The Dung Beetles of Liberia

by Daniel V. Jr. Meier

  After another minute she stopped looking through the papers she had in her hands and looked up at me. “Is this about the attack?” she asked.

  “Wha . . . What attack?” I asked.

  “Oh! Apparently not. Never mind.”

  “Seriously!” I said. “I’m a friend. What attack?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. You can ask her yourself.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She is teaching now,” she said.

  “When will she be free?” I asked.

  “In about thirty minutes.”

  I grabbed the only empty chair in the room and placed it against the tin wall directly opposite Madame Secretary. The heat was oppressive, even though all of the windows were open. My t-shirt soaked up my sweat until it was completely saturated. I focused on a single line of soldier ants carrying little bits of food along the base of the floor and into a small crack in the wall. The minutes passed by very slowly. Finally, I could hear the class emptying out. It was time for their lunch break. The Peace Corps had provided soup, sandwiches, and tea to all of the students. Sam walked up to the secretary’s desk

  “Anything for me?” she asked.

  The secretary motioned toward where I was sitting. Sam turned and a look came over her face that could not be described as friendly.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were sick with beriberi or something like that.”

  “I need to tell you about malaria.”

  “I know about malaria,” she said. “Come on, let’s get lunch.”

  I went with her to a room that passed for a dining hall. There was a long counter made of plywood where two of the local women were handing out bowls of soup from a communal pot and cups of tea to the students.

  “I bring my own lunch. The house woman makes it for a few extra pennies in her pay packet. You’re welcome to share it with me if you like.” She opened a metal box exposing a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and a ripe banana along with a small bottle of tea.

  “Is there somewhere we can have a little privacy?” I asked.

  “Sure.” She closed the box and led me outside to a large baobab tree with a wooden bench built around it.

  “This is as private as it gets,” she said. We sat on the bench brushing the flies away from her lunch box. “Want half?” she asked.

  “No thanks,” I said. “I came down with malaria some time ago. It’s the non-cerebral kind. There is little warning of a recurring attack. I take medication to reduce the chances of severe attacks, but so far there is nothing that I know that prevents it. The medication usually eases the symptoms. I wasn’t lying when I had Ku call you. Would I have come all the way up here and been willing to subject myself to your wrath if I had been lying?”

  “Good point,” she said. “Are you okay now?”

  “Yeah, fine. The secretary asked me if I was here about the assault. What was that about?”

  “I don’t think we know one another well enough to talk about stuff like that.”

  “Sam, I’m here because I want to get to know you better. I want to be your friend. And friends help each other out. And in this case, I just might be able to do that. What happened?

  She hesitated for a long moment, then biting her lower lip, she said, “Nothing happened really. We had some construction going on up here a couple of weeks ago, putting up a communications tower. So these workers, even though they were supposed to keep to themselves, would wander around at night. One night, about a week ago, I went into my little house and there was this guy, one of the construction workers. He was one of the blond Arian types with a really nasty look about him. Nobody else was in the house. I told him to get the fuck out, and he gets this expression on his face, and before I knew it he had grabbed me and pushed me up against the wall. You want me to go on?”

  “Yes!” I said.

  “I screamed, but he covered my mouth and started ripping my shirt off. Thank God Tim showed up just then. And that was it. He left. But the really scary part of the whole thing was, just as he was going through the door, he grabbed my hair, pulled me toward him, and whispered in my ear: ‘Don’t worry, bitch. I’ll find you again. And when I do, I’m going to fuck your brains out!’”

  “I can track this guy down. What’s the name of the construction company he works for?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “After this happened he was fired, and no one has seen him since.”

  The wind had picked up and blew waves of light dust down the road. Sam looked at her half-eaten sandwich as though it were now inedible.

  “I’m going to have to talk to that woman about how to make a decent sandwich,” she said.

