The Dung Beetles of Liberia

by Daniel V. Jr. Meier

  “I have to admit,” he said on the walk to the airplane, “I don’t think the girls are quite ready for this, despite their training.”

  “What are they going to do here?” I asked.

  “We have two teachers and a nurse and more arriving next month. All very young, very enthusiastic, and sure they can make a difference. These volunteers know they are ambassadors. They know their work and behavior is going to be scrutinized.”

  “Is that your job, Chuck?”

  “No, no, I’m more of a facilitator. The volunteers are going to be watched by the host country and by the skeptics in the US government, and believe you me, we have a lot of them. Some of them are already referring to us as a cult of escapism. But we intend to make the idea of a crossroad for Africa work. We see ourselves as a bridge from our country to theirs.”

  “Do you have any male volunteers coming in the next group?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I can assure you that all of our volunteers are dedicated to the goals of the Peace Corps and are certainly not trying to escape anything,” he said with just a tinge of stridence.

  We reached the airplane. I looked around to make sure there were no obstructions.

  “Look Chuck,” I said. “I haven’t been in Africa all that long, but I’ve learned enough to know that a woman, on her own without a male protector, is fair game here.”

  “These women are here to help and they have each other. Besides, we have the assurance of the Liberian government that they will be safe, and considering the historical ties with the US, I believe they will honor their commitment.”

  “I don’t think the Liberian government knows or cares what goes on outside Monrovia. Your volunteers are in the bush and the rules are different—more basic, more elemental. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  He nodded slightly but I had the feeling that he was not ready to step out of his ideal world. I climbed back into the airplane.

  “Can you come back for me in a couple of days?” he asked.

  “Sure, you guys have a contract with us and we are at your service whenever you want.”

  “Good, I have to get the office in Monrovia started up. We’re expecting volunteers all over this country by the end of the year.”

  I closed the door. Chuck stepped away from the airplane and I started the engine. As I taxied away I saw Chuck wave. He looked completely out of place with his expensive tropical attire, his clean shoes and his confident smile against the background of mud huts, soiled clothes, undernourished people, and limping domestic animals.

  CHAPTER 7

  PRESIDENT TUBMAN

  I landed about an hour before dark and tied the airplane down. I turned in my trip report and drove back to the guest house dead tired. There was a letter from Jenny in my box. Jenny was a good correspondent and had written regularly. I had written occasionally, but I had to admit, not often. I was immediately overcome with a feeling of both guilt and joy. Guilt because I had to admit to myself that I hadn’t thought a lot about Jenny since I arrived and joy, of course, from hearing from her. I opened it in my room and sat down at the small desk to read it.

  Darling Kenneth,

  It’s been forever since I last saw you. But I can fully understand why you haven’t had time to write—I’ve been busy too. I did some research on Liberia and realize that you must be knee-deep in this new and confusing world.

  As far as I can tell, President Tubman is a strong leader and good for the country. I read that he is the first president of Liberia to include all sixteen indigenous tribes in the government. He also established the “Open Door Policy” that brings in tons of international investment. Your last letter said you were flying into iron mines, and according to what I’ve read, Liberia is very rich in mineral wealth and that the government collects billions in leases, fees, and contracts. Plus, it says, that Liberia has the fastest growing economy in Africa! It sounds like there is plenty of work to go around.

  I can’t wait for you to tell me all about it!

  Kenneth darling, I’m still having trouble getting over how I felt the last time I saw you. I have this permanent picture in my head of you at the airport, with your duffle slung over your shoulder, walking to that airplane. And even though you were with a crowd of others, you looked so vulnerable, so alone. I had this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that I would never see you again. Please don’t let that happen. Please take care of yourself. And write to me, write to me.

