Sam Harris Adventure Box Set

by P J Skinner

  Chapter VII

  The first weeks at Masaibu went by in a blur as Sam got to grips with the writhing anaconda that was the exploration project. Every time she pinned down one problem, another emerged, sliding out of her grip and trying to escape.

  Most of the managers had come on side with her plans, or were pretending to, but Ngoma Itoua, the Union Manager did not engage with her. She tried to bring him into the group discussions at morning meetings but he folded his arms and refused to contribute.

  This was not necessarily sinister. As far as she could make out, he didn’t seem to communicate much with anyone. She looked for signs he collaborated with Philippe but they never sat beside each other in the canteen or out on the porch. When she offered to meet him once a week to talk about workers’ issues, he claimed to be too busy. So, she left him to himself hoping he would come around at some stage.

  Apart from her failure to bring Itoua on side, one of the most pressing matters was the parlous state of community relations. The memory of the manioc hitting the windscreen on her arrival in town still haunted Sam. There was one way to get to the root of the problem, so to speak, and that was by starting at the top. She arranged to meet Victor Samba, the mayor of Masaibu, who had shared her flight to Masaibu.

  With Joseph Haba, the community manager still in hiding, due to his varied and illicit relations in town, one of which had resulted in a pregnancy, she asked Hans to accompany her to his house one evening. They set out from camp in another of the ancient jeeps, rattling and shaking on the bumpy road. All the jeeps belonging to the project had seen better days and most of them needed scrapping. Sam was still trying to figure out where the money had been spent in a project where the fleet of both heavy and light machinery was prehistoric.

  ‘Where does the mayor live?’ she said.

  ‘On a hill overlooking the town. It’s cooler there,’ said Hans, gesticulating at a green slope rising behind the houses.

  They drove through town, enduring the usual cat calls and rude gestures. Sam did her best impression of the Queen, smiling and waving as if she was on a royal tour, to be met with blank faces and turned backs. The road out of town folded back on itself like puff pastry, the greenery increasing with altitude and walking distance from axes. Banana trees lined the route with their bright flowers like rows of birds’ beaks, dangling yellow and red below their green Mohican crowns. Pigs snuffled in the dry ditches munching on the rotting fruits which had been dislodged from the stems.

  A child-like figure stepped out onto the road in front of the car. They were going at a crawl due to the state of the road, so Hans halted the vehicle without hitting him. But it wasn’t a child. It was a miniscule man. He was wearing rags and had bare feet. A basket full of grass was hanging from a strap of woven palm leaves which dug into his forehead. His wizen turned towards the car. Eyes wide with terror, he spun around and ran from the road back into the bush where he disappeared, leaving Sam with her mouth open.

  ‘Was that a pygmy?’ she said. ‘I didn’t know they lived around here.’

  ‘There’s a tribe of them living at the edge of the forest to the west of town,’ said Hans.

  ‘Why did he run like that? Hasn’t he seen a car before?’ said Sam, trying to spot him in the bushes.

  ‘Oh, they’ve seen plenty. That’s why he ran away.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘During the civil war, the rebels used to catch the pygmies and eat them.’

  Sam’s breath caught in her throat.

  ‘Eat them? I don’t believe you.’

  ‘They considered them to be a species of monkey.’

  Sam glanced at Hans to see if he was joking but his eyes were fixed on the road, jaw set like concrete, and no smile creased his Teutonic features.

  Before Sam could get her head around this horrific image, they arrived at the mayor’s house, a two-storey affair which had been dug into the hill and rose above the citrus trees in the garden. The light was fading and the noise of a generator broke through the wave of sound created by frogs and crickets. Moths were flocking to the light bulbs strung along the first-floor balcony. A mosquito net wrapped around it was festooned with their corpses.

  Victor Samba was waiting on the balcony. His wife, Mbala, a pretty woman with lively eyes, showed Sam and Hans up the stairs.

