by Kyle Mills
The steep slope in front of them was being systematically hacked into sections by what Josh calculated to be about a hundred workers using hand tools of varying effectiveness -- nothing more sophisticated than a rusted shovel and nothing less sophisticated than a pointy rock.
The plan was for the entire butte to be terraced, creating fertile agricultural land that would not only support a village built on the narrow swath of flat land surrounding it but also produce excess food that could be sold on the open market. Trent had given him only a short briefing on the project, responding to nearly every question Josh asked with "Why don't you go down there and get the lay of the land, then we'll talk."
Trent's attitude had seemed reasonable at the time, but now Josh wondered if his new boss hadn't been intentionally vague in an effort not to scare him off.
Not that Josh knew the first thing about this type of agriculture, but even to his eye, something had gone seriously wrong here. The individual terraces sloped every which way, there was no uniformity to the depth of them, and there was nothing supporting the vertical slab of earth the digging had created -- a dangerous situation highlighted by what looked like a large mudslide on the eastern edge of the project.
"The rain is coming," Gideon said. "We'll go to the compound now."
It was tempting, but Josh knew he wouldn't be able to sleep with this many unanswered questions spinning around in his head.
"Let me just look around for a minute."
"The rain," Gideon warned as Josh moved away from the Land Cruiser. "There's nothing to be done here tonight."
"I can take a look. It'll give me time to think."
"Think tomorrow. We're going."
There was a finality to his tone that sounded like an order and made Josh pick up his pace. Who was working for who here? And what exactly were they trying to accomplish? To stay dry or to help these people feed themselves?
He aimed himself at the project's most interesting feature -- a small but prominent field at the base of a hill that had been terraced with incongruous precision and was planted with corn that had grown to a height of about five feet.
The first raindrop hit him on the back of the neck with impressive force and an audible splat. He wiped at the warm water as he waded into the rows of corn. "What's up with this?"
"I don't know what you're asking," Gideon said, obviously angry, but not so much that he was willing to wait in the car. "It's almost ready for harvest."
"What I'm asking is why one little section is done and perfect, while the rest . . ." He wasn't quite sure how to describe the rest of the project, so he just waved his hand in its general direction.
This time Gideon's shrug was more disinterested. "I'm not in charge of this project. You are."
"That's what I keep hearing."
"We have to go now."
The rain was coming harder, the drops shaking the leaves and exploding in the dust around their feet. Above them, the people had stopped working but didn't seem in a hurry to leave. Instead they formed groups, talking animatedly and looking in Josh's direction.
"Okay, fine. Let's go," Josh said, deciding it was a little early to make an enemy of the man who was supposed to be his lifeline here. When they turned to go back to the Land Cruiser, though, he was distracted by a flash of yellow through the corn, and he set off toward it instead.
"Where are you going?" Gideon shouted. "This way!"
"Head back to the car," Josh yelled back, trying to be heard over the rain that had now completely soaked through his clothes. "I'll be there in a sec."
For some reason, Gideon didn't take the suggestion and appeared from the corn just as Josh started to circle the small earth-mover he'd found next to a dilapidated shed.
Trent had mentioned the tractor but had neglected to say that basically every part on it that could be easily unbolted had been stolen. The fact that it had treads instead of tires was the only thing saving it from the indignity of being up on blocks.
"What the hell happened here?"
Gideon's jaw stiffened just as it had right before he'd gone crazy on the soldier at the airport, and Josh felt his resolve wavering. But he refused to let his uneasiness show and just stood there waiting for an answer.
"It's a tractor that NewAfrica provided. It no longer works."
"I'd say that's an understatement. Where's the rest of it?"
Another shrug. Josh could already tell that those were going to get really irritating. "Can we get new parts?"
"It's difficult."
"Maybe we should find the people who stole them and buy 'em back?" Josh forced a smile, though he hadn't actually been joking. Gideon just stared at him, the water running in sheets down his glasses.
There was movement to Josh's left, and he turned to watch a long line of workers coming up a path toward them. They examined him carefully as they passed and put their tools inside the shed. Some scattered, but others hung around and listened to a man who had begun to speak. On the surface, he didn't look much different than his audience -- same strong but slightly malnourished build, same dirty jeans and ratty T-shirt. But his voice was clear and strong, and everyone seemed to be paying attention. Overall, he seemed to be a person Josh should get to know.
He strode up to the man and interrupted him by sticking a hand out. "Hi, I'm Josh Hagarty. I'm from NewAfrica."
His new status seemed to hover between celebrity and roadside oddity, and all eyes were on him. The man fell silent, not moving at first but finally taking Josh's hand.
He looked directly at Josh with an intensity that was impossible to match, so he let his eyes wander. The man's skin seemed impossibly black and camouflaged the creases around his eyes and along his cheeks.
Whatever he saw obviously didn't impress him all that much, and he said something that was meant for the men he'd been speaking to. Josh expected them to laugh, but instead they just nodded gravely.
"This is Tfmena," Gideon said with obvious reluctance. "He's what you would call a village elder. He says that he is pleased that you're here and grateful for your and your organization's commitment to his people's welfare."
