The Dung Beetles of Liberia

by Daniel V. Jr. Meier

  I said that I had.

  “Well, you know, it’s dark in there. And it’s very uncomfortable because there is structural framing. It’s made for cargo. They put him on a long pole, and tied him up with so many vines that, I swear to God, the only thing you could see was the very top of his head and the soles of his feet. There was a little piece of his nose sticking out. He’s wrapped really secure. Then they pushed him up in the belly pack. I said to the Head Man, ‘You could have killed him!’ The crazy man looked like he wasn’t breathing, and I pointed this out to the Head Man. Then the Head Man says, ‘No, no, he no deh, no!’ Then he took out a match, and striking it, held it up to the crazy guy’s toe. The guy lets out a muffled scream, and the Head Man smiles at me. So they finish shoving him up in there, and I take off again.”

  “I’m flying along, and every thing’s hunky dory. It’s about an hour flight. Then, all of a sudden there is this loud bump, bump, bump in the belly of the aircraft. Christ! So I did a couple of Dutch rolls thinking it would scare him into submission. But the bumping didn’t stop. Finally I did a wing-over, and the bump, bump, bump continued. I was getting pretty desperate by now, and worried that something’s going to break on the aircraft if the bumping kept up, so I shoved it over then pulled hard on the yoke for a couple of pitch oscillations. Then I heard a noise like blublublup. After that, it got very quiet except for the normal aircraft noise. ‘Oh shit,’ I said to myself. I flew on and got back to Spriggs-Payne as quickly as I could.”

  “When one of the load boys came up, I asked him to see if there was anything in the belly pack—I didn’t have the nerve to look myself. He said, ‘No, boss, its empty’.”

  Colin’s friends guffawed and continued drinking and munching on snack food. “Too bad,” one of them said while lighting up a cigarette. “Ya never know what one of them boys will do to an aircraft.”

  The waiter brought my Jollof rice, but by then I had lost my appetite, so I asked the waiter if he would put it in a container and bring it back. He said that he would, and I paid him and told him to keep the change.

  “By God! No wonder everybody loves you Americans. I swear you guys are actually going to buy the world just with tips.”

  CHAPTER 21

  SISTER ANGELINA

  I had been in Liberia long enough to feel the novelty wearing off. When I first arrived, there was something new every day. My senses were overwhelmed by new smells and bright colors. I would buy strange fruit and fish from smiling people in colorful clothing. But one day I saw a little baby elephant in a cage; another day I saw monkey hands for sale. Then there was the heat, always the heat. I was beginning to long for just a whiff of cold air from New York State, just for one day. And the palaver. Absolutely nothing got done without palaver—always a small argument over price, over quality, over anything at all. To buy something, first of all, there was always a price for a European and a price for a local, and I accepted that, but there was always discussion, always some sort of palaver. It was beginning to wear me down. I had been stopped by a soldier on the street because my license tag was crooked. “Sorry, mon, here’s fifty cents,” I’d say. I’d been stopped because my front tire was low. “Sorry, mon, here’s twenty-five cents.”

  None of this seemed to appreciably bother Deet or the others, but I was still not used to it.

  And then there was the job. If you had to make a forced landing close to a village with an airfield, maybe you could get out. If you ended up anywhere else, you were probably dead. You have people cheating you all the time. I knew Mike cheated; Mr. de Ruiter cleared out what was left of the company, and I was sure Stumpy was up to no good. Even just going out for a drink could be difficult. When I went to town for a beer, there would usually be some belligerent drunk in the bar.

  The worst thing was to get involved with a Big Man at the bar. They drank a lot and loved to gamble. They’d come up to the bar and invite me and whomever I was with to play dice with them. We’d say, “No, no!” And they’d say, “Oh ya mus come, Ya mus come!” and you say, “Ahhh . . . Okay.” Then they’d say you cheated. Pretty soon you are going to owe them money.