  Sam was willing to give me another chance. I flew back to Spriggs-Payne feeling considerable anger towered the construction worker and, at the same time, as lighthearted as a school boy with his first crush. She agreed to meet me in Monrovia the following Saturday. That Friday, I bought two tickets to see The World of Suzie Wong just to make sure that I had seats.

  The Peace Corps maintained a hostel in Monrovia for Peace Corps workers as a kind of transitioning base for arriving and departing volunteers. Volunteers could also use the hostel when staying over in Monrovia. Controlled access made it reasonably safe.

  I met Sam outside the hostel at six and we drove directly to the movie theater. I had paid for balcony seats to avoid a possible rain of beer bottles. I was silently relieved when Sam obviously enjoyed the movie, laughing much of the time. Afterward, I took her to a Lebanese restaurant where we ordered chicken farrouj meshwi and a bottle of Massaya, a rosé from Bekaa Valley. The waiter brought over a lighted candle and placed it gently in the center of the table. The candlelight softened the bridge of freckles across her nose and gave a look of endless depth to her eyes. She had a way of moving her head when she spoke that made part of her hair fall gently across her face. Then she would almost unconsciously sweep it back with a quick movement of her head.

  She told me that she had six more months to go on her commitment and did not think she was going to, even if she could, renew it. As a whole, she liked and admired the Liberian people but felt that she was wasting her time.

  “Nothing’s going to improve,” she said, “until Tubman’s government puts some of the billions it’s making into the educational system and support for the tribes. We know that isn’t going to happen. He and his cronies want to keep them down.”

  “You’ve certainly been closer to it than I have,” I said, “but I have noticed that the Americo-Liberians have the big cars, the big houses, and the big jobs.”

  She nodded in agreement. “Tubman and his sycophants had better wake up and smell the shit in their own houses or there is going to be hell to pay.”

  The owner of the restaurant had apparently overheard our conversation, something I suspect he made a practice of doing for his own survival. He was looking at us intently with an expression of concern and irritation.

  “I think we’re upsetting the owner,” I said.

  She glanced over at the owner who continued his intense gaze. “Normally,” she said. “I’d tell him to fuck off, but . . .” She hesitated. “These fucking Lebanese, they come here, stick a needle into the bowels of this country, and extract its vital juices. They’re a bunch of fucking parasites.” She looked at the owner. “Hey!” she shouted toward him. “What’s the fucking problem?”

  The owner turned, stuffed his dishtowel under the belt of his cloth apron, and walked hurriedly toward the kitchen.

  “I think we had better go,” I said.

  We got up from the table. Sam was still looking in the direction of the kitchen as though she expected to see the owner and a couple of knife-wielding cooks coming for us. I left enough money to cover the bill as well as some dash to appease the waiter, and we made a beeline for the door. Once outside the restaurant, Sam started laughing and running. I looked behind us, checking my six o’clock position as my Luftwaffe colleag
ues had told me to do. Nobody was following us. We ran until we reached Junebug.

  “It’s okay,” I said, a little out of breath and holding on to the door handle for support.

  “Let’s go for a drink?” she asked.

  “I know just the place,” I said.

  The Ambassador’s beach bar was crowded. A calypso steel band played at one end of the bar. Joe was busy and smiling. I ordered a daiquiri for Sam and bourbon for myself. There was standing room only. I noticed a couple of my air service colleagues at a far table. Deet was with them. He saw us and made his way through the crowd to where we were standing. His eyes and cheeks seemed to sparkle, and his face was red from the sun and heat—Deet could never tan, he simply turned red and remained red. He smiled widely, showing his perfect teeth.

  “What’s the problem at Heinz and Maria’s?” I asked. “The beer gone stale?”

  “Nein, too many Israeli spies. Dey’re looking under de chairs, de table napkins, even de salt shakers for var criminals. And vho ist dis beautiful fraulein?”

  I introduced Sam. He took her hand and kissed it, and I thought for a moment that he was either going to click his heels or lick her hand.

