CHAPTER 14
PARACHUTERS
I decided to go in with Deet and one other pilot on the beach house. It was right on the beach and fairly near the Ambassador Hotel. I could walk to the Ambassador in about thirty minutes, and I found I liked walking along the beach to their beach bar. Lilly wasn’t broken hearted. She shrugged and said that I would be back. “Zhey always come back to Lilly’s,” she repeated.
All of my worldly goods went back into my duffel bag, which I tossed into Junebug before driving the few miles to the rental house. One thing I thought I would miss was Lilly’s cooking, although as it turned out one of the guys, Tony, was a very good cook. Being a good chef is a gift, like being a brilliant physicist or pianist—you either have it or you do not, and it isn’t something that you can fake.
Tony was also a major alcoholic, which was nothing unusual among gifted cooks and pilots. He was from somewhere in New York—Syracuse I think—and somehow ended up in Africa. I was careful not to probe. Some said he was escaping an angry ex-wife. Others said he was escaping an outraged husband. I suspected that it was both plus the relentless hounding of creditors. Whatever the reasons, he was here and had gone into business for himself. He had a Cessna 180, and he’d fly around and do light charter work on his own. There was always plenty of work for him, but he only did enough work to pay for the plane, the gas, and his booze. He didn’t really stress himself, and even though he seemed rather old to me, he probably wasn’t more than forty or forty-five. He was burnt out. His face was bloated and red, and he had a giant 1959 rusted-out Chevrolet sedan. His favorite activity, after flying all day, was to go into town and drink until he was, as we would say in college, completely blotto. Somehow he would make it back to his room, sleep it off, then repeat the process the next day. He had been doing this for years before I met him.
The three of us got along much better than I had expected, and after six or seven months we had settled into something close to a routine. Tony was strangely quiet when he was drunk, which was most of the time, and Deet turned out to be upbeat and pleasant to be around. In the mornings on the weekends when we weren’t flying, I would sometimes borrow Tony’s car to go down to the local bakery to pick up some sweet rolls and coffee. One morning I got in his car and noticed that there was a smear of dark brown stuff all over the windshield. I got out of the car to wipe it off and, for no logical reason except a persistent gnawing suspicion, happened to walk around to the front of the car.
I saw that the grill was smashed in and there was a tennis shoe wedged in it. I pulled the shoe out and threw it in the back seat, then went to his room to wake him up. He, of course, was terribly hungover—he usually slept until noon. “Tony, Tony!” I shouted. “Something has happened to your car! I think you hit someone last night!”
Tony rolled over, looking dazed, then said, “Oh my God! I thought it was a dream.”
“It looks like you got the windshield wipers going.”
“Yeah,” he said, looking more alert. “There was stuff all over it and I had to run the wipers so I could see to get home.”
I thought a moment and said, “I think we should report this to the police.”
Tony panicked. He pleaded with me not to, saying over and over, “This is not the US, man! This is not the US!” Then, “It’ll only lead to more palaver that I can’t afford. Even if the person I’m supposed to have hit complains or his family complains to the cops, nothing will be done about it—unless the cops figure it’s some white guy with dash money. Then they’ll burn me good and, I tell you honestly, I haven’t got dash money. I’m shit out of luck.”
Had we been in the US or Europe I would have reported it, but I had to admit that he was right. It was becoming hard for me to draw a line between right and wrong here. I was learning that life could be cheap in Liberia. The ethics and morality that I thought were universal had a price here.
I knew that the probability was that one day Tony would takeoff in his airplane and never be heard from again. The drinking or the jungle would eventually get him. Was it worth putting balm on my conscience to get the police involved and watch as they threw Tony into some dark pit and leave him there because he couldn’t pay the dash?
“I swear,” Tony pleaded. “I won’t do it again. I won’t drink and drive again, I promise.”
I knew he thought he was sincere. I knew he believed he meant it, but I also knew that he wouldn’t live up to it.
“I think you’d better clean your car up, Tony, just in case.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that right away,” he said with relief.
Toward sunset I decided to go to the Gurley Street Bar downtown. I wanted to shake the feeling that I had somehow been corrupted by a foul and smelly deed. I felt knee-deep in it and wanted to get clean.
A very attractive woman in tight jeans and a t-shirt was sitting at the bar talking to the bartender. The ever-present heat and humidity were exaggerated by the crowd of sweaty bodies. Her damp clothes looked like they had been painted on. She spoke excellent English but with a slight French accent that I couldn’t place exactly. I used that as my opener.
“Are you from Quebec?”
“Is it that obvious? I always thought I had sort of a mid-Atlantic accent,” she said, clearly happy that I had spoken to her.
“There are so many different accents around here I guess I’m getting pretty good at it. Are you waiting for someone?”
“Yeah, my husband. He plays guitar at another bar down the street. We just arrived in town so I’m thrilled that he got a gig so fast. I usually wait for him here rather than go back to the hotel.”
“You mean, you don’t have a place to stay permanently?”
“Not at the moment, but it’s no big deal. We always seem to get by. I’m Belinda, by the way, and my husband is Barry. He’s Australian—an Aussie guitar player who plays American country western in West Africa!”