  Everything wears you down one peck at a time. I did not think I could become accustomed to it. There were other people who were. The Lebanese did just fine. The Spanish did just fine. The Germans did okay; they seemed to be able to adapt to it even though they were older than me, all of them.

  I was beginning to wonder if I had been in Liberia long enough. These people could be gentle with one another. They could be kind and considerate, yet there was a sharp-edged brutality here that seemed to cut through all aspects of life. And the expats—Colin, Deet, and the others that I had met in Africa—were they the way they were because that’s the way they were born or had Africa made them that way? I had to admit, I admired their survival skills, their indifference to danger, their flying experiences, but I did not want to become like them.

  I decided to focus on the positive. As far as I could tell, Monrovia Airlines was on the up and up. Andre seemed organized and relatively honest, and he was doing his best to keep the aircraft well maintained. I had a good setup and didn’t want to go back to the States yet. I would give it one more go. I had a good feeling about Monrovia Airlines but, if that’s all it was, a feeling, and it didn’t work out then, like a defeated boxer, I would throw in the towel. I was not going to be swallowed up by Africa

  I was making regular trips for Monrovia Airlines now. One frequent customer was a Catholic mission on the border of Sierra Leone and Liberia near the town of Hoya Camara. It was known as the Hoya mission. There were five nuns there who ran a small mission school and medical clinic. The youngest nun was Sister Angelina. Every two weeks I would fly her down to Monrovia. We had an established route that we ran, and she never tired of looking at the world below.

  I generally flew Alfa Charlie for these trips. It was slow, dependable, with ample cargo space. It usually gave a smooth ride. Once in town, she would do shopping for the mission as well as post and pick up mail. We would load the airplane up with all kinds of stuff, mostly medical supplies, a few personal items for the nuns, and food—you couldn’t get food in the bush.

  On one trip Sister Angelina did not meet me at the airplane when it was time to fly back to the mission. I went back to all of the places of business that she always went, but no one had seen her. Then, finally, one of the grocery boys said that he had seen her walking toward the beach several hours ago. I hailed a taxi, since I did not want to waste time walking, and told him to go to the beach. I thought, because of her white habit, Sister Angelina would be easy to spot. She was, and I found her sitting on a palm log that had washed up on the beach. She did not look up at my approach. I squatted next to her. I could see tears on her cheek.

  “I’ve always loved the sea,” she said. “I grew up in a little village outside of Stockholm. It was near the sea and I always use to go there when . . . ” She did not finish.

  “Come on,” I said. “We must be getting back.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry to have caused you this trouble.”

  After I had been doing this job for a couple of months, I flew up to the mission, and instead of Sister Angelina, another nun that I had not met before, a much older nun, came out to the airplane. She had one of the mission boys with her who was carrying the mail sack. She motioned for him to put it down. I asked where Sister Angelina was.

  “She won’t be making the trip,” she said, not looking at me, and at the same time directing the boy to put the mail bag in the airplane. I asked if Sister Angelina was sick. She repeated, in a much harsher tone, “She won’t be making the trip.”

  So I flew the older nun—I think her name was Sister Perpetua—to town and brought her back with the mission supplies without exchanging a word between us. I found out later, from one of the mission boys, that Sister Angelina had, in his words, “run off.” She had pretended to be sick, and when the other nuns had gone to attend mass, Sister Angelin
a left with a Lebanese merchant in Monrovia.

  Just before getting back into the airplane for the return flight to Spriggs-Payne, I looked around at the pitiful little mission with its mud huts and the flimsy wood-frame structure that served as the clinic and mentally wished her well.

  Months later I was in Monrovia having dinner at one of the Lebanese restaurants when an attractive white woman came over to me. She stood in front of me for a few moments then said, “You don’t remember me, do you.”

  I said that I did not.

  “I’m Sister Angelina. Or at least, I was.”

  It still took me several minutes to separate this attractive woman standing before me from the sad, girlish person covered in a religious habit that I had known.

