The Dung Beetles of Liberia

by Daniel V. Jr. Meier

  Deet removed his hands and feet from the controls and glanced over at me to make sure that I was truly flying the airplane.

  I checked my watch.

  “I have the airplane,” I said, as I had been trained to say to acknowledge the changeover. It was a supreme pleasure feeling the airplane in my hands. The Cessna 180 handled similarly to its lighter cousin, the Cessna 140. In fact, all Cessna aircraft have something of the same feel about them—even the turbo-powered Cessna Citation. I immediately felt comfortable and kind of at home with this much more powerful craft.

  “You see dose clouds off to de north and vest?”

  I nodded that I did.

  “Dey vill be down on us in a few hours. De vet season began dis month. I’m surprised dat the veather has been so goot. You should see de airfield coming up in a few minutes. Vhen you do, circle de field. Dat vill take you over de willage und let de customers know dat ve are coming. Vhile you’re doing dat, check out de vind sock at midfield. Den enter de downvind leg on de left side to avoid de higher ground on de right. Stay at fifteen hundred feet until you turn onto base leg. Den it’s a normal landing. Do it at full flaps. I vill vork de flaps. Keep your approach speed at around eighty-five indicated. If you look like you’re going to have trouble, I vill take over in de usual vay.”

  The Cessna gently descended toward the airfield, which looked like a orange ribbon lying on a green carpet. I flared the aircraft a few feet off the surface, and it floated down the runway for some distance then settled onto the ground with a muffled rumble, the spring steel landing gear absorbing the bumps from the uneven surface.

  When the airplane had slowed sufficiently, I turned and taxied back to an open area next to the runway at midfield. A crowd of locals had already gathered. Some were smiling, others were laughing and jumping. Clearly they were happy to see us. I turned into the open area so that the airplane was facing the runway and away from the crowd. I went through the shutdown check list and switched the engine off.

  “Stay vith me und don’t say a Gottdamn ting,” Deet said.

  I stepped out of the plane and walked around the nose to where Deet stood with his hands on his hips. The crowd started to come toward us, and I wondered if Deet was going to go for his gun.

  “Stay back until I speak vit de Head Man!” he shouted to the crowd.

  An older man with white hair emerged from the crowd. He was very thin and wore a tee shirt, soiled trousers, and sandals. His presence seemed to calm the crowd as he approached with slow and measured strides. He came up to Deet and they shook hands in the Liberian way—a quick handshake with a snapping of your partner’s fingertips as you release.

  “What good tings you breeng today?” the old man asked.

  “Here ist de list,” Deet said, handing him the manifest.

  “Ah, I see it’s good. Many good tings.” He had done this before and didn’t wait for Deet to ask for money. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small roll of worn US bills and handed them to Deet. For a moment I thought Deet might pocket the entire roll, but he counted out the amount due and handed the remainder back to the Head Man. The man thanked him politely. Then he pointed to a small group of young men standing in front of the crowd and motioned for them to come to the airplane. He said something to them in the local dialect and they began to quickly off-load the cargo. He turned to us and asked if we would like some coffee while we waited. Deet said that would be excellent, and we followed the man to one of the nearby huts.

  There were four short wooden stools placed around a loose stone hearth. A small fire was burning in the middle of the stones. The man removed a small bag from a wooden box and poured out the coffee beans onto an irregular shaped piece of sheet metal. He started grinding the beans into small granules with a large metal soup spoon. He then swept the ground beans into the pot and carefully placed the pot on the fire.

  “Dat is de best coffee in de vorld,” Deet said with a smile of satisfaction. My eyes were becoming more accustomed to the darkness. I could just see several sleeping mats along the cylindrical wall of the wattle hut. Other than that, it was void of furniture and personal items.

  “How is de missionary?” Deet asked.

  “Oh, he de same. He like his whiskey much. Since hees woman run off he like his whiskey much too much. He no give sermon now, always too drunk. A village woman come to clean and cook, but he no want her for anyting else.” The old man shrugged.

  “Dat ist too bad,” Deet said. “Dere ist nothing more useless dan a drunk man of Gott.”

