THE DONKEY CART
THE DONKEY CART
At twenty-five I was a teacher in a small town in the Northwest China. The town was sparsely populated and, being so remote, lacked modern means of communication. In the evenings the wolves howled in the nearby hills and occasionally entered the town in quest of prey.
I spent only one year there and, being unable to endure the isolation, packed my bags when the summer holidays arrived and prepared to return home.
A traveler had to take a donkey cart to the nearest railhead, some twenty-five miles away. On arriving at the departure point in the center of the town, I found that all the carts, being mostly engaged in carrying local products, had left. I began to despair.
“Sir,” a sibilant whisper came from a boy whom I knew slightly (he was from the tiny Moslem restaurant, “all the carts have gone out into the country districts.”
I left his remark unnoticed. As time passed, I began to feel tired and hungry. The boy approached me again, “Sir, why not come inside for rest? There may be a donkey cart somewhere else in the town. I’ll try to find one for you.”
“All right,” I agreed, “take my baggage inside.”
Having taken a table facing the street, I ordered as mall pot of wine and a dish of mutton which were promptly served. A stout, cheerful man, the owner of the restaurant must have learned of my problem and came up to me.
“Relax, my friend, and I’ll see what can be done,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
“It’s already four o’clock,” I complained, “and if I can’t find transport before five, my journey will have to be postponed.”
“Don’t worry said the innkeeper. “Dry weather like this is good for travelling at night.”
I sat there quietly, looking at my watch occasionally, hoping to see a cart through the open door. The entrance was suddenly barred by the figure of the boy who came shouting that business was good at the market and that all the carts had gone and were not expected to return until the morrow. He moved away revealing an empty donkey cart.
At twenty-five I was a teacher in a small town in the Northwest China. The town was sparsely populated and, being so remote, lacked modern means of communication. In the evenings the wolves howled in the nearby hills and occasionally entered the town in quest of prey.
I spent only one year there and, being unable to endure the isolation, packed my bags when the summer holidays arrived and prepared to return home.
A traveler had to take a donkey cart to the nearest railhead, some twenty-five miles away. On arriving at the departure point in the center of the town, I found that all the carts, being mostly engaged in carrying local products, had left. I began to despair.
“Sir,” a sibilant whisper came from a boy whom I knew slightly (he was from the tiny Moslem restaurant, “all the carts have gone out into the country districts.”
I left his remark unnoticed. As time passed, I began to feel tired and hungry. The boy approached me again, “Sir, why not come inside for rest? There may be a donkey cart somewhere else in the town. I’ll try to find one for you.”
“All right,” I agreed, “take my baggage inside.”
Having taken a table facing the street, I ordered as mall pot of wine and a dish of mutton which were promptly served. A stout, cheerful man, the owner of the restaurant must have learned of my problem and came up to me.
“Relax, my friend, and I’ll see what can be done,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
“It’s already four o’clock,” I complained, “and if I can’t find transport before five, my journey will have to be postponed.”
“Don’t worry said the innkeeper. “Dry weather like this is good for travelling at night.”
I sat there quietly, looking at my watch occasionally, hoping to see a cart through the open door. The entrance was suddenly barred by the figure of the boy who came shouting that business was good at the market and that all the carts had gone and were not expected to return until the morrow. He moved away revealing an empty donkey cart.