Madainn Mhath

 

It wasn’t a state visit, but you could be forgiven for mistaking it was. Pipers tuning up; a class of school children was ready with a song and small paper flags, and something approximating a red carpet was ready to be rolled out. Nothing about The Donald’s visit to his ancestral island was left to chance.

The helicopter sunk from a watery, blustery sky. The pilot found the X and put it deftly on firm ground. The Trumps were in town.

Donald and Melania stepped on the red carpet after their security detail had fanned out and inspected the area. Melania stood beside Trump as if she had a metal pipe welded to her spine; she wouldn’t be able bend to anyone, especially not to her husband. She could have been a hologram powered by AI.

The pipers tuned up and started a rousing rendition of ‘Oh Flower of Scotland’. If Trump was taken aback by that one of the pipers was a black woman with a tartan hijab he didn’t show it.

The school choir sang a Gaelic ditty; Brochan Lom, the Gaelic Porridge song. The sound almost dispersed in the wind. At the end of the performance a small girl walked up to Melania with a posy of local flowers. Melania accepted it with a smile that got stuck somewhere on her windpipe.

The Donald and his wife proceeded to shake hands with local dignitaries. There were very few of them, since Trump had slapped tariffs on whisky and salmon. The whole visit was staged and filmed for a publicity infomercial in which Trumps Scottish roots would heavily feature, so that both Scots as well as Americans would see him in a more positive way.

Before the visit, a delegation had visited the current owner of Trump’s mother’s old house in Tong. His name was Iain McDonald, but he was better known by the moniker Iain Ruadh Mhor: Big Red John. The delegation had offered Iain a substantial amount of money to buy his house – the birthplace of Trump’s mother: Mairi Anna Nic Leòid. The Donald offered to preserve the house and open a museum in honour of Mairi (and of course himself). The answer Iain had given could not be repeated in polite company. In no uncertain terms he told Trump’s representatives that he wasn’t Greenland, to be bought or sold at will. Trump should keep his dirty little hands to himself and not try to set foot on his property because he, Iain, had a shot gun and was very apt at shooting rats.

Thus told, the delegation took themselves off Iain’s property in some haste and conveyed the message in a toned-down way to their boss. The Donald got a far-away look in his eyes and only said: ‘We’ll see.’

The next part of the visit was to shoot some footage in front of the former house of his mother. His aides had paid for some extras to give an image of a bustling town, welcoming back one of their sons. Clad in kilts, they were supposed to doff their caps when passing Trump and give him a ‘madainn mhath’: ‘good morning’ in Gaelic. As most of the extras had fortified themselves in the pub for the ordeal, they were happy to do so and much more. When The Donald stood in front of Iain’s house (carefully staying outside the boundary) some walked past, slapped his back and spoke to him in Gaelic. God only knows what they were saying.

Trump made a mercifully short, rambling speech about how the United States and The Isle of Lewis were intertwined, and how there would always be a special relationship between the two. He continued:

‘I love kilts,’ he said. ‘Kilts are nice. Really, really nice. I think I would look good in a kilt. I am sure Melania would love to see me in a kilt.’

Iain McDonald had also donned a quilt. He was up a ladder, pretending to work on his roof. Heights, the winds of Lewis and a kilt conspired together, and the production manager made a note what to cut from the recording as most of it was unsuitable for family viewing.

Finally, the crew focussed once more on the big man.

    ‘Lewis is a fine island’, he said. ‘A very fine island. And there are some very fine people here. First they say, ‘Sir, how do you do it? How do you wake up in the morning and put on your pants?’ “And I say, ‘Well, I don’t think about it too much.’ I don’t want to think about it because if I think about it too much maybe I won’t want to do it, but I love it because we’re going to do something for this island that’s never been done before. But I am really glad to be here on this fine Scottish Island. And were going to make it big, you know. Big. Very big.’

At this point they were interrupted by Iain who came to his front gate, where The Donald was pontificating. He lifted his kilt and shouted something that sounded like: ‘Beat this!’ The production manager sighed.

Meanwhile Melania seemed to be content to be Trumps shadow. She stared firmly in the distance and didn’t speak. A bullet-proof limousine had been shipped the day before. It hovered near the couple in case they should need to flee the rat-shooting locals, terrorists or just the Hebridean rain. As the latter was just about to get a lot worse, Melania started to walk towards the limo. As she did, one of her feet sank in a freshly laid cowpat, provided this morning by Daisy, a cute Highland cow who was very popular with tourists. Melania hobbled back to the limo as quickly as possible and jumped in the back, kicking off her shoes before forcefully closing the door, nearly trapping the hand of an aide.

The shoes were later found by Janet Nìll Bhig. She cleaned them and though she thought they looked a little cheap, she decided to wear them to the next ceilidh.

After this, the visit petered out. They got back in the helicopter; Melania in another pair of shoes and with a murderous look on her face. On the way back to Turnberry, the pair had some turbulence to deal with. Mostly caused by Melania, who told her husband that never again did she wish to set eyes on that island.

That evening, many of those who had been part of the visit, gathered in the pub. A few jars and drams were taken; and then a few more. Stories of the visit were told and retold and found their way into the fabric of the island. Trump never returned.