  The old man laughed, showing his yellow teeth. He then handed us each a metal cup; both were tarnished and had many marks and dents. He took the large soup spoon and ladled out the hot coffee grounds and dumped them on a piece of newspaper and poured the hot coffee into our cups.

  We waited, out of courtesy and custom, for the old man to drink first. After he did, I sipped mine. The coffee was truly the best that I had ever had—rich, with a strong nutty flavor.

  “Dis vill keep you avake on the trip home,” Deet said, turning toward me.

  “I say, ma fren, can ya take people back wit ya, oh?” the man asked.

  “How many?”

  “A woman an’ her daughta. Her daughta vey sick and no one go to de mission anymore fo help.”

  “Sure,” Deet said. “Is she going to pay?”

  “De village got money for her. She mus’ take her daughta to hospital in Monrovia.”

  “Fifteen dollars, US, for her und I’ll let de kinder fly fur five.”

  The old man shook his head. “Oh, dat is very high price, but she mus’ go jus now. I go now an’ tell her to prepare.”

  “Tell her to bring someting to sit on. De cargo bay can get wery uncomfortable.”

  When I had finished my walk-around check of the airplane, the Head Man brought the “woman” over. She was barely fourteen and held a small child, less than a year old, in her arms. The child was asleep or unconscious. Its breathing was labored, and flies were constantly crawling around the mucus oozing from its eyes and nose. The Head Man put a sleeping mat in the cargo bay and took the child while the young woman crawled in and positioned herself on the straw rug. Then the Head Man carefully handed her the child.

  Deet was already in the left pilot seat and was going through the prestart checks. He wasn’t waiting. I quickly tied two of the cargo restraints around her and the child and told her to hold onto the restraints as best as she could. She started to tremble, and I could see that she was terrified.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We will be in Monrovia soon.”

  Deet started the engine and we hurriedly taxied to the end of the runway. He ran the engine up to the recommended RPMs and checked each magneto and all engine instruments. The engine gauges were in the green arcs. After one check of the primary controls to determine if they moved freely, Deet lined the airplane up with the center of the runway, lowered takeoff flaps, and started the takeoff run.

  We were airborne a little past midfield and turned to follow our route to the river, then headed home. When we reached the river it started to rain, a tropical rain with fat drops of water that hammered against the windshield. It was dark—not the dark of night but more like the dark when someone pulls down a shade. It was turbulent too. Deet was wrestling with the controls to hold our altitude and heading steady. I looked back to see how our passengers were doing. The young woman was holding tightly onto her child. Her eyes were squeezed shut and she was muttering something that was unintelligible to me. I supposed that she was praying.

  At times we had difficulty seeing the river, so Deet kept checking his watch. Then he started to climb and we lost sight of the river altogether. In a few minutes I could see buildings below for possibly a mile out. Deet checked his watch again then turned left, and in a few more minutes we were out of the rain.

  “Do you see dat building down dere?” He pointed straight ahead. I said that I did, although I wasn’t really sure. “Dat ist de Duc
or Palace Hotel. Use dat as your initial approach locator. Den fly due south until you cross de new road. At dat point turn to a heading of 270 degrees und descend to a tousand feet. You should see de airport in a few minutes. Once you see de runway, set it up for landing.”

  I took over the controls and did just as he said. And, although it seemed a primitive approach, under these conditions it worked. I landed the airplane and bounced it several times. The runway was wet with large puddles of water. As the wheels splashed through them, the heavy spray made a drumming sound on the fuselage. There was a second of silence when we stopped.

  “I’ll call a cab,” Mike said as he met us. “I don’t have time to take her to the hospital and I don’t want you using the Land Rover to do it either. We have to call her a cab.”

  “How about an ambulance?” I suggested as we headed toward the office.

  Both men looked at me with slight smiles.

  “A cab will be much quicker,” Mike said, reaching for his phone. “Hi Janice, could you send Jimmy? Village girl needs to take her kid to the hospital. Thanks.” He placed the handset back on the phone. “Jimmy’ll be here in a few minutes. Now I have work to do. Deet, stay here. I want to talk to you about the next trip to the iron mine.”

