“That man in there, the big one with the blond hair—he’s the one.” She broke down into sobs.
“Whuddya mean, he’s the one? The one with part of his ear missing? He’s the one that attacked you in Voinjama?”
She hesitated then looked away. “Yes, he recognized me. He said that he knew who I was and he was going to find out where I lived then he was going to come and fuck me to death.” She started sobbing again.
I felt the skin around my head and face tighten like shrinking fabric. A sense of rage came over me that I had never experienced before. It wasn’t simply that he had threatened and frightened Sam into this crumbling emotional state, but he had also entered into our private lives by ruining, forever, an exquisitely happy occasion.
I reached under the driver seat and felt my nine millimeter Llama in its holster, which had been fastened to the underside of the seat. I unsnapped the holster and withdrew the Llama.
“No!” she said. “It’s not worth that!”
“This is Liberia and obviously this guy doesn’t know the rules. I’ll be back soon.”
I pushed the gun under the belt behind my back and slowly walked back into Heinz and Maria’s. The construction workers were still sitting at the bar. The man with the blond hair and missing ear lobe sipped his beer and did not turn around. I walked quietly but quickly up behind him, took my Llama out and as hard and quickly as I could, hit him in the head with the butt of the gun just above the right ear. He dropped to the floor like a sack of beans. The German waitress turned when she heard the sound, looked horrified, and dropped the plates she was holding. I kicked him in the midsection as hard as I could then turned him over on his back with my foot. The other two jumped off of their seats and faced me. I pointed the Llama at them. They held their hands toward me palms out; nevertheless, they looked like a couple of bulls with their heads down ready to charge.
“Tell your friend when he regains consciousness, if he does, that if he comes near my wife, I’ll empty this magazine into him. Do you understand me?”
They didn’t move or indicate that they had comprehended what I had said. I shouted at the top of my voice, “Verstehen sie mich!”
They both nodded that they did.
“Sag es!” I shouted.
“Ja! Ja! Wir verstehen sie! Ve vill tell him!”
I backed away slowly then put the Llama back under my belt and walked hurriedly to the car. Once there, I jumped in and drove away, saying to Sam only that I had taken care of it and that she was safe, but she wanted to know what had happened.
“What did you do? What did you do?” Sam shouted.
I told her what had happened.
“Do you think you killed him?”
“I may have. If not, he’s going to have one almighty headache if he wakes up.”
“We had better get outta here right away. Let’s get back to the house, throw some things in a bag, and get to the airport. Cape Town seems far enough away.”
CHAPTER 33
CAPE TOWN
Cape Town was as different from Monrovia as it was possible to get. It was a large city in the summer of 1967. It was rich and booming and the political construct of Apartheid was at its height. The blacks, coloreds (these were people of mixed race), and Indians (these included people from India, Pakistan, and Asia) had been forcibly moved from the city center into suburban ghettos. Apartheid went further than that when the government, dominated by the all-white National Party, deprived the black population of their South African citizenship and “resettled” them in what were called self-governing Bantustans. The Apartheid government had the National Party use military and police force to ensure that all government rulings and regulations were carried out.
Sam and I were aware of Apartheid when we arrived in Cape Town, but not fully knowledgeable of the extent of the atrocities associated with it. It was summer in Cape Town, a temperate summer, not the hot, dry season in Liberia, and beautiful, but we were thinking more of escape than anything else. Once there, the idea of escape took on a very real meaning to me, since I truly did not know if I had killed the construction worker. The owners of Heinz and Maria’s knew me and would probably keep quiet, but if the construction worker died and the police got involved, they would protect themselves before anyone else. And that included me.
Our hotel was on Lagoon Beach. We had a good view of the ocean, and in the distance we could see Robben Island. Robben Island had been used for about every nefarious purpose human beings could think of. It had been used as a prison since the mid-seventh century. In 1968 it held several political prisoners, Nelson Mandela being one. It had been a leper colony in the more distant past and, at one time, was a whaling station base. All this on a scrap of an island about two miles long and one mile wide. In the distance, Table Mountain seemed to rise from the Atlantic Ocean, looking rather formidable but very majestic, like a piece of flat earth that had suddenly been elevated above the rest of the world.