That might be who he was, but Josh was fairly certain that wasn't what he'd said. If he had to guess, it would have translated more as, "Look at this arrogant asshole straight out of school who's here to tell us how to live. He was born a white American male, and he managed to screw even that up."
Despite that, this was a man who had the respect of his people, and that didn't seem like something easy to win in this part of the world. Undoubtedly a step in the right direction from the two Africans Josh had interacted with so far -- the soldier at the
airport and Gideon.
"Tfmena," Josh mangled, trying to keep the rain from flowing into his mouth as he spoke. What did these people have against vowels? "It's good to meet you, sir. I want you to know that I'm going to do my best to make all this work."
Chapter 9.
The rain ended as suddenly as it had begun, though the sound of dripping was still audible as Josh's and Gideon's clothes drained onto the Land Cruiser's seats.
The metal gate they were stopped in front of was covered in rust but still looked much more formidable than the guard standing next to it. He was at least seventy, armed only with a tiny bow and dart-like arrows that were in danger of falling from their quiver as he threw his weight behind the gate.
The compound that was to become Josh's home for the foreseeable future was perched on the summit of a low hill and glowed unnaturally in a landscape that was descending into inky darkness. The concrete walls that surrounded it were more than ten feet high and topped with jagged chunks of glass to discourage anyone considering climbing over.
Gideon revved the engine and gunned the vehicle forward, nearly brushing the old man as they passed. The unease that Josh felt at the similarity to the prison he'd been so anxious to leave faded as they skidded to a stop in a gravel courtyard overflowing with bougainvillea, fruit trees, and white Land Cru
isers.
He barely had a foot out the door when a thin African man with cheeks that hovered somewhere between extraordinarily chubby and dangerously swollen rushed toward him. His grin was full of teeth almost white enough to outshine his garish Hawaiian shirt, but they disappeared when Gideon began barking unintelligible orders. A moment later, he had pulled Josh's bags from the back of the vehicle and was teetering away with them.
"Hold on!" Josh called. "Let me help you with those."
He turned to thank Gideon for the ride, but the African was already reversing the Land Cruiser toward the gate. Josh swore quietly to himself. Making friends left and right.
"Hey, you! New guy!"
He spotted a white face emerging from a path that had nearly been reclaimed by the banana trees lining it.
"Come on over here and introduce yourself, son."
Josh pointed in the direction he'd last seen his luggage heading. "There's this really skinny guy trying to carry about two hundred pounds of my stuff, and --"
"Luganda?" the man said in an accent that suggested northeastern United States. "Jesus Christ, kid. He doesn't need your help. He could twist your head off like a bottle cap. Now, who the hell are you?"
After one last glance back, Josh walked over to shake the man's hand. He was probably in his late forties, though his shaved head and sun-damaged skin made that more of a guess than an estimate. His clothes were standard mail-order safari, though their style and threadbare condition suggested that the catalog dated back to somewhere in the early '90s.
"I'm Josh Hagarty."
"NewAfrica," he said, contemplating Josh with the same skepticism everyone else on this continent did.
"That's right. Who are you?"
He didn't answer immediately, instead taking a pull from a sweaty glass topped with a paper umbrella. "JB Flannary. Maybe you've heard of me."
"No."
"America's youth has become virtually illiterate, hasn't it? I blame those Ataris."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Flannary paused to take another drink, an act that went on long enough to turn the scene slightly awkward.
"Well," he said finally, "you bothered to come all this way, so I guess I should show you where you're staying. Where are you from, anyway?"
"Kentucky."
"How'd a good ol' boy like you get hooked up with NewAfrica?"
"It's kind of a strange story," Josh said, nearly tripping over a coconut as he followed the man on a detour through the landscaping.
"Yeah? How so?"
He was about to answer when Flannary came to a sudden halt, their path blocked by a white woman in her midtwenties. She wore her mouse-brown hair in a short, square cut that seemed to have been designed to fit around her sturdy-looking glasses. Blue fatigue pants and a similarly colored top gave her a vaguely SWAT feel.
"Hey, Josh, let me introduce you to Katie -- one of our quickly dwindling crew. She's with the African Women's Initiative."
"Nice to meet you. I don't think I'm familiar with your charity."
"They do firewood," Flannary said before Katie could respond.
"What?"
"Firewood," he repeated.
"So people can cook," Katie cut in. "Most of the area has been clear-cut, so the women have to go farther and farther to get wood. And with the lawlessness, they're getting raped and mutilated by rebels."
Josh squinted his tired eyes, trying to process that. "Why don't men get the wood?"
"Because they'd be executed if the rebels caught them."
"You're telling me that African men are such cowards that they stay home while their daughters and wives get raped and mutilated?"
She froze, staring at him with an expression of shock, colored with just a hint of disgust.
"Well," Flannary said, throwing an arm around Josh's shoulders, "on that note, I think we'll just head on over to your bungalow."
"It was good to meet you," Josh said lamely, allowing Flannary to drag him away. The feeling was clearly not mutual.