  I left Mike’s office and closed the door. Paterson had helped the girl out of the plane and to the waiting room, where she sat clutching her child.

  “They’ve called a cab for you,” I said.

  She looked up at me. Her eyes were wide with terror. I knew she had no money.

  “Here,” I said putting a few dollars into her hand. “Everything’s going to be all right. How will you get back to the village?”

  “I hav a uncle dat leeve in de citte. When ma baby ee well he wee pay ma bus.” She stared at me intensely for a moment. “Tank you, sir. You verre kind.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Sarah,” she said, “like in de Bible.”

  “And your child, what is her name?”

  She smiled. “I name her Mary, afta de modder of Jesus.”

  “That’s a good name,” I said.

  When the taxi, an early Volkswagen Beetle with one fender missing and a smoking exhaust, came, I helped her into it and watched until they were out of sight. I hoped that her baby would survive.

  CHAPTER 4

  DEUTSCH PILOTEN

  I met Deet, all smiles, coming out of the office. He slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Vell my man, vhat you need is a vagon, a car, a means of transport, but most of all, a pussy vagon! Jump in and I’ll take you to see a good friend of mine.”

  We drove to Heinz and Maria’s restaurant. A middle-aged man was sitting at one end of the bar nursing a draft beer. His face was as red as a stop light and his swollen nose, a light shade of purple. Other than that he had all the indicators of a man who had been accustomed to power and respect but was now reduced to what he could carry in a small valise.

  “Hans, I vant you to meet a fellow pilot, Ken. Ken, meet Hans.”

  Hans extended a weathered hand partially crippled by arthritis.

  “Hans,” Deet said, “dis young man needs a car und since you are leaving Liberia, I tought you might make him a goot deal.”

  Hans sipped his beer.

  “Can we get a table?” I asked Deet.

  “Of course,” he said, signaling to Maria that we were moving to a table.

  Hans moved uneasily in his chair; his eyes darted nervously around. I thought for a moment he was going to flick out his tongue to test the air.

  “How much do you want for the car?” I asked.

  “I vill take five hundred US dollars for it—in cash.”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, haven’t got it.”

  “Vell,” he said with an edge to his voice, “how much do you have on you, now?”

  “Two hundred and fifty,” I said.

  “Gottdamn!” he shouted, slamming his crippled hand down on the table and letting out a small cry of pain. “Vhy did you bring him here, Dieter? Vhy did you? Vhy do you always vaste my time? Vhy?”

  “You need de money, Hans. My friend here needs a car und you don’t have much time. Besides, I don’t see people standing in line to buy your scheisse.”

  This time his tongue did dart out and flick quickly from side to side. He rubbed his twisted hands vigorously together and looked at me for a long moment with predatory eyes.

  “Vell I guess dat vill have to do. I have to leave soon. Come to my place tomorrow morning. Dieter vill show you.” With that Hans rose from his chair, scanned the room quickly, and hurried out of the door.

  “What is his problem?” I asked.

  “He tinks de Jews are after him. I’ve tried to tell him dat he isn’t dat important und never vas, but he doesn’t believe me.” Deet anticipated my next question. “He had some minor job in de Dird Reich. He vas a midlevel administrator in de Ministry of Agriculture. He didn’t send anybody to de concentration camps. He didn’t assassinate anybody—he doesn’t even know how to use a gun. He’s been a nervous bureaucrat all his life, und now he’s convinced de Mossad is after him. Christ, I vish I could delude myself like dat vit Sophia Loren.”

  “Where is he going tomorrow?” I asked.

  “He’s catching de flight to Brazil. Varig Airlines operates a round-trip flight from Rio to Monrovia. It’s usually filled vith Germans; some vith good reason to flee de Mossad, but most, like Hans, because of delusion and paranoia. By de vay, you got a good deal. I knew old Hans vould be anxious to get rid of it.”

  Maria came over to the table bringing a couple of beers on a tray. “Ve all heard about poor Joachim. It vas terrible, but he alvays vas a vild boy. Ve’re having a celebration in his memory tomorrow night starting at eight. Vhy don’t you and de handsome young man,” she glanced at me, “come?”