Since we found ourselves in this beautiful spot, we decided to take advantage of the situation and play tourist. We spent most of our time lounging on the beach, drinking at the bar, and exploring the town. We used taxies rather than renting a car. The drivers knew the town much better than we did, and every night that we went out, they took us to a different club or theater.
After about a week, I pumped up my nerve and called the bunk house and left word for Deet to call me. Several days later, he did. It was early in the morning. He said that he knew that I would be sober and alert. I asked him if he had heard about the incident at Heinz and Maria’s.
“Ya,” he said. “Everyone knows. You are quite de hero. Bad ass Ken vee vill call you.”
“How is the man? Is he dead, badly injured, what?”
“Nein, he got up off de floor, I’m told, shook his head so that de brains rattled around a bit. Den held his head and asked fur a beer. Dere was some blut und maybe some swelling, but dat vas all. Oh, ya! His buddies gave him your message. I tink he listened und understood. I don’t tink you vill have to vorry about him again. Oh ya, und anodder bit of news. Jack Dupree, you know, dat mousy frog dat followed Andre around? He vas found dead on the airport road—shot tru de head. Eider he cheated someone, knew too much, or dey jus couldn’ stand looking at him anymore.”
Then followed the usual question of what we were doing, how was Cape Town, and was “my girlfriend” being good to me.
I slowly put the phone hand piece back on its hook, greatly relieved. I did know that a blow to the head could do a lot of damage, and that complications could show up much later. I would have to keep my fingers crossed, although if the man dropped dead tomorrow I had real doubts that the Monrovian police would care.
I was glad that the man did not die, but I wasn’t sorry for the action I took. He had, after all, threatened to rape Sam, and there was no reason to assume he would not have carried out his threat. And it would have been a supreme act of silliness to report the threat to the police.
I pushed the whole matter to a dark, dusty corner of my mind and made it a point of principle to enjoy our visit in Cape Town. It was a matter of great importance, now, that Sam put the incident away too, and I was going to do all that I could to make that happen.
Sam was finishing breakfast in bed when I told her the news. She leaped out of bed and screamed with joy.
“Thank God we don’t have to carry that burden around for the rest of our lives,” she said, hugging me and kissing me. She stepped back, smiled at me, and said, “You know, Ken, you really are one bad-ass kinda guy!”
With the news that I wasn’t a wanted man it seemed safe to return to Monrovia; nevertheless, we were both sorry to leave Cape Town. Despite the rampant social injustices, the blatant economic disparities, and the rigid class structure along racial lines, we did like and enjoy the city and all of the natural beauty around it.
We took a taxi from Robertsfield back to Pineapple Beach. Binji had kept it clean and dusted while we were away. I had paid him for a month, so he
essentially had a month’s paid vacation, something rare in Liberia. It was late and dark. We groped around for lights, found them, and were delighted to discover that they were working. We were doubly delighted to discover that water was available and, even though we had no hot water, the showers were refreshing. The showers drained what was left of our energy and we fell into bed, barely having strength enough to pull the mosquito netting over us.
CHAPTER 34
DUNG BEETLES
Monrovia Airlines had a couple of British geologists from SLDMC (Sierra Leone Diamond Mining Company) contract with us. They came at the behest of the local government. Their job was to explore all of the creeks up country to find more cashes of diamonds. They would go very deep into the bush with the latest instrumentation and technology. They would very slowly and systematically search for new pipes of diamonds rising up from the earth’s core.
Shortly after returning from South Africa, I flew a few of these geologists deep into Nimba country. The village had a hard dirt strip that made it easy for me to land. The Head Man approached and asked if we needed help unloading. I told him that we did and thanked him for the offer. As the boys were unloading the geologist’s gear, a young village boy ran up to the plane with a huge smile on his face and his hands spread out like an airplane.
“RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! RRRRRRRRRRRR!” he shouted.