  All my love,

  Jenny

  I carefully folded the letter and put it into the desk drawer. She seemed so far away. I felt like she was writing to someone else, to a different Ken. I’d promised I wouldn’t be gone long, but it was looking like that might be one more promise broken. I didn’t want to end up like Deet or Mike McCoy or Joe—especially not Joe—but I was now being treated differently—not like a student or someone’s son, but like a grown man whose skills were respected, who could be looked upon to get the job done.

  I thought about Jenny for a long while. The possibility of keeping her, as well as my new life in Africa, seemed remote. My earlier joy waned, but the guilt was still there.

  I decided that a change of mood was in order. Deet had said that the Gurley Street Bar was a favorite hangout for British and Americans. Maybe I needed the company of my countrymen and our British cousins for a while.

  The bar was crowded, noisy, and filled with cigarette smoke. It was early enough that the drinking had not begun to take its toll. I made my way to the bar and ordered a beer. In what seemed like an instant, the bartender plopped a beer in front of me and popped the top off with the adeptness of a magician’s hand.

  “You stay hee fo while? You wanna tab?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Could I get something to eat?”

  He placed a rather worn and smudged menu next to my beer.

  “I’d recommend the prawn sandwich.”

  The recommendation came from the flushed faced man on my left. I turned. He was an older man, possibly in his mid-forties with a dark indentation in his forehead that was partially hidden by thinning blondish hair.

  “You must be a newcomer, mate.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Let’s just say that you still have that washed-and-dried look. Kinda like one who hasn’t looked into the pit and seen the real shit at the bottom.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “What part of the UK are you from?”

  “I’m not. I’m a Kenyan, but I went to school in England and flew in the RAF. So I suppose I consider myself British.”

  “RAF . . . as a pilot?”

  “Of course, lad, there is no other way to enjoy the RAF.”

  “So, what are you doing here?” I realized instantly that was not the sort of question one asks here. I started to apologize, but he interrupted.

  “It’s all right, lad, I understand. But to set your mind at ease, I fly for Monrovia Airlines. And you?”

  I told him who I worked for. His eyebrows narrowed a little, and he asked me how long I had been there.

  “Just a few months,” I said.

  “Take my advice,” he said, “and watch your six o’clock with that guy. He can be as slippery as an eel and as mean as a rhino. Hell, he doesn’t even bother to wear a mask when he robs you.”

  The waiter brought my prawn sandwich.

  “There’s a table free over there,” I said, pointing to a recently emptied table. “Would you like to join me?”

  He looked hesitant for a second. “The next one’s on me,” I said.

  “Certainly, lad, certainly. I never refuse that kind of invitation.”

  I tried the prawn sandwich. It was excellent. “My name’s Ken. Ken Verrier.”

  He extended his hand, which had a missing forefinger. He noticed my attention and said, “It happened when I punched my way out of a mangled aircraft five years ago. So you’re Canadian? The name’s Colin by the way.” He lit a cigarette.

  “Actually, I
’m an American but my ancestors were French Canadian. Did you work for Mike?”

  “No, but I know some what did, and he royally fucked every one of them. I’m just advising you to watch him, that’s all. Look, lad, you can’t trust anybody in this country, especially the fuckers what’s in charge. This place is a great fucking grab bag. People like your boss are here to grab what balls of shit they can and get out. They don’t care what kind of mess they leave behind.”

  “He seems to have some good people working for him now,” I said.

  “That bunch of fucking Krauts? They are all unredeemed Nazis to the core and old McCoy knows what will happen to him if he tries to fuck with them. I heard you lost one?”

  “Yeah, Joe. An accident. He clipped the new communication cable near the end of the runway. He didn’t know about it.”

  “Well, don’t expect any tears from me. We should have killed all those goose-stepping bastards when we had the chance. There is one bit of irony though, and forgive me for smiling a little—they are all scared to death of the Jews. You know, the Mossad. The Israelis around here are keeping an eye on each one of them. But the Jews, they have to be careful too, because of Tubman.”

  “Tubman? Why? It was my understanding that President Tubman has been good for this country,” I said.