  “Such beautiful red hair und I adore freckles, just adore dem. You must be of fine Celtic origins. Irish perhaps?”

  “On my mother’s side,” she said, looking at Deet as though he had stepped out of history book and into her presence, which, in a sense, he had.

  “Und on your fadder’s side?” Deet asked.

  “My grandfather was from Sweden.”

  “Excellent. Gut people, de Swedes. Dhey ver gut to Germany during de var. Adopted many of our aircraft designs and, one must say, some of our ideas, yah. Vell,” he said with an air of flippancy, “I must be going.” Deet hesitated. “You know you are too gut for him. If he gets too boring, let me know, vill you?”

  “Don’t count on it, Fritz.”

  “Dieter, mein liebling, Dieter.”

  “Sure thing, Fritz. I won’t forget.”

  Deet smiled and we watched as he strode back to his table.

  “How did he escape the war crimes trials?” she asked.

  “I think he might have been innocent, at least of deliberate murder and genocide. He was one of those who truly only followed orders. I think he loves flying airplanes and he had the rare chance of flying the best airplanes of his time.”

  “I’ll bet he hates Jews and deep down he’s a Nazi racist.”

  “Maybe so, but he has to suppress all of that now and move on. I suspect that Deet, despite his swagger, knows what it means to lose.”

  “Well, it’s good of you not to hold it against him.”

  “I try to make it a practice not to hold anyone’s politics or religious or nonreligious beliefs against them. When you get down to it, we all need and want the same things.”

  “Maybe so, but it seems to me that prejudice and hatred are an indulgence few people can afford.”

  “It’s a bit too lofty for me, Sam. Right now I only want to fly airplanes.”

  “And that’s it? Just fly airplanes?”

  “It can be a harmless occupation. It provides a good public service and, when you think about it, in the millions of years of human evolution we, in this fraction of time, have been the only humans to fly. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  “I think that’s a great way to look at it, but it seems to me flying is a young person’s game, and one’s youth is gone before one knows it.”

  “I have given that some thought too and I agree with you, which is why I plan to do this for maybe a few more years—the money is very, very good—then go home and finish college.”

  “Sounds like a good plan. What do you plan to study?”

  “Aeronautical engineering. I think I might be able to get a job doing that. How about you, when your Peace Corps commitment is finished?”

  “Go back to Washington State. Teach, preferably in a private school.”

  “Why a private school?”

  “The kids are motivated. Their parents have put it into their heads what’s expected of them, and when kids know what’s expected of them, they’ll usually perform. That means fewer discipline problems and more assurances of success.” She finished her drink and placed the glass on the counter. “Where do you live around here?” She hesitated. “That’s not a proposition. I’m simply curious.”

  “Just down the beach from here. I share a house with a couple of foulmouthed pilots.”

  “Did I just meet one of them?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Just my luck.”

  “Ku, our houseboy, does a good job looking after us.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t taken one of the local girls. Most white men who are here for any length of time seem to do that.”

  “Too many complications. I have no wish to go through the palaver just to have my house cleaned.”

  “And your, shall I say, other needs?”

  I ignored the question.

  “I’m sure someone could explain it.” She finished her drink. “Let’s take a walk on the beach.”

  I followed her down toward the beach and out of the light and noise of the beach bar. We walked in silence along the surf line where the breaking waves rush up onto the beach in thin layers of water and rush back again.

  “It’s a beautiful country, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I am going to hate to leave it.”

  “That won’t be for some time yet.”

  “Six months. I told you.”

  “You could renew your contract or whatever the Peace Corps calls it.”

  “I’m thinking about it, but I want to live in Monrovia, and there are no openings there.”

  “Maybe it’ll change in six months. That’s something I’ve learned about this place—things can change quickly.”

  There was a rumble in the air. I looked back to see the night sky lighting up with cloud-to-cloud lightening. A thunderstorm was building and, as usual, it was heading toward the coast.

