Sam Harris Adventure Box Set

by P J Skinner

  ‘You’re the new manager of Masaibu project?’ said Victor, cutting through her day dream.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Sam.

  ‘Will you be staying long?’ he said, giving her a frank stare.

  Sam hesitated.

  ‘It’s just that the other managers only visited for short periods,’ said Victor.

  ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I plan to live on site.’

  It was Victor’s turn to appear confused. A shadow of concern blanketed his face.

  ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ he said.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Sam, her jaunty tone covering her own unease about his reaction.

  ‘It’s a brave decision. Consaf is not popular in the town for various reasons.’

  ‘Aren’t they the major employer in the district?’ said Sam

  ‘Yes, but there’s resentment brewing, both from people who have jobs with the company and those who don’t.’

  ‘Do you live in town?’

  ‘I’m the mayor, said Victor

  Bugger. I shouldn’t have insisted on bringing my suitcase. She turned to face him.

  ‘You should’ve told me earlier,’ she said, blushing, and flashed an annoyed look at Mark, who flew on oblivious.

  ‘I thought you knew,’ said Victor.

  ‘I do now,’ she said. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, sir. Your advice will be key to my understanding of the Masaibu project’s problems. I hope we’ll have the chance to meet again to discuss them.’

  ‘Masaibu is a problem,’ said Victor.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Sam struggled to find something suitable to say. Victor laughed, creasing over in his seat, his stomach straining against the seatbelt.

  ‘Masaibu is the Swahili word for problem.’

  He patted her hand and smiled. In empathy or sympathy? Problem project.

  Her apprehension increased as they came in to land, bumping and skidding on the crude runway lined by long grass and manioc plants. She appeared to have found an ally, but only time would tell.

  ***

  It took her over an hour to emerge from the tiny airport building. The mayor walked straight through, shaking hands with the officials and waving back at Sam. Disappointed he had not smoothed her passage through the aggressive customs and immigration procedures, she sulked in a chair. Her visa and work permit were scrutinised, photocopied, faxed and reviewed for ages while she sat in the sweltering waiting room.

  Next, they subjected her to a surreal interrogation.

  ‘You live in Hill Street, London? I’ve never heard of it, and my brother lives in Sheffield.’

  Mad Mark was no help either. He had disappeared into town on an unexplained errand with a sack of goods he extracted from the bowels of the plane. He grunted as he heaved it onto his back. No wonder he didn’t want to take her bag. The aircraft must have been overloaded.

  Having cleared immigration, Sam tried to head for the exit, but three plump women in uniforms, whose buttons strained against the tight material, barred her way. They observed her like cats around a mouse, sneering as if she was something they had found stuck to the sole of their high heels. They opened her suitcase to inspect its contents. They removed her clothes one by one with disdainful expressions that suggested they had expected better. One woman poked at Sam’s sponge bag with a long, manicured nail, painted a lurid red.

  ‘What’s in here?’ she said.

  ‘Toothpaste, shampoo, soap, moisturiser,’ said Sam, pulling on the zip and handing it to her.

  ‘Where is your make up? We need to inspect the lipstick.’

  ‘Um, I don’t wear makeup,’ said Sam, wishing she did.

  ‘How is that possible? Are you not a woman?’ said another of the women, looking at her breasts.

  ‘I don’t wear makeup at work,’ said Sam. ‘I work with lots of men. I try not to distract them.’

  ‘Look,’ said the other, holding up one of Sam’s bras.

  ‘Is it new?’ said the first woman.

  ‘I didn’t bring any new clothes with me,’ said Sam.

  ‘Will you travel home often?’ said the second woman.

  ‘Every ten weeks for a break,’ said Sam, desperate to get out of their grasp before they took her underwear as tax. ‘I could bring lipstick for you next time if you like.’

  The three women underwent a total change of attitude, their grumpy expressions replaced by beaming smiles. They nodded at each other and folded and replaced all the clothes they had removed from the bag, forcing the zip closed again.