  “You’re taller than I remember,” I said. No longer swathed in her nun’s habit, I could see her Scandinavian ancestry from her fine features and her luxuriant blond hair.

  “It’s the habit. It makes one look smaller,” she said, laughing.

  “Should I call you Sister Angelina or . . . ?”

  “You can call me Greta. That will do,” she said.

  “What happened, Greta? No one at the mission would tell me. One of the villagers said that you had been eaten by a crocodile.”

  “Not quite,” she said laughing. “I met Amal on one of my earlier trips to town—he’s a Lebanese Catholic—and he helped me with my chores. Then it got to be a regular thing. I would go into town and he would be there, at the market, and he would help me. He treated me with every kindness and consideration, which I wasn’t getting in the convent where they considered me more of a personal servant. Then something happened within me, almost like a spiritual revelation. I knew with amazing clarity that the religious life was not for me. It wasn’t that I lost my faith—I did not. It was just that I knew I had to get out or I would lose it.

  “Leaving the convent is not as easy as you would think. I’ve seen other nuns try to do it. They were all caught and brought back. They were punished and watched. I told Amal what I wanted to do, and what was at stake. He offered to help. He helped me escape. He protected me and offered me a job and a place to live until I could get a grip on things.”

  “When they realized what had happened, the Church tried to get me kicked out of the country. They pulled every string they could, and President Tubman is a good friend of the Catholic Church. But Amal has powerful friends too, and he called in a few favors. So I got to stay. It cost him a great deal. I owe a lot to him.”

  She paused with a look of concern. Her right hand began to tremble slightly and she looked nervously around. Maybe she thought that she had told me too much—confession isn’t always good for the soul. I told her that I was glad she was all right and that I wished the best for her. She smiled nervously, thanked me, then quickly walked away. I had the feeling that I had been the visible reminder of something she wanted to forget. Like so many of the whites in this country, she was living in the shadows and wanted to stay that way.

  I drove back to the beach house very much in need of a shower and change of clothes. I changed into clean khaki shorts and a white short sleeved shirt and, after asking Ku to prepare a large gin and tonic, walked out to the front porch to enjoy a chair and the view of the ocean. Deet was there smoking a cigar. He was unusually quiet—maybe that was part of the reason I felt like telling him about Sister Angelina. He listened, nodding and shaking his head in silent response.

  “It ist a shame vat happens here; so many broken dreams, so many failed hopes. I vonder if any of us vill survive Liberia?”

  Ku brought my gin and tonic. I wondered if I would ever get used to not using ice. A sense of heaviness had descended over us, and to lighten the mood I told Deet about my attack of diarrhea and landing at the mission and trying to avoid the nuns. This worked and we laughed about it for some time.

  “If de dung beetles had gotten to you, vhat vould they have done?” Deet asked, laughing between puffs on his cigar.

  “Haven’t a clue. I’m told that all they want is your shit. They roll it up in a ball and lay their eggs in it.”

  “But vith diarrhea there isn’t enough scheisse, is dere? It’s all liquid, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “But they don’t know that, do they. They seem to like it no matter what. Any kind of shit will do. Animal shit, human shit, even if it was tree shit, they roll it all up in a ball and lay their eggs in it. That’s what they use it for. The little dung beetles feed off of it, and they become big dung beetles and complete the cycle. It’s kind of beautiful when you think about it.”

  “Sounds like dung beetles are better off than the locals around here. At least for dung beetles, there is plenty of scheisse to go around. De dung beetles, dey are in charge. De boys on de street, dey don’t get shit—literally.”

  We were silent for a while as we both stared out at the ocean.

  “Oh, by de vay,” he said, “your friend Beizell phoned. He has a job for you tomorrow. He says he vants you veels up by zero eight hundred.”