  ‘So, you’re still here,’ said Victor, shaking Sam’s hand.

  ‘You’ll need a large crow bar to remove her,’ said Hans.

  ‘I like Masaibu,’ said Sam. ‘Why would I leave?’

  ‘She’s a cheap date,’ said Hans, and Victor roared with laughter.

  ‘Cheaper than my nieces anyway,’ said Victor.

  Sam turned around to see if his wife had heard the comment, but she had melted back into the house.

  They relaxed on the balcony, Hans swinging in the hammock making rare interjections but letting Sam chat to Victor uninterrupted.

  ‘How can I help you, Sam?’ said Victor.

  ‘You told me on the flight that despite being the town’s major employer, Consaf were almost universally unpopular. Could you please tell me why? Are there specific things we could improve?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Can we start at the beginning? How did things get this bad?’ said Sam

  ‘Well, for a start, you’re the only manager of Masaibu to visit me in the last five years.’

  Sam studied him to see if he was joking but his gaze was steady. Hans grunted in assent from the hammock.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said.

  ‘Also, the community relations manager, Joseph Haba, spends his time bed hopping instead of working. We used to have a stakeholder meeting between representatives of the project and the community leaders once a month to talk about mutual issues but we haven’t held one for eighteen months,’ said Victor

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘There’s a Catholic NGO causing trouble too. They have persuaded people Consaf will throw them out of their houses to build the mine,’ added Hans.

  ‘But we haven’t finished exploration yet. That decision is years away. We don’t even know if we have a deposit big enough to exploit,’ said Sam.

  ‘Ah, well that’s another issue. And then there’s the local labour who want a turn working a rotation at the mine,’ said Victor.

  ‘I’m dealing with that already,’ said Sam.

  The mayor fiddled with a place mat and avoided her eyes. She didn’t pursue it. Could he be taking a cut too? She changed the subject.

  ‘We saw a pygmy on the way here. Do they take part in the community meetings?’ she said.

  ‘No. They don’t come into town unless they have to,’ said Victor.

  ‘Has someone approached them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I doubt it. They’re shy people. They live off the forest and have traditions and culture all their own,’ said Victor.

  ‘I’d like to meet them. Do you think that would be possible?’

  ‘They’ll run away if you go to their village. But if you go alone, they might come back if you wait. Don’t bring any security people with you.’

  Sam considered this for a moment.

  ‘But how do we communicate. Does your wife speak their language?’

  ‘Only pygmies speak that dialect but they also speak Swahili so she could translate for you.’

  ‘May I bring her with me?’ said Sam.

  ‘I don’t tell her what to do. You need to ask her if she is willing to help,’ said Victor.

  Mbala emerged from the shadows as if on cue.

  ‘I will come,’ she said. ‘Meet me at the gates of the community hall on Saturday morning.’

  ‘At what time?’ said Sam

  Mbala seemed confused. ‘Saturday morning,’ she repeated.

  ‘That’ll be fine,’ said Sam, giving up. ‘Thank you. Can we organise a meeting of the committee for next week?’

  ‘I don’t s
ee why not. Is Wednesday okay?’ said Victor, energised by new hope.

  ‘Wednesday is good,’ said Hans.

  Sam nodded even though she felt under siege. There was so much to do. Hans had been right. One thing at a time.

  ‘Why do you want to meet the pygmies?’ said Hans on their way home.

  ‘Oh, just curious,’ said Sam.

  She was being economical with the truth. Sam loved a hard-luck story. The plight of the pygmies had piqued her interest, and she was determined to integrate them into the social plan for Masaibu, somehow.

  ***

  Sam searched her brain for the word in French but it would not come to her. She was desperate for jam to put on her toast to cover up the taste of the cheap margarine that they served in the canteen. The kitchen staff were busy serving breakfast and clearing the tables so she made her way behind the counter and searched for the storeroom making her way down a filthy passageway with random grains crunching under her feet.

