Crossing Allenby Bridge

by Michael Looft

  “What’s the secret? How did you know which way to go?” I cut in, eager to learn some secret truth eluding me all these years.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Part of it is slowing down and letting things happen. Another is in who you meet when you’re slowing down and listening. Everyone is here to help each other, and some more than others–like they were sent by some god or something. I’m not sure how it works, but it’s like we are all made of a specific color, like a certain frequency. When we’re tapped into it, we notice others with the same frequency–like we’re unconsciously seeking each other out. Anyway, once you hit that zone life takes on a cadence all its own. Synchronicity takes over. The cool thing is when you realize that your purpose is to help others on their path instead of just doing your own thing. It’s like their path is your path.”

  “I like that.” There were so many things I wanted to say in response, but I didn’t want to derail his story, so I closed my mouth and let him continue.

  “Anyway, it was in Jordan where I lost her. She had a crimson scarf that was always either around her neck or holding up that bunch of curls. She’d told me once early on in Mongolia that when it was time for her to go on her own, she’d simply wave the scarf and be gone in a flash. I thought she was talking in her usual fantastical way, and so I forgot all about it. We’d made our way up from Aqaba, a beautiful little town on the Red Sea, up through the desert and into Petra–an ancient city carved deep into the rock. We walked a mile down a narrow corridor that opened into a valley with buildings carved into the stone. Amazing place–and huge. We walked all over, all day long. Towards the end of the day, I was tired, but she still had the energy to walk the thousand steps up to the monastery. I followed her, and we had to dodge donkeys trying to make it up steep stairs carved into the rock. Finally, we made it up there and I thought I was about to die. I lay down across from the entrance to the temple–a stunning façade carved into the rock. I must have dozed off, because when I stirred I felt a bit dizzy and disoriented–no doubt a little dehydrated. I saw Michelle way off in the distance, that huge frizz of hair flowing freely in the wind–it was super windy up there, though still hot as hell. I’ll never forget the painful swelling I felt in my gut when I saw her waving that crimson scarf. I could make out here bright smile, and then she turned and was gone. Just like that. Of course, I tried to track her down and discovered that there were no paths down where I’d last seen her. It was almost like she was a phantom that just popped out of reality.

  “Well. I made my way back down, cried a few tears and drank a few beers. Those were in the days just before September 11th, so traveling around the Middle East was easy to do. I saw most of it, on my own, all the while missing Michelle–though she’d taught me how to be resourceful and to look for the signs of where to go next. I remember standing in Jerusalem near the Wailing Wall, somewhat oblivious to all the people around me praying in that bouncy sort of way they do, wondering which direction to go. I couldn’t decide, and it was such a hot day I thought I was going to keel over. So, I made my way to a stand selling bottles of water. As I was standing there in the shade drinking water, I realized how truly free I was. I didn’t have much money. In fact, I was dead broke and barely had enough for a hotel room, much less a plane ticket. Michelle must have rubbed off on me because I didn’t care. I’ll never forget that feeling of complete freedom. Funny, because moments before as I looked out over the masses of people dressed in very traditional garb, mixed in with tourists wearing silly-looking t-shirts and shorts, it seemed like a vortex of anything but freedom. I was standing in the center of it, initially worried I would be swept up in it myself. Then a soft voice, one I’d heard all my life and I’m still learning to hear, whispered for me to go get some water and just stand there and relax.”

  “What happened?” I asked after he had paused, still cradling his daughter, who by then had fallen asleep in his arms. He kissed her and in my rapt impatience, I hoped he wouldn’t stop.

  “I saw Father Jack walking by. I’d met him a few years back when we were passing through Java. Michelle and I spent a month here volunteering for him. I looked over at his big fat belly and floral print shirt and smiling Irish eyes beaming at me. He was by himself, wandering around, and walked up to me and asked if I knew a good place for falafel. I just laughed.”

  “Really? That’s a hoot!”

  “Yeah, I took him to a tourist trap around the corner. You know Father Jack. He likes to talk and before I knew it, we were having lunch together and he was telling me his life story. He was a bit standoffish with me when I was first around Adipala. So, I guess he figured God was throwing us back together. Anyway, he knows lots of people and one thing led to another and he brought me back to the friend’s house where he was staying–some retired monk. Then, before I knew it, I was on my way again to West Africa and living in the bush in Sierra Leone.”

  “Really! What’s that place like?”

  “Very remote. Even more than here. In fact, I was the first white man ever to have come into some of the villages. That was a little crazy. In one village the headman gave a speech when I arrived saying that he was happy that the prophecy of my arrival had come to pass. When I asked about it he said generations before the elders had predicted that I would come to save them. A man fitting my description, anyway. They called me Papa, the localized version of father, even though I told them I’d rather be thought of as a brother. The people I didn’t know called me Oporto, which is their word for white person–something I heard hundreds of times a day as I would pass by huts where half-naked children were bouncing up and down with smiles on their faces shouting ‘hey, white person!’ over and over again. It never bothered me, seeing that sheer joy in those little faces as I passed by on my motorbike, waving to them.”