  I thanked him and finished the gin and tonic. It was getting on toward dinner time. I didn’t feel like taxing the already overburdened Ku by having him prepare something from our meager stores of near edibles, so I walked down to the Ambassador’s beach bar. Joe was there, smiling as usual, and acknowledging all of the customers by their first names.

  “Missa Ken,” he said, “still flying high?”

  “High enough to hopefully stay out of trouble,” I said.

  “What can I get fo ya?”

  “A large gin and T and one of the Ambassador’s famous chicken sandwiches,” I said.

  Joe did his characteristic juggle with the glasses. When the customers were entertained sufficiently, he finished his juggling act, winked at me, then prepared the drink. Like a magician, he placed it in front of me with the lightest of movements, then called the hotel kitchen from the intercom.

  I was enjoying the solitude and the gentle breeze from the ocean when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

  “I thought I would find you here.”

  I turned to see Nouga holding a drink, dressed in a very thin cotton blouse and a loose, airy skirt.

  “It’s a gin and tonic, I think,” she said, holding it up slightly. “I heard the British invented it. They had occupied so many tropical countries, and the best way to treat malaria then was with quinine. So, to make the stuff go down easier somebody got the bright idea of mixing it with a little gin and a slice of lime and look what happened!”

  “Your husband came to see me,” I said.

  “I know. He wants me to get you to spy for him.”

  “And are you going to get me to spy for him?”

  “That, my big brawny one, is entirely your decision,” she said.

  “Why should I spy for him?”

  “Well, for one thing, it would make me happy, and you want me to be happy, don’t you?”

  “And for another?” I asked

  “I want to make you happy, which would make me happy. You see? Everybody will be happy. Isn’t that what life’s all about?”

  “Can I call you Countess?” I asked.

  “If you wish, but I’m not a countess. There are no Israeli countesses.”

  “I know, but you strike me as a countess nevertheless.”

  She took a sip of her gin and tonic. “I shall take that as a compliment, but there is no need whatsoever for flattery.”

  “I meant it purely as a compliment. You are one of the most beautiful, most intriguing women that I have ever met. Now, about making me happy, are you sure that your husband is okay with this?”

  “As I told you, he is a modern, enlightened man, and he is devoted to his mission.”

  “Which is?”

  “Hunting down Nazis wherever they might be hiding.”

  “There are a lot of Germans here, as you know, but I don’t know that any of them are Nazis. Besides, the war has been over for a long time. They lost. Nazism was defeated, and so was fascis
m for that matter, except in Spain. Nazism will never raise its head again. Why can’t you just forget about it and move on with building a new country?”

  “It’s a matter of simple justice,” she said.

  “You mean the old biblical eye for an eye?”

  “I mean justice. Crimes were committed and supported by many people, and according to your concept of justice, criminals have to be punished, don’t they?”

  “But wasn’t that done at Nuremberg?” I asked.

  “For the leadership and the midlevel bankers and the industrialists, yes, but we didn’t get the brutes who carried out the orders—the junior officers, the sergeants, the jail keepers.”

  “So what do you want to know about Beizell?”

  “We strongly believe there is a conduit for escaping Nazis being operated out of Liberia using Varig Airlines. It’s a Brazilian airline, and Brazil has made it known, secretly of course, that it welcomes Germans with engineering and technical expertise. Varig makes a scheduled flight from Liberia to Brazil once a week. Ahud wants to know who’s getting on those flights and he thinks Beizell is involved.”

  I turned toward the bar. Nouga came closer to me, pressing her breasts against my arm.

  “Think of it as a service to humanity,” she said almost in a whisper.

  I turned on the bar stool to face her. I touched her hair gently.

  “You’re a very beautiful woman, Nouga, but I don’t want to spy on my boss or anyone else, and I especially don’t want to wake up at three o’clock one morning with a Luger in my face and be taken for a ride from which there is no return. I’ll tell you, essentially, what I told Ahud: you’ll know that something is wrong if I suddenly quit flying for Beizell.”