  “Tubman would be a Nazi himself if it were not for the fact that he’s black. Let me tell you something about Honorable Tubman. He loves the krauts and he’s smart enough to learn from old Adolf’s mistakes. He’s got this problem with the country people. They all have tribal affiliations. They don’t like him or any of his friends. So instead of rolling his storm troopers into their lands and shooting all of the tribal leaders, he goes to see ’em like he is one of their long-lost cousins and buys ’em off. It’s the old custom of dash around here, magnified. As long as he does that, he’ll have no serious trouble from them.”

  “Yes, but throwing money around doesn’t earn respect, and I get the impression no one really challenges anything he does. Sounds like a pretty nice guy.”

  “Bollocks, mate! I’ll tell you the kind of nice guy he is. Several years ago ‘Honorable’ Tubman had this Kraut girlfriend. This was about the time that a gang of thieves in Monrovia developed a tactic of ram, rob, and run. They would pick out somebody they thought was a rich American or European. They would wait until the right moment, then ram the unfortunate victim with their car, rob them, and drive away. Normally, Americans and Europeans are not molested here, but these guys decided they would branch out, defy convention, and go for the real money.

  “So, the president’s Kraut girlfriend flies in one day from the fatherland and Tubman sends one of his cars, a white Mercedes, to pick her up. Now the car isn’t marked with a government symbol or anything like that. It looks like an ordinary rich white man’s car. The thieves, who had been cruising the airport, you know Robertsfield, spot the car and follow it. Then, when they think it’s all in their favor, they ram the car, steal her jewelry and what cash she had on her, then took off. Well, that was the worst mistake they could have made. Within an hour, the thieves were rounded up and thrown in jail.”

  He chuckled to himself. “You see, it was bad enough that they assaulted and robbed the president’s girlfriend. Had she been just another European, it really would not have mattered that much. Tubman would have given another one of his anti-crime speeches, the boys might have been slapped on the wrist, and that would have been the end of it. But by attacking the president’s honey, they attacked the president himself, and that is the very thing Tubman will not tolerate—a challenge to his authority or an attack upon anything that belongs to him. It’s one and the same to him.”

  “So what happened to the thieves?” I asked.

  “Tubman decided to make an example of them, so he announced there would be a Justice Day. And when that day came, justice was to be held in the football stadium. It was done at night for full effect. You know, like the Nazis used to do at Nuremburg with their torches and vertical lights. Herr Speer called it the ice palace.

  “It was like a sports affair. Vendors were selling cotton candy, beer, shit like that. And just at the right moment, he got up into the speaker’s stand and called for the criminals to be brought out. The same white Mercedes was driven out onto center field and two policemen got out. They opened the rear door and dragged out three guys who were handcuffed and chained together. Then Tubman made this long speech in the style of der Fuehrer about how he was going to put an end to crime and, after a timed pause, he extended both arms and said, ‘Now let justice be done,’ and the crowd went wild.”

  “The cops dragged the three guys around to the rear of the car, opened the trunk and threw them in, and slammed the trunk lid down. A pickup truck drove out to the scene and the cops started offloading five-gallon cans of petrol. They must have dumped fifty gallons of the stuff in and on the car. Tubman gave the signal by suddenly lowering his arms, and the cops lit the car off. At that point the crowd let out a scream that made what’s left of my hair stand on end. I’ve never heard anything like it. It was like ten thousand people at the height of supreme ecstasy.

  “Toward the end, when the car finished bouncing and the flames were dying down, the crowd in the bleachers started throwing their empty bottles down on the people standing on the ground. It’s a sort of custom. That’s why the groundlings always bring a piece of metal sheeting with them when they go to a football match. It’s like an umbrella to deflect the rain of bottles.”

  “Why on earth do they throw bottles down on the people below?” I asked.

  “Haven’t the foggiest, mate. I suppose it’s a way of showing the groundlings what their place in this society really is. Can you imagine being so obsessed with a sport that you’re willing to stand under a rain of beer bottles? And make no mistake—other than public executions, football is the number one sport in this country.”