  The door of the pantry was ajar, a rusty lock hanging from the latch. She pushed it open and peered in to see dirty shelves half filled with fly blown pineapples and overripe bananas. Bags of dried haricot and fava beans sat on the bottom shelf. Some of their contents had spilled out and mixed with faeces that could have been from rats or mice. Sacks of rice and sugar sat in the corner with plastic bag dispensers beside them, like a local store. Were they selling the rice or just stealing it? Concealing it out under their skirts would be easy.

  She opened the decrepit freezer and found only anorexic chickens and dried salted fish. The smell made her retch. No wonder she had diarrhoea for days. It was surprising they hadn’t killed someone with food poisoning. And where was the kitchen?

  There was a door opposite the storeroom and she pushed through it expecting to find herself surrounded by the usual paraphernalia of ovens and counters and fridges. Instead the door lead to a concrete floor covered with a roof where there were women cooking on open fires in large pots and skillets.

  The women were wearing dirty clothes and there was no sink, only one cold faucet which opened onto the floor. Once of the women was washing the plates with a stained rag and piling them on the floor to dry.

  A tall woman sat on a stool eating bacon from a plate filled with fried eggs, sausages and bacon. She shovelled it into her mouth as if afraid someone would take it away. When she noticed Sam standing aghast in the middle of the floor, she pushed the plate towards her. Sam shook her head.

  ‘You are Mama Sam?’ said the woman. She ate with her mouth open showing Sam the contents.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. What is your name?’

  ‘Mama Sonia. I am in charge of the kitchens.’

  A million questions flooded Sam’s head but none of them seemed appropriate.

  ‘I am looking for something to spread on my toast.’

  ‘It has run out. I can order you jam from Uganda or we can buy wild honey in town.’

  ‘Let’s do both,’ said Sam. ‘How do you coordinate the orders?’

  ‘I send a list to Moussa Dueme and he sources the food for us.’

  ‘Where does it come from?’

  ‘The Masaibu area produces manioc, chickens, beef and fruit, pineapples and plantains. They import other products on sale in the local shops from Uganda and sell them at inflated prices so it is more economical to order them from Entebbe.’

  From what she had seen in the storeroom, Sam couldn’t remember anything other than local products but she didn’t want anyone to spit in her food so she said, ‘okay, thank you, Mama Sonia.’

  The woman pulled the plate back towards her and picked up a whole fried egg which she shoved into her cavernous mouth. Sam fought to avoid retching and left the way she had come in. She found it hard to believe anyone in head office in Johannesburg was aware of the state of the kitchen. They were breaking every health and safety rule in the book.

  In her experience a clean and well-equipped kitchen was essential in any remote site where the staff lived far from home comforts. An army marches on its stomach. No wonder morale had slumped if this was typical of their monthly consumption.

  She returned to the canteen to finish her tea and toast. Bruno, the deputy head of maintenance had sat down at her table, away from the other managers, and was eating his food with his arm around his plate as if protecting it. When she sat down, he jumped up.

  ‘So sorry, Mama Sam. I had no idea you were already sitting here.’

  ‘That’s okay Bruno. Sit down. I’m just finishing.’

  He sat at the end of the crude bench opposite her and ate without looking up.

  ‘Can we do anything to fix the kitchen?’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  His face told her he had. His eyes flickered around in their sockets like flies in a jar.

  ‘Um, well, I could help.’

  He blurted it out as if he was embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, I think it needs more than a coat of paint,’ said Sam, amused.

  ‘No, I mean, I could draw it.’

  ‘Draw what? I’m not following you.’

  ‘I’m an architect, qualified, honestly. If you want, I could design a floor plan for the kitchen. Would we install equipment like ovens and so on?’

  ‘You are?’ Sam tried not to look too astonished. ‘Yes, that would be amazing. How soon…’

  ‘Oh, right away. Oh, I was, I have…’ Bruno stuttered to a halt.

  ‘You have what?’