“That’s pretty good,” I said. “Are you an airplane?”
“Da ma engine voice!” he said, showing a mouthful of teeth when he smiled.
“Oh, Mista Pilot, Mista Pilot. Can you hep me, oh?”
The boy’s mother had finally caught up with him and was, I think, panting and pleading for me do something but I couldn’t fully understand her.
“Say that again . . . what do you need?”
“Ya go to Robafee, oh?”
“Robertsfield?” I asked. “No. I’m going to Spriggs-Payne, but its right nearby.”
“Okay, da boy, he need to go to his pa in de city,” the woman said. “His pa send him to school. Can you do dat, oh! I hold your foot, oh!”
“I can. I certainly can. But it costs money. It costs fifteen dollars.”
“Fiteen dolla? Oooo, dat dollar too many. I got fie dolla here. But I can gi yo dash. You wan dash?
“Like what?” I asked.
“Oh, yama, yama! Ting like dry fee, cassava lee, an pawpaw.” She uncovered her basket filled with ripe papaya, cassava leaves, and dried fish.
“Okay, Mama. I’ll get him there. Tell the boy to get his stuff. And have the Head Man put his pa’s name on a piece of paper.”
The British geologists were loading up the last backpack, ready to head out. I saw them approach what looked like a dark brown, glistening rivulet crossing the runway. There had been no rain recently, so it was strange to see any kind of water flowing anywhere. One of the geologists had a stick and was walking toward it.
“Hold on there,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Come and look at this,” one of them said. “It’s not water, it is a zillion ants, all marching in a big fat line. I was just going to see if they would march around my foot if I put it there.”
“Then I’m glad I stopped you,” I said. “They are driver ants. They are predatory, and they devour any edible organic material in their path. And that would include your foot, mate.”
The geologist jumped back in terror and, dropping his stick, ran to where the bags and equipment were being stacked.
The boy loved the flight. He had seen airplanes before but had never flown in one. I realized, as we got closer to Monrovia, that he had never been out of his village. He had never seen a modern building. I radioed ahead to have a taxi waiting for him when we arrived so he could get to his father as soon as possible. The landing was smooth and I taxied up to the hangar where Paterson was waiting. I looked at the boy. His expression of glee had changed to one of terror.
I helped him get out of the cockpit very slowly. He was like a caged wild animal. Paterson said something unintelligible to him and he showed a weak smile. At that moment the taxi pulled up and stopped in front of us. The boy screamed and started running as fast as he could. The taxi, which was a much battered 1955 Ford Fairlane, started following him. The boy let out another scream. I realized that the boy had never seen an automobile before. He must have thought a giant monster was chasing him.
When I told Sam, she confirmed my supposition and said that it was not uncommon for children raised in the bush to have never seen a car but be very familiar with airplanes. She suggested that we go to the beach bar since Colin and Ozzie said earlier that they would be there, and she thought it would be good for us to have a few laughs with them.
“Are you sure?” I asked a little surprised. “I didn’t think Ozzie was your favorite kind of guy.”
“Friends are few and far between around here sometimes, and some of his stories can be fun.”
We walked down the beach to the bar. Colin and Ozzie were there with a couple of other pilots.
“Look who’s back! That was some vanishing act you pulled! For a moment there, I though you joined the long list of mysteriously missing persons,” Colin said. “Have a seat, mates, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Strangely enough, it’s nice to be back.”
“I just got back too,” Ozzie said. “I’ve been up country with a team of Yank surveyors.”
Sam turned to me and said, “See, I told you he would have a story to tell.”
Ozzie grinned and started again. “I swear, these guys must have been financed through bloody USAID. They had loads of food, top-notch camping equipment, some really fine surveying equipment, and they brought along five boys to carry it all. Anyway, we got along just fine, and they asked if I wanted to go along and camp with them in the bush. ‘Sure,’ I said. I could see that I would eat and sleep better with them than I would at home.”
“So what were they surveying?” Sam asked.