  “Isn’t Sierra Leone where they had the child soldiers?”

  “That’s the one. Very sad story. After the war they had to be assimilated back into society. Many of the boys were given motorbikes as part of their integration into the economy, becoming okada drivers, or taxi drivers who give people rides on the back of their bikes.”

  “Wow. Did you feel safe?”

  “Always. Some of the sweetest people in the world. I’ll never forget the hard stares I got when I first came through Lunsar, the main town that serves as a hub for the surrounding villages. The okada drivers were all boys around fifteen or sixteen, some of them younger. They were sitting on their bikes all lined up looking at me. It scared the hell out of me to have a dozen rough-looking older boys staring at me without a smile. The minute I smiled, though, I saw a transformation flash over their faces–faces shining with brilliant teeth. From that point on, all I did was smile. In the two years I was there, I never once felt unsafe. Though I did make sure my stuff was secure as thievery was rampant, but I chalk that up to simple opportunism. People are pretty poor there.”

  “What exactly were you doing there?”

  “Well, initially I went to work for some fly-by-night NGO that Father Jack’s monk friend had been in touch with. Some American guy had read some book on giving and decided to start helping people. How he stumbled on Sierra Leone, I don’t know, but he needed someone to manage the operations he’d set up over there. I was broke and needed to get out of the Middle East since things were heating up after September 11th.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Yeah, well, having been all over half the world and going to places like India, I thought I’d be ready for West Africa.”

  “How is it different?”

  “Well, people do live in huts there and society and life are quite simple. I think that sort of thing seems very attractive, but I found it very difficult to connect with people, to be honest. I couldn’t even relate to the Italian Fathers who’d come over several years prior to run missions. Those missions became places of refuge during the war. The nuns, too. They were the real heroes, hiding out in the bush for days with families and children to ride out village raids. So, most of th
em were jaded and superstitious of outsiders who were swooping in after the war to try to ‘save the savages’ by driving around in their white SUVs throwing money out the window and driving off, never even bothering to get out of their vehicles.

  “I remember one day when I was supposed to pick up a tractor from one of the villages where the organization was building a school. I hadn’t made it to the village yet, so it was weird that I was coming to introduce myself, survey the site for the school, get the tractor, and then leave. I didn’t have time to talk to them. It was early on in my time there and I really didn’t know what I was doing–even how to relate to the people. So, like a typical American, I came in guns blazing. I said hello to the village headman, then trotted out to do some measurements in the field for the school. I could tell right away something was off–just the way the headman was looking at me. Of course, I didn’t help much running from place to place. It was late in the day and I was hungry and just not feeling comfortable in the country, etcetera.

  “I remember when I said hello, the headman mentioned something about a store, which was their word for a slab of concrete used for drying out rice. Rice is their main crop. Anyway, when I came back and jumped on the tractor, trying to get her started, the headman came up to me, flanked by what looked like the whole village. They were glaring at me. Not like the okada drivers, but like people with a deep-welling anger–a rage that had nothing to do with me, yet somehow had everything to do with me. Again, he went on about the store and how my boss when he was visiting from America promised them he’d build them a store. There wasn’t much I could say, and I can’t even recall what I did say to placate them just so I could get out of there. I started to get the feeling that they wanted to kick my ass. Who knows, maybe if I’d stuck around longer they would have.

  “The whole thing was strange, and as I drove off with them all looking at me, I realized I’d looked at the face of collective resentment. People who’d been treated like objects and who had no say in their future and no real help other than a bunch of so-called experts showing up and telling them what they needed without taking the time to truly listen. Even I caught myself acting like I was listening. I’d merely adopted a persona of empathy and nodding my head and using reflective listening and all that mumbo-jumbo crap that only works if you’re doing it for real. I was just faking it. I felt like an idiot–a lackey. I slept like shit that night and woke up realizing that I was going to slow down and listen to them and figure out what they needed rather than simply assuming that I knew best even after everyone around me told me I knew best. Even my boss started to get pissed at me because work slowed down and my reports were all about stuff he hadn’t assigned me to do, but I didn’t care. That look of resentment has never left my mind and I’m glad it hasn’t.

  “Anyway, it was obvious that the loan program I was supposed to be administering was a disaster, but I didn’t know what else to do, so I still tried to collect monthly repayments, but even then, it was half-hearted. During this time, I was going to the local hospital canteen for meals as there wasn’t any place else to eat besides the occasional hut on the roadside with a woman stirring a large pot of rice and river fish stew. I eventually met the canteen cook’s husband, a staunch Catholic working with church groups who were saving money on their own through a model developed by Catholic Relief Services. He offered to show me how it worked, so one day I jumped in his truck with him and drove out into the bush to a group of people in a tiny village sitting around a wooden box, talking and putting money into it.”

  “Oh, so that’s where you learned about the savings clubs like the one from yesterday?”

