Samie could. Did we have a place to stay? She owns a nearby game farm and lodge. And so voorts; and by the way, Morris is a good oke, she knows him. She stayed over an hour until all that was left was the waiting, then left with a Come and Visit Us.

It was warm, so let’s visit the tavern. I would not be doing any more driving. Morris got his beer, but courtesy of two days without Eskom, there were no cold ones, so I declined.

Later the towtruck arrived, loaded up, we hopped in – and  we hit the sack at 9pm in a lovely B&B in Polokwane ten hours after our 11am curious incident with the donkey in broad daylight.

That was the police report: Light conditions: Broad daylight. Road conditions: Smooth tar, straight dry road, disconcerting absence of potholes. For cause of accident I quoted the tavern owner. He said, ‘Donkeys are Stupid and They Don’t Concentrate.’ Here’s one after the prang right outside his tavern proving him right:

One week later the buckled bakkie is still sitting forlornly in a scrapyard while we drive around aimlessly in a rental vehicle. Apparently these things take time.

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About ass jawbone strength. When JonDinDin implied I had rightfully and deservedly received a smiting with the jawbone of an ass, I thought, Hmm, we had slowed down to about 65kmh as we entered the village. So personally I think Samson was exaggerating when he said, in Judges 15, about some blerrie Philistines: ‘With the jawbone of an ass have I slain a thousand men.’ We’ll never know.

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*old Afrikaans song. NB: ‘Die’ means ‘the’ not die as in dead. So it’s, ‘Oh, the donkey!’

And the song goes on to say the donkey is a wonderful thing. Also quite a rude thing if you listen to the lyrics.

…

Nineteen long days after the accident the insurance company released the vehicle, having written it off. They paid me out so at last I could tow it to a panelbeater. Who reckons he’ll have it looking like new in no time. Well, three weeks or so. And new-ish.