  I smiled slightly at Colin and turned toward the barman and motioned to him for another round. “So tell me about this company you work for.”

  “Monrovia Airlines? It’s really the same type of operation that you work for, only bigger and with more aircraft. I think it’s owned by an Israeli company and, of course, the Honorable Williams. The boss’s name is Andre. He prisses around like a frog and he wants you to think he’s a frog, but he’s really a Eurasian. His father was French and his mother was Vietnamese. He was sent to France for his education, and after the French were defeated at Dien Bien Phu, he stayed. I understand his parents didn’t make it out. Not sure how he ended up here.” He paused. “The pay’s good and, I have to say, Andre runs a tight operation.”

  Colin was interrupted by a man sitting down at our table. Colin didn’t look surprised.

  “Max,” he said. “This young man is Ken. He’s American and he’s working for McCoy.”

  Max looked at me and smiled slightly but did not extend his hand. “It’s time,” Max said to Colin.

  “Sure, Max,” Colin answered.

  Max rose to leave and looked at me. “Nice to meet you.”

  As Max walked away Colin leaned toward me and said, “I know what you’re thinking. You’ve got to remember, in this country, you don’t ask too many questions. Max isn’t a pilot; he’s a kind of freelance. He gets things done for people. That’s all I know and all I want to know.” Colin rose to leave. “Stop by the operation sometime. I’ll introduce you to Andre.”

  I said that I would and watched him disappear into the crowd of the Gurley Street Bar.

  CHAPTER 8

  ANA

  Soccer, or football as it’s known in Liberia, can be said with considerable accuracy to be the national sport of Liberia. The Lone Star team, named to recall the lone star in the Liberian flag, is meant to represent Liberian pride. Winning football players are venerated with the same idolatry that baseball heroes are in the US. And it is those Liberians near the lower rungs of the economic ladder who are the most passionate followers of the game. They would spend
their last penny or endure all varieties of hardship to watch their favorite matches.

  President Tubman, possibly seeing no way out of it, built a football stadium with a capacity for ten thousand people in the city of Monrovia a few blocks southeast of Gurley Street on United Nations Boulevard. He wasn’t a huge fan of soccer—no more so than the rest of the Americo-Liberian elite. However, he did understand the power of giving the people “bread and circuses” and made sure that enough government funds were diverted to subsidize the price of rice, the staple food in Liberia, and to keep the price of tickets to football matches cheap. To make sure Monrovians knew whom to thank for their low-cost food and entertainment, he named the stadium after his wife, Antoinette Tubman.

  I met Ana at the stadium as planned and we climbed the steps to the covered seats. Ana had played soccer in secondary school in Germany. She wasn’t exactly a “fan” in the American sense of the word. She didn’t follow matches and she didn’t know many of the names of the star players, but she enjoyed the game and cheered loudly when the Lone Star team scored a goal.

  Every seat was taken in the covered section of the stadium, and almost everyone was drinking a beer or soft drink. The people, sitting and standing on the ground below, all had their assorted shapes of sheet metal by their sides. After the first Lone Star goal, the crowd went wild, followed shortly by a rain of bottles. We could see them arching out from the open seats in a wave of slow moving projectiles to shatter on the metal plates below. It was just as Colin had described. I looked at Ana.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I just realized that a story a friend recently told me was true.” The cheering was so loud that it nearly drowned out what I was saying.

  The Lone Star team won the match against Ghana. The sound of ten thousand human voices roaring with all of their power reminded me of the roaring intensity of the wind near the vortex of a hurricane. I wondered if it had not been similar at the Coliseum in Rome when a favorite gladiator defeated another and the crowd roared for his death. I thought of the American football games that I had attended in the US and heard people in the bleachers shouting “Kill ’em!” “Stomp ’em!” and “Murder ’em!” during tense moments.