  ‘You may go now, but you will bring us lipstick next time. Six lipsticks.’

  ‘What colours would you like?’ said Sam.

  ‘Any colours,’ said the fattest agent, pointing to the door.

  ***

  An ancient jeep with brand new company stickers was parked outside the arrivals building. A young man leaned against the bonnet smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. As she approached, he threw it down and stamped on it, standing formally beside the vehicle.

  ‘You are Mama Sam?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ she said. Mama? She let that ride.

  ‘Shikamo Mama. I’m Ezekiel.’

  He grabbed her suitcase and placed it into the back of the jeep. The doors rattled as he slammed them shut grunting with exertion. Sam opened the front door of the jeep. Junk of various descriptions lay spread over the seat. Empty cigarette packets jostled with scrunched up pieces of paper bearing long redundant lists of errands. Rotting banana peels filled the car with their pungent smell.

  Ezekiel opened his door as she was about to wipe the seat clean for sitting on.

  ‘Aren’t you going to go in the back? All the managers sit in the back,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t like sitting in the back seat,’ said Sam. ‘The front seat has more legroom and seatbelts.’

  ‘But I’m a good driver. Are you worried about my driving?’

  ‘I’m worried about everyone’s driving.’

  Ezekiel sniffed and cleared the rubbish from the seat into an old plastic bag which had holes in it. He dropped it on the ground where it split open, spilling its content on the grass.

  ‘Please don’t leave that there,’ said Sam. ‘We’ll throw it in a rubbish bin in camp.’

  Ezekiel sighed and collected the rubbish into a second less ancient bag, which he threw into the back seat. They got in and Ezekiel started the car. He activated the air conditioning and put up windows covered in the black film used by politicians. It was lifting at the edges and it tempted Sam to pull it off.

  ‘Why do you have this on the windows?’ she said.

  ‘It’s so that local people cannot tell who is in the car with me. Some managers are not popular.’

  This alarming comment only reinforced Sam’s misgivings about the project. Had she bitten off more than she could chew? Her bravado had evaporated since she had been home to pack her field gear and books, not helped by people’s reactions on hearing about her new job.

  ‘Isn’t Lumbono lawless? There were reports on the news about illegal mining and local conflicts, women being raped.’

  Her family were used to Sam’s remote job locations and had their usual pragmatic reactions.

  ‘Have you renewed all your jabs?’ her father said.

  ‘Don’t forget tea bags,’ her mother said.

  ‘Don’t stay out there too long, I need a babysitter,’ said Hannah.

  Sam found their lack of interest comforting. How bad could it be?

  As they drove through town, down what seemed to be the main shopping street, Sam inspected the battered buildings, with their half built second storey and tin roofs. Children with bare feet scampered between piles of vegetables and plastic utensils, splashing in puddles of pig and dog urine. Women wrapped in traditional wax print materials staggered by, burdened by whole branches of bananas or sacks of
rice balanced on their heads, and babies strapped to their backs.

  Groups of men sat in the doorways of the scruffy shops, smoking and playing cards. Some of them had bright yellow boots on, and others were wearing rain gear with the Masaibu Project logo.

  ‘Do those men work for Consaf?’ said Sam.

  ‘No, they are shopkeepers,’ said Ezekiel.

  Why they were wearing company issue clothing? There was plenty of time to find out more. A dark shape appeared in the windscreen and there was a loud thud as it hit the glass making a dirty mark. Sam threw her hands up in fright.

  ‘What was that?’ she said. Her heart thundered in her chest making her feel sick. What on earth possessed her to take this job? It would be a nightmare.

  ‘Someone threw a manioc root at the car.’

  ‘Should we stop?’

  ‘No, Mama Sam, that would not be a good idea.’

  As they approached the outskirts of the town, Ezekiel headed for a metal gate which had wooden booths on either side. One had a sticker of a man over the entrance door and the other of a woman. Smartly dressed security guards at the gate raised the barrier for the car to enter.

