4 hours ago
6
I was four when Cocolo accidentally became part of our family, so my memories are a bit patchy and predominantly sensory (I still remember the pleasant feel of his furry ears). But my mum has filled me in on the details.
We’d gone to live in Jerusalem for a year as my dad was doing some work over there. For a Sunday treat we sometimes went to the American Colony hotel for a buffet lunch, and on one such occasion Mum was chatting with the doorman. A man was passing in the street leading a donkey, and Mum casually told the doorman that she’d always wanted a donkey.
A few days later there was a knock on the door of our flat; my dad answered to find a man with another donkey. “I believe you ordered this,” he said. “Oh no we bloody didn’t,” said my dad. “Oops,” said Mum. “It’s possible we inadvertently did.” “We want a donkey,” my elder sister, Sophy, and I shouted. We’d already fallen in love with him; he was brown and adorable and his ears felt nice. We called him Cocolo – after a donkey in a children’s book by Bettina Ehrlich. Cocolo moved into the garden we shared with our upstairs neighbours.
We had a car but Mum decided Cocolo was the ideal mode of transport for the school run, even though there was a busy road to cross where he was prone to stall in the middle of rush hour (donkeys can be obstinate, who knew?). So, while our classmates at the Christian international school were getting dropped off in the family Volvo, we were led up the circular drive on Cocolo. I know, embarrassing or what?
Stereotypical obstinacy aside, Cocolo was a good-natured donkey, though possibly lonely or frightened at night when he hee-hawed often and loudly. We became increasingly unpopular with the neighbours.
After a few months, Cocolo was banished to a farm in the West Bank. He was still ours, we would visit at weekends. I remember going for rides around Nebi Samuel, safe from the snakes and scorpions below.
But I don’t think Cocolo ever forgave us for sending him away; something was missing, he seemed to carry us more out of a sense of duty than love. The final breakdown in the relationship came when, startled by a road worker’s pneumatic drill, he reared up, throwing Sophy and me to the ground.
Amid much wailing and floods of tears, Mum took him to the livestock market outside Damascus Gate where she sold him to a kind (she promised) milkman who wanted a donkey for the less accessible parts of his round. Hauling milk churns to remote West Bank villages was probably a more noble cause than ferrying embarrassed English kids to the Christian international school.
But I’ve used it as guilt-trip ammunition ever since: yeah, Mum, you took us to school on a donkey!