  Deet assured her that we would be there. We finished our beers and Deet left some money on the table.

  “If ve have time, I’ll take you to de Phoenician. It’s von of the finest restaurants in town. It’s run by a Lebanese family. Von ting you have to learn about are de Lebanese here. Dey own all of de stores and most of de restaurants—dat is, minus de fifty-von percent for de Big Men. De Lebanese are all through de interior. Dere’s a Lebanese store at almost every mining camp in Liberia, und vat they don’t own de Mandingos do.”

  Hans lived in a single room in a boarding house in a poor section of Monrovia. When he answered the door for us, his face was redder and his nose a deeper purple than it had been the day before. He motioned for us to come in. Inside, it smelled of alcohol and stale cigarettes. His bed was a US army cot, unmade and disheveled. There was one table and chair.

  Hans was in a hurry. He had the necessary papers for the Volkswagen laid out on the table. He had signed in the proper places and indicated for me to do so also. After this I handed him the two hundred and fifty, which he quickly stuffed into his pocket and motioned with his hands that we should go, go, go. On the way out of the door his hat somehow fell onto the floor. I reached down to pick it up.

  “Vergessen sie es! Vergessen sie es! Schnell! Schnell,” he shouted.

  We took Hans to Robertsfield as fast as Deet could manage the roads and watched as Hans ran into the terminal, looking over his shoulders as he did so.

  “A wery sad little man,” Deet said.

  Deet took me around to the various government offices to complete the paperwork and get my car and driver’s licenses. I discreetly spread the necessary dash around. It was easier than I thought it would be, and the processes went relatively smoothly.

  That evening I picked Deet up in my newly acquired vehicle, a 1951 VW Beetle, and drove to Heinz and Maria’s. It felt good being mobile again, having my own wheels, feeling unfettered and independent.

  Heinz and Maria’s was decorated in honor of Joe. The flag of the Federal Republic of Germany had been placed on the wall next to the Liberian national flag. The Liberian flag has a single white star on a blue field in the
upper left corner and eleven alternating red and white stripes; it is an unmistakable derivative of the US flag.

  The bar was festooned with paper copies of the German coat of arms, the Bundesadler—a rather determined-looking crow showing his biceps. Underneath each coat of arms was a small square of red paper with a black swastika.

  “Nobody cares about dat here,” Maria said, “except de Jews and nobody in dis country gives a fuck about dem. They’re here all right, lurking and spying, but dey keep deir heads down, I can tell you. And Tubman, he is no friend of de fucking Jews.”

  Maria was beginning to slur her words. Her English was good, but she still had trouble with her V’s and W’s. She had started drinking early. She would mix one drink for a customer then one for herself.

  “Joachim vas a good boy,” she continued. “He served his country, like his vatter. No matter what flag was flying over the Reichstag, Germany came first. Politics, he didn’t give a fuck, like his vatter.”

  “How did his father serve?” I asked.

  “Oh, his vatter vas an officer in de Keiser’s army, den he vas a representative in the Bundestag during the Weimar Republic. But he died before Hitler came to power. Oddervise, I think he vould have done his duty and served der Fuehrer weddy vell.”

  Several of the tables had been pulled together. The waiters, all young Liberian men and all dressed in white shirts and blue trousers, had placed a long white cloth over the tables, giving the appearance of a single, long table. There were about twenty guests. Most were pilots who worked for one of the air service operators at Spriggs-Payne. Many were technical service people, and some were from the embassy. There was a sprinkling of wives and girlfriends—all Europeans.

  Deet introduced me to several of the male guests. They were very polite in that practiced, old-world way, and it seemed a great struggle for the men to not click their heels when introduced. I met Fritz Werner. He too had been a fighter pilot in the Luftwaffe. Unlike all the others, Fritz had none of the old-world charm. His blue eyes locked onto you like an intense tracking device. His blond hair was thinning and turning gray. He combed it straight back down to his neck, and he handled himself as though every move was timed and calculated.