  Ezekiel stopped the car and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel avoiding Sam’s inquiring glance. One of the guards knocked on the window and indicated the booth to her.

  ‘What is the protocol?’ said Sam.

  ‘You must register any valuables when you arrive,’ said Ezekiel.

  ‘I have none,’ said Sam.

  ‘You must show them your suitcase.’

  For the second time that afternoon, she tolerated the probing of her belongings by a woman who was putting things aside in a disconcerting manner. Sam filled out a form with the information about her cd player and digital camera, and she signed and dated the piece of paper the woman thrust at her. The guard then zipped up Sam’s suitcase without replacing the items she had put to one side. She indicated that Sam should go.

  ‘I can’t go yet,’ said Sam. ‘You’ve not put my things into my bag.’

  ‘I’m keeping them,’ said the woman, hands on hips. Confidence radiated from her smug face.

  ‘No, you aren’t. Do you know who I am?’ said Sam. I can’t believe I said that.

  ‘No, and I don’t care.’

  ‘I’m the new manager of Masaibu.’

  The woman appeared uncertain and made a grab for Sam’s clothes. Sam put her hand on the pile, daring her to wrestle for them.

  ‘You’re a woman. It’s not possible to be boss. The clothes are mine now,’ said the guard.

  ‘Would you prefer to keep your job?’ said Sam.

  The tiniest smidgen of doubt crept on to the woman’s face and she grimaced. Ezekiel knocked on the door of the booth.

  ‘Mama Sam, are you ready?’

  The guard crumpled. ‘Mama Sam?’ She slumped on a chair and wept crocodile tears. Sam was unmoved. She unzipped her bag and put her clothes back inside. She pulled the suitcase through the door and gave it to Ezekiel.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she said.

  Behind her the woman’s keening rose louder.

  ‘What did you say to her?’ said Ezekiel.

  ‘Nothing. She’s having a bad day. Does this search happen to everyone?’

  ‘Yes, Mama Sam. People get searched on their way out, but.’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You need to speak to the security manager. I don’t want to get into trouble.’

  Chapter V

  The car pulled up in front of a large wooden office building at one end of a grass rectangle with a gravel road running around it. Sam examined the scene for clues of overspend. Shabby prefabricated bungalows with tar roofs occupied the left hand and bottom end of the rectangle. Two larger wooden structures sat on the right-hand side of it, one of which had a faded sign above the door reading Canteen. The other looked unused. Greying curtains hung in the windows which were opaque with dust. Where ever the money was going, it wasn’t on building maintenance.

  The office building had a semi-circular wooden patio in the front with chairs and tables in the shade of a lean-to. One table was occupied by two muscle-bound men in blue-grey uniforms with dark glasses. Neither of them moved when Sam got down from the jeep but cold eyes assessed her as she mounted the steps to the patio.

  Suddenly, both men stood up, rigid limbed. Arrogance, or something like it, emanated from the taller, bulkier man. He thrust out his hand.

  ‘Hans Kerber, head of security,’ he said in accented French. Franco Austrian with a whiff of lederhosen.

  He had a bone-crushing handshake. Sam tried not to wince. His strange, small head balanced on a long neck, like a forceps delivery gone wrong. Every whisker had been scraped off his face, leaving it raw. He had the cold, grey eyes of a wolf in winter. Dangerous.

  His sidekick shook Sam’s hand with a forthright manner. He had a gentle broken air, but a grip like concrete and ligaments standing out on whiplash forearms. He resembled Tintin with his blond quiff and small blue eyes twinkling at her.

  ‘Jacques Armour at your service,’ he said.

  Sam smiled.

  ‘Yes, I know Armour, soldier, funny no?’ he said.

  ‘Which outfit?’ said Sam

  ‘We served in the French Foreign Legion together,’ said Hans. ‘We are brothers in arms.’

  Jacques nodded and turned to her again, his manner open in contrast to Hans who crossed his arms.

  ‘And you, Miss Harris? What’s your background?’

