The pawpaw.(Story)(Short story)

How strange are the ways of memory: decades after a happening it can spring vividly to mind. Whenever I see a pawpaw I am instantly transported to another time, another country, another pawpaw.

Travelling in Sudan on long-service leave from nursing, I had spent some time at the Red Sea Hotel, learning a little Arabic. I was about to leave when the hotel manager said I should visit the deserted city of Suakin, further along the coast.

It was necessary for me to hire a truck and a driver to take me to my destination. This proved a wearisome business but I persisted and eventually set off with a somewhat reluctant driver in his rackety old truck. I intended returning to Port Sudan the same day.

It was a bone-shattering journey, careering through the hot dry desert, but when the old white buildings of the island city shimmered into sight and we crossed the causeway, I thought it worth the discomfort.

Suakin was obviously deserted. Shutters flapped from windows, doors hung askew, walls crumbled. Only the Government Rest House was kept in repair. High-walled and battlemented, it drew me in through enormous wooden gates. I stood in the courtyard by two ancient cannons and felt a strange compulsion to stay overnight.

The farrash came out to greet me, winding a white imma around his head, his teeth a flash of white against brown skin. When I asked if he could accommodate a guest, he showed me an ancient visitors' book that boasted recent signatures and said he would be honoured to prepare an angareeb and food for me. He told me his name was Mohammed.

I asked the truck driver if he could stay overnight, but he shook his head and burst into a string of explanation I didn't understand. Having agreed to return for me next day, he drove off with a crash of gears.