  “Yep. That’s where I first learned it. It was amazing to see how dirt-poor villagers were working together to pool their savings together. Just a bunch of women meeting once a week. Several months later they had enough to build a community center or buy cooking charcoal in bulk at wholesale prices and then resell it in the market. It completely transformed how I saw the nature of development work.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “The power of groups. We Americans think individualism is so great, something to aspire to; but these ladies were teaching me that unless we work together in a collaborative way, especially in times of need, it just doesn’t make good economic sense. Not only that, the social value of those groups meeting once a week reminds me why our society is so fractured. Your generation used to go bowling and spend more time together. Now, everyone just sits at home in front of their TVs staring away and isolated from their own communities. Community is pretty much gone–and the kicker about these savings clubs is that they don’t really need outside money. No loans or special interests. No social entrepreneurs seeking personal glory or to pad their resume. None of that. Just a need to be taught the method and make sure they follow the rules. After I’ve taught them the rules, I just stay in the background and fade out when necessary.”

  “But don’t some of them need loans? How do small businesses fit in?”

  “I’m no banker. I don’t know. Depends on where we’re talking about. In Sierra Leone, in the bush, where people are barely surviving off what they can grow, outside capital might disrupt their economy–distort the market. People need someone who can hire them, so supporting a medium-sized business that creates jobs is one thing, but I’m not sure people should be encouraged to start their own business because no one else will hire them. Besides, who wants to be in debt? I’ve seen entire villages in debt to these small banks. Sure, they get funding, but often they’re just using that money to pay school fees or medical bills.”

  Zach had a good point, and I didn’t press him on this even though I had a thousand arguments against it. I felt gratitude that Zach’s daughter slept and he spent the time telling me his story. She stayed sleeping, and after a deep breath, he tried to turn the conversation back to me.

  “What about you, Harry? What brings you here?”

  “I heard about Father Jack. Watched a documentary on him.”

  “Yeah, he’s got charisma. Draws people in like moths to a flame.”

  “What do you think of him?” I could feel a conspiratorial inflection in my voice. Zach gave me an answer that I wasn’t quite prepared for.

  “Oh, he’s straight out of a Conrad story. Though, unlike Lord Jim, I’d like to think he makes nobler choices. He truly loves people–but enough about him or me. What about you? I heard you were a banker.”

  “I honestly don’t know. Lately, every time someone asks me who I am, I can’t seem to get my story straight. Hard to explain, but maybe it’s like that tree branch floating down the river you were talking about before. I retired back in January. Got fired, actually. Forced retirement, if you will. Since then I’ve just been floating through life and in many ways hoping for the best. I’m not seeking enlightenment or anything–I’m too far from it to even try at my age. At first, I was looking for a little adventure and maybe to pat myself on the back for helping people–the secret dream of rich people. I didn’t grow up rich. Quite the opposite. So, I’ve felt like a fraud my whole life. In fact, the job I had, the wife I had, everything, it was all just a way to try to tell myself I was normal. Took me thirty years to realize it was just a thin veneer. So, I guess the past year has been a little like eat pray love, but more like drink stumble hangover.”

  “Have you read any John Cheever?”

  “No, is he any good?”

  “Maybe. What you were saying just now reminded me a little of his writing. We see the beautiful suburban house, trimmed roses, perfect lifestyle, but it’s merely a façade hiding life’s real struggles.”

  “Sounds like I should read some of him. You seem pretty well read.” He shrugged, and I couldn’t help asking him about Maugham’s book. “Have you read a Razor’s Edge?”

  “Fantastic book!”

  “I haven’t read it, but a friend of mine has. Does the main character find himself?”

  “I believe he does, and if I remember correctly, his f
riends go broke during the Great Depression, and he’s able to help them through it.”

  I chuckled at the irony in his response and tried to steer the conversation back to him.

  “Say, you seem pretty happy, Zach. Do you think it’s because of the books you’ve read or all your adventures or helping people?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes, but it’s those low points that keep me going. There’s a little devil inside all of us that needs to be cared for and fed. Otherwise, we’re miserable. There were many times in my life, when I felt alienated from the whole world, where I recognized that otherness of myself and learned to accept it for what it is. That’s one of the things I learned from Michelle, that life just is, and while I’m an active participant, there’s something bigger going on and my attitude and actions are the only things I can control. The rest is the river. I get my perspective from remembering how silly it was to stand on that cliff in Petra and be so distressed by Michelle’s leaving that I imagined myself leaping off it–and having to physically stop myself.” He gave me a vulnerable look, and I knew he’d had enough. Besides, his daughter started to stir in his arms, her sweet face turning up towards his in a gentle smile. “Well, if you’re sick of the hotel, I have a room out back if you want to stay there. You could work with us awhile. We could really use an extra hand around here if you’re up for it. That is, once you get over this illness.” He let that hang in the air as he pulled his daughter up with a kiss to her cheek. I could sense his love for her shrouding the two of them as though they were the only two people on earth in that moment. Her face morphed from sleepy to bright, especially after he blew a raspberry on her belly. She pushed at him with little fingers and giggles.