  “I think we had better get back,” she said. We started walking back along the beach.

  “I want to see you again,” I said.

  “Can you fly up to Voinjama next weekend?”

  “Yes,” I said, and I meant it. I would have stolen an airplane, a car, a train. I would have walked through the jungle to see her again.

  CHAPTER 31

  PINEAPPLE BEACH

  We made arrangements to meet almost every weekend after that. I struck a deal with Andre that allowed me to rent Papa Sierra pretty much any time. On those weekends that I flew, I would land on the beach where locals were selling their goods and load the cargo bay up with fish. Sam used some of her “coffee money” to buy everything, and I would usually throw in a few dollars just to help out. After I landed at Voinjama, Sam would distribute the fish to the families at her school. We were always invited to share, and the evening would sometimes take on a festive air. I became known among them as “the blessed one from the sky.” When Sam drove the jeep to Monrovia, we would usually meet up with some of her Peace Corps colleagues and eat, drink, and talk way into the night, usually about the current trends in movies, the latest books, and often about the state of affairs in the US.

  When we met with my aviation buddies, the conversation tended to go toward affirmations of who was getting laid, how much money one earned in the last month, or the declining state of aircraft maintenance. When she was in Monrovia, we would stay at the Ambassador. One evening, she was standing at the window wrapped only in the top bed sheet, looking out toward the ocean.

  “In a couple of months this will all come to an end,” she said. “I will go back to Seattle and the cold and the rain. And you, where will you be?”

  I had been thinking about it, almost from the beginning. There was only one thing that I was sure of at the time: I was not going to lose her. I knew, without doubt, that with so many miles between us, the curta
in would fall.

  “I will be with you,” I said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “To put it bluntly, you could move in with me.”

  She turned around to stare at me. The sheet twisted around her body so that it looked like a royal robe.

  “I’ll find a place for us. I’ll take care of everything.”

  “I think I rather like the idea of being a kept woman, or,” she paused, “are you asking something else?”

  “I just want to be with you in any way you want. That’s all.”

  She walked over to me. I was sitting on the edge of the bed. She wrapped her bed sheet around both of us.

  “I’ll definitely give it some consideration,” she said, kissing me.

  The wet season, as usual, made flying difficult, but it made driving along the few mud roads of the Liberian interior almost impossible. The only safe way to travel in a ground vehicle during the wet season was to use the mining roads. This usually took one out of the way and added considerably to the travel time but, with planning and perseverance, one could be reasonably sure of making it. When Sam arrived at the Peace Corp hostel, the jeep was covered in mud and there were still some small green branches caught in the hood and fenders of the jeep. She pulled her duffel bag from the back seat.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” she said, tossing the duffle bag into the front luggage compartment and closing the hood with a definite bang.

  “Where to?” I asked.

  “Any place where they don’t serve bush meat.”

  I drove to Heinz and Maria’s and we feasted on sausages, potatoes, and beer.

  “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. My commitment is done next month. It’s the end of term. I’ve even told the kids. They like me, and they’re sorry to see me go, but these kids are used to uncertainty, to disruption, to looking at a very short future. The Corps has starting bringing up the green ones to give them some culture-shock-break-in time before they go solo. I’ve got to break in my replacement before she goes solo and give her advice, if she’ll take it. Then I’m outta there.” She hesitated and looked down at her near empty beer glass. “But, you know, I’ve gotten use to those kids. I found out ways to help them and I don’t mean just teaching—I’ve gotten things for them. Trouble is that no matter what I do for them, it really doesn’t make a difference in the long run. Most of them will never get out of the poverty they’re in. Most of them will not make it to forty. They’ll be exploited by somebody with money and power and robbed by some petty government official or some thuggish tribal leader. What no one in the Peace Corps wants to admit is that no matter what we do for them, most of these kids don’t really stand a chance.”