  ‘I’ve already been working on it. I can bring it to you in a couple of days if I work on it in the evenings.’

  ‘Why can’t you do it during the day?’ said Sam.

  ‘Frik doesn’t like me wasting my time.’

  He shrugged and stabbed his fork into his bacon.

  ‘Okay. You do that. Bring it when you are ready. All right?’ said Sam.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  He was quivering with emotion. You learn something new every day. Sam finished her tea and went to the office.

  Chapter VIII

  After tolerating the staff meeting, with its usual mix of firefighting and complaints, she followed Moussa Dueme to his office. The enthusiasm he displayed for the new system of distributing uniforms to the local labourers had surprised her. His organisational skills had turned out to be excellent. The next intake of workers would all get numbered uniforms, stopping the old, corrupt scheme in its tracks.

  Moussa had not yet advised the workforce about the new system. Sam chatted to a couple of them who were hanging around waiting for lunch one day, hoping to gauge their reaction to it.

  ‘How much do you guys get paid?’

  ‘Eighty dollars a month after tax.’

  ‘The government taxes you?’

  They glanced at each other and laughed at her.

  ‘The only government here is the law of the jungle,’ said one.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Sam, who had a fair idea.

  ‘The strong take from the weak in Masaibu.’

  ‘How do you imagine men get chosen to work here?’ said the other. ‘If you refuse to pay the tax, you don’t get picked. It makes a big difference to get well paid work.’

  ‘Who gets the tax?’

  ‘Him.’ He threw a thumb towards the office building.

  ‘He shares it with the mayor,’ said the other.

  ‘But he turns a blind eye when people sell their uniforms to recuperate the difference. Ow!’

  His companion had kicked him hard.

  ‘So, everyone’s happy?’ said Sam.

  They both nodded, embarrassed now. This was just what she needed to hear. If she stopped them selling the uniforms, but they got their entire pay packet, the only loser was Philippe. Even the project would profit. Win-win.

  Moussa had the air of a man who was just waiting for her to leave so he could pick his nose again. He was not an evil man, but h
e was incapable of resisting pressure, making him a prime conduit for procurement fraud in the project.

  It made it easier for Sam, who planned on pinning him down again and getting answers. He shifted in his seat and avoided her eyes.

  ‘I need your help again,’ she said.

  Sweat appeared on his brow. She could almost read his mind. Not the toughest nut to crack.

  ‘Can you show me the latest procurement list for the kitchens please?’ said Sam.

  ‘I’m not sure where it is.’ His eyes darted around the room.

  ‘I’m sure you can find it,’ said Sam, crossing her arms and sat back. She could see a file on his desk that had Uganda written on the cover. Moussa faffed around for a minute, opening and closing drawers. Her patience broke.

  ‘I can see a file on your desk that looks promising,’ she said.

  He touched it with the tip of his finger as if it might bite him. She tried to keep a stern expression on her face. It was like dealing with a ten-year-old who had been caught taking a tenner from a wallet. The temptation to smile was intense.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, but did not open it. Sam resisted the urge to grab it.

  ‘Can you show me?’ she said.

  He shrugged, defeat on his face, and took a receipt from the folder which he handed to her but did not release. She jerked it out of his grasp. Scanning the order, she struggled to keep her features neutral. The company had paid for steak and pork, fresh fruit and salad, coffee and tea, tinned fruit and vegetables, but none of these had been evident in the barren, filthy, storeroom.

  Sam made Moussa wait before she commented, making a note of the company and phone number before handing it back.

  ‘I don’t remember eating any of these things in the canteen,’ she said.

  Moussa’s eyes bulged.

  ‘They’re finished. We have ordered more.’

  ‘When will they arrive?’ said Sam.

  ‘Mama Sonia and I will collect them tomorrow.’

  Sam stared into his eyes and he broke into a sweat and gulped. He was so transparent.

  ‘Great, I can’t wait.’ She smiled. ‘How are the shelves going?’