  ‘Please call me Sam. I’m a geologist. I manage exploration projects on remote sites. Consaf sent me to troubleshoot this project. I’ll need you to brief me on the goings-on here.’

  ‘Have you had experience of working in Africa?’ said Jacques.

  ‘Yes, I managed a project in Simbako, and several other short contracts here and there,’ said Sam.

  Hans snorted.

  ‘I’ve never worked with a woman before,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how this will work.’

  ‘Pretend I’m a man,’ said Sam. ‘That works for most people.’

  Hans examined her with a practiced eye.

  ‘That will be difficult,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ said Jacques, and he kicked Hans under the table. Hans grinned, unfazed by his own frankness. Cards on the table then. At least she didn’t have to guess.

  ‘I’d like a cup of tea,’ said Sam. ‘How do I organise that?’

  ‘We don’t have tea, only coffee,’ said Hans.

  ‘Coffee will do until I rescue tea from my suitcase.’

  ‘Let’s go to the canteen,’ said Jacques.

  Mr Problem and Mr Solution. Good to know.

  ‘Before we do,’ said Hans, ‘it might be an idea to orientate yourself. The prefabs on the left side of the square are senior accommodation where you will live. At the end is the clinic and sickbay, and on the right are the canteen and community buildings. It’s simple to find your way around.’

  Sam didn’t comment. His manner suggested that he didn’t expect her to leave the confines of the square. What sort of managers had Masaibu had before? Did they never leave the office building?

  The coffee was disgusting, old, cheap, instant. Surely, they could afford decent coffee? And why didn’t they have tea? In her experience, remote camps ran on coffee, tea and cigarettes. Despite the money being thrown at the place, the most basic requirements were missing.

  ‘What makes you think you can fix this project? You’re not the first to try,’ said Hans. ‘The rest returned home with their tails between their legs.’

  Jacques coughed but Hans ignored him.

  ‘We don’t have time to carry you. This district is vulnerable to gangs of brigands made up of ex-rebel forces. Security is a full-time job.’

  Sam held her breath and counted to ten, refusing to be drawn. She fixed him with a glare.

  ‘I’ll get on with my job if you
do yours,’ she said. ‘If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.’

  Hans smirked and sat on his chair his legs splayed apart showing a tear in the crotch of his trousers. He didn’t know when to stop. It would be a battle.

  Just as Sam teetered on the brink of capitulating and admitting her exhaustion, a worker came running up and whispered in Hans’ ear. He got up without formalities and headed across the square.

  ‘Anything important,’ said Sam.

  ‘Just firefighting,’ said Jacques. ‘There’s always another problem to solve around here.’

  ‘Can you show me my room please?’

  ‘Of course, it’s directly opposite.’

  He held the door of the canteen open for her and she couldn’t help noticing the blonde hairs on his brown arms as the sunlight fell on them. They walked across the grass to the prefab in the searing heat. It had recently been cut and green blades stuck to her shoes.

  ‘You must be tired. What time did you get up?’ said Jacques.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t sleep. I flew overnight from London to Uganda,’ said Sam.

  ‘You should ignore Hans. He spits out random poisonous phrases like a demented machine gun but he’s not a bad man. If you ever need him, he’ll put his life on the line to save you.’

  ‘Are you in the habit of sweeping up after his tirades?’

  ‘He doesn’t have an off button. I try to send him signals but he doesn’t always respond.’

  ‘Is he always like this?’

  ‘He lost his beloved wife in a plane crash a few years ago. The vicious comments are his way of coping. He has never grieved her.’

  Chastened, Sam followed Jacques into the prefab’s sitting room. It had a hard-looking sofa and some dingy curtains and smelt of mildew. A kitchenette to the right of the entrance contained a rusty fridge and a stained sink. Jacque pushed open the door to the bedroom. A large double bed almost filled the room. Above it, a fan wheezed into life as Sam tried the switches. An old and useless mosquito net hung over the bed.