"Christ, that came out sounding racist,
didn't it?" Josh said when they were alone again. "That's not the way I meant it. I'm just really tired. Or maybe it's the malaria pills . . ."
Instead of letting him have it, which would have been completely justified, Flannary started to laugh. And once he got started, he couldn't stop. He bent forward at the waist, convulsing wildly but somehow not spilling any of his drink.
When he started coughing and choking, Josh slapped him a few times on the back. "JB? Are you okay?"
When Flannary finally managed to catch his breath, he started leading Josh down the path again as though nothing had happened.
"I hate to say it, kid, but I think I'm warming up to you."
"What do you mean?"
"You want to know why she was so upset?" "Because it was a really asshole thing for me to say?"
"Guess again."
"Because I just got here and have no idea what I'm talking about?"
"An enlightened attitude, but that's not it either."
"Then why?"
"Because you're right. The simple truth and it's one of the few here -- is that men don't gather firewood. Period. It's women's work, and there's no amount of rapes and mutilations that's ever going to change it."
The bungalows were simple concrete affairs, similar to the wall that surrounded the compound but with a few incongruous architectural details that showed some effort. Flannary led Josh through the open door of one of them and waved his drink around in place of a tour.
It wasn't bad -- a combination of his family's trailer and a dorm room, but with the strong scent of mold being circulated by a rickety window AC unit.
"It's got a bathroom in the back," Flan-nary said. "Nothing fancy, but it's a flush toilet, and on sunny days the water's . . ."
He lost his train of thought when a young girl entered carrying a beer and another umbrella-topped gin and tonic.
"Falati," Flannary said, "you're like the daughter I never had." There was no comprehension in her expression, but that didn't seem to bother him. He handed the beer to Josh and took the gin for himself.
"Nice to meet you, Falati."
She nodded politely and disappeared back through the door.
"So what do you think?"
"I was expecting a mud hut, so I think it's great."
"Mud huts don't happen around here. Hard to get top dollar."
"What?"
"This place is owned by President Mtiti's cousin, and let me tell you, they're charging rent that would get you a Central Park view back in the States. Plus, having us all corralled like this makes us easy to keep track of."
Josh took a pull on his beer and then held up the bottle. "How much is the president's cousin going to charge me for this?"
"You don't want to know. But don't worry, the tabs all say stuff like 'children's antibiotics' and 'children's mosquito nets,' so it'll sail right through your people."
"What's the difference between antibiotics and mosquito nets for kids and ones for adults?"
"There is none. But the word 'child' tends to grease the skids in the industry."
"Maybe I should have ordered a Shirley Temple."
"Funny! You're a funny guy."
The man who had carted off Josh's luggage came through the open door, emptied one of the suitcases onto the floor, and started carefully going through the contents folding, organizing, and finally selecting an appropriate drawer or shelf.
"Hey, don't worry about that. I can do it."
"Don't sweat it," Flannary said. "This is his job. He's paid to do this. Right, Luganda?"
The man looked up from his position on the floor and displayed those amazing teeth again. "I'm at your service, JB. Like always, yes?"
"Luganda is a national treasure," Flan-nary said to Josh. "He knows everybody, can get anything, and has all the choice gossip. If you need something, you go straight to him and he'll take care of you."
Flannary's frown silenced him.
"Look, sport. You're not at home anymore. Here, you're rich. And as a rich person, you have an obligation to hire people less fortunate than you to do your work. There's nothing an African hates more than some rich, fat white guy who comes here and decides he's going to do his own laundry and gardening and whatnot."
"I'm actually not rich, JB."
He laughed but this time managed to not almost die. "As far as the Africans are concerned, all white people are rich. And you know what? They're right."
"I don't think that's --"
"Let me tell you something about the Africans that's going to serve you well. Are you listening?"
Josh glanced uncomfortably at Luganda pawing through his boxer shorts and then back at Flannary, who seemed completely comfortable talking like the man wasn't there.
"Yeah. Sure, I guess."
"Africans are the world's greatest pigeonholers."
"Huh?"
"When an African meets someone, they immediately put that person into a category, and that category completely controls how they treat you. You're a European. Period. Whether you're Charles Manson or Mother Teresa makes absolutely no difference."
"I find that hard to believe."
Flannary rolled his icy glass across his forehead. "We had a black kid from Chicago come work here about a year ago. He lasted less than two months before he damn near went nuts."
He paused, and it was obvious that he meant for Josh to inquire as to the cause of the mental breakdown.
"Okay. Why?"
"Because he didn't look European but also didn't have a tribe, so the Africans didn't know how to deal with him. The only thing they could figure out to do was completely ignore him. Strangest thing you ever saw. It was like he was a ghost only white people could see."
Flannary started for the door, pausing at the threshold. "I'll let you settle in for a bit. Drinks are served by the pool starting in about an hour."
"There's a pool?"
"Sure. Why wouldn't there be?"
Music began to play outside, and Josh pressed the phone tighter to his ear. Luganda, apparently finished unpacking for him, now sat behind the counter of the compound's office watching a speech by Umboto Mtiti on a black-and-white TV.