“Well, I flew them over to Grand Geheh County southeast of here. They said there were plans to cut a road from Zwedru on down to Fish Town. What they were doing this trip was between Babu and Duabo. The bush is real dense there; I can’t see how they’re gonna do it. I’m tellin’ ya, it was some adventure!”
There was a chorus of “So what happened” from his drinking buddies.
“Okay, so I joined them on Friday and spent Saturday and Sunday with them. We were out in the middle of nowhere. I mean, middle of nooowhere. It was easy going and flat until we got to the edge of a forest when it got really hilly. So we loaded up the boys with all the gear and we start going down this trail. I’m happy as a dung beetle in shit! I feel like a boy scout on holiday.
“So the bearers, they’re carrying the loads, and we got to a creek. After crossing it, we were going down another steep trail. It was kind of muddy. And all of a sudden the bearers drop everything and come running back. And we’re in the jungle now, mates. I mean, these trees are going up two hundred feet. No place to go off the trail. So they come running by us. What the fuck is that?
“It turned out there was an elephant on the trail with its back to us. Now these are bush elephants. They aren’t the huge ones you see in East Africa. But they’re still elephants. And it’s got its back to us. We could see its tail, and it was making some kind horrible grunting sound. I’m told it’s called musth. The elephant’s in love, you see. It was that time of the year for a male elephant. Their eyes weep, they snort, and they are extremely aggressive. And, you know, of course, they don’t want anybody in their territory, and he probably smells a female somewhere or he has a female. Who knows? So, it’s obvious we can’t go any further.”
Ozzie reaches for his beer and takes a long, slow swallow. He knows he has a captive audience. He continues, “This elephant takes up the whole trail. So this Rick guy—I can tell you what, he had cajones. He had a double-barreled shot gun. That was his only armor. I had my pistol. He goes up to it behind the ear,
and it’s snorting—you know, an elephant is a big animal. And he puts both barrels right on the elephant, you know, behind the ear. Boom! Boom! The elephant takes off running down the hill!”
Everyone was silent and focused.
“He didn’t shoot the elephant, did he?” I asked.
“Yeah, he shot the elephant. Two shots, right here behind the ear. And the elephant is just stampeding down the trail. It’s going downhill. Then Rick says, ‘Let’s go, let’s get it.’ And of course, the bearers are nowhere to be seen. I mean, they’re half a mile back, watching. So we’re chasing this thing, and all of a sudden the trail makes this sharp turn and the elephant isn’t there. It’s dropped out of sight, off down in the jungle. And we say, ‘Shit, what’s happening?’
“We start walking back up the trail. And whoa! There it is. The elephant has gone into the bush, doubled back and come up behind us. We’re dead . . . We are dead meat! And in the panic, in the excitement, Rick didn’t reload. All I had was my little 25 automatic—big fucking deal.
“There it was, just standing there. We were all just standing there. And then, just like that, it dropped dead! So it came up behind us and died.”
Colin took a gulp from his drink.
“It had come around behind you to settle the score,” one of the men said.
“Aye, to settle the score. But I have the tail. The guys took the tusks. And, of course the boys, when they saw that the elephant was dead, they went berserk. They chopped it up with their pangas and saved every edible thing on it. At least they didn’t leave it for the monkeys to eat.”
Walking home along the beach, Sam was very quiet. Finally, she turned to me and said, “Your Liberia and my Liberia are just worlds apart. The native Liberians that I have been dealing with out in the bush are basically sweet, kind, and caring people. Their ignorance is not stupidity; it is the lack of access to any kind of modern infrastructure whatsoever. They have little or no electricity, no plumbing, and many times no roads or ready access to clean water. Without the Peace Corps, they would be almost without any education at all. And why don’t they have that infrastructure? It’s because the Liberians you deal with, the Big Men, the Americo-Liberians keep it all for themselves. My God, the money flowing into this place is staggering. But do any of the kids up in Lofa country see any of it? No. Not one penny!” “Yes,” I said, “but the Ozzies and Colins and Deets, and even me’s of this country aren’t African. We are just doing a job.”
The Dung Beetles of Liberia Page 26