“Hah! Glad to meet you, Belinda. I’m Ken. I’m a pilot here.”
“A pilot! Who do you work for?”
I paused. “For a guy I don’t trust, in planes I don’t completely trust. But at least I have a place to live.”
“Lucky you,” she said.
“Actually, we do have a spare room. If you guys are good for the rent, I can check it out with my house mates. I have to warn you, they are pilots as well, so it can get pretty rowdy at times.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “We know rowdy!”
That night I brought it up with Deet and Tony.
“Sounds like a couple of parachuters to me,” Deet said.
“Parachuters? What are they?” I asked.
“Parachuters. You know. Dey just drop in out of nowhere. Dey probably have some vild story of vhere dey have been and vhere dey are going. All lies. Und den, poof! Dey grab vat dung dey can und are gone! You hat better check your coin purse, young man. Vhere did they say they came from?”
“Morocco. They drove down from Morocco in an old Oldsmobile station wagon. I don’t know how they made it. But they did.”
“Ya! Just vat I tought.”
I looked at him. “So you don’t think it would be a good idea if they moved in?”
“I didn’t say dat! If dey got de money, den let dem come. Dey won’t be here more dan a couple of months, anyway. I can guarantee it. Besides, it vill be gut to have a voman around de house.”
Deet was right. It was nice to have a woman around the house. She would set out an occasional flower or two, she tacked up some colorful African aso oke fabric like a tapestry and, all of a sudden, our little beach house started to look homey. Barry too turned out to be a nice guy. We would sit out on the beach with our gin and tonics and he would play the guitar.
Barry played well and sang well, so it was easy to like him. He came up with the idea to drive to Ouagadougou in Upper Volta.
“There is going to be a music festival up there in a couple of months and I’m thinking I could be a part of it. It’s not just African music
, it’s all sorts.”
I smiled. “Including country and western?”
“Well, I guess we’ll see!”
I probably could manage the time off, so I said, “Sounds like fun. Count me in.”
CHAPTER 15
NOUGA
About a month after Belinda and Barry moved in, I decided to walk down the beach to the Ambassador Hotel beach bar. The bartender’s name was Joe. He was known as “Set ’em Up Joe” and was an affable local man in his early thirties. He seemed to be always smiling and moved fluidly as though dancing to some internal rhythm. He didn’t just handle the glasses; he twirled them like a juggler before deftly pouring the liquor and placing the glass in front of you. He asked if I was one of the pilots. I said that I was and asked him how he knew.
“Oh, ya got good heart; ya look like ya know book,” he said.
“But really, it’s the sunglasses isn’t it,” I said.
Joe laughed. “Dat’s it, old man. Dat’s it,” he said and danced away. In West Africa it was considered a high compliment to be referred to as “old man” simply because there were relatively few truly old men. Life expectancy among natives was somewhere between forty and forty-five.
“What have you got to eat that’s local?” I asked. “Not European, but not bush meat.”
“Chop, fufu, and boy yeah, it be too fine,” he said.
“Boy yeah? What’s boy yeah?”
Joe pointed to a plate nearby. “Boy yeah,” he said.
“Oh, boiled eggs! I get it. I’ll have some boy yeah. Thanks, and some cane juice.” I had given up the struggle of not drinking before 6:00 p.m.
I was halfway through the eggs and my glass of rum when a woman sat down on the stool next to me, blocking my view of the ocean. She looked straight into my eyes.
“You don’t recognize me. Do you?” The throaty, deep, sexy voice was familiar. I moved my head slowly indicating no.
“Nouga,” she said.
“Major Ahud’s wife,” I said.
She smiled—she also had perfect teeth.
“And you’re here to spy on me?”
“I’m here to have a drink with you.”
“How did you know where to find me?” I asked.
“I have friends in all kinds of places.”
“Should I be afraid?”
“This is Liberia. Of course you should be afraid,” she said.
I signaled for Joe. He danced over and I told him to serve the lady what she wanted. She ordered a gin and tonic, and she was very specific about the gin and the tonic.
“The major sent you to complete the interrogation?”
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” she said, touching the right corner of her mouth. “I don’t interfere in his business, so I don’t talk much when he’s talking.”
“Does he want to know about my new housemates?”
She shrugged. “I suppose he does,” she said, “but that’s his concern, not mine.” She looked directly at me. “Maybe I want to find out about you.”
Joe brought the gin and tonic and quickly left to fill other orders. Nouga took the drink gently from the bar and slowly sipped it. A gentle, soft wind was blowing from the ocean. It moved her dark hair across her face. The dim light from overhead created shadows in the hollow of her cheeks and gave depth to her dark eyes.
“The hotel has a small restaurant, but I’ve heard that it’s pretty good,” she said.
“Is that an invitation?”
“Yes, it is. Do you think it’s too forward of me? Does it frighten you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “We are living in changing times, but I am concerned that you are a married woman.”
She took another sip of the gin and tonic and looked down into it for a moment. “Ahud and I have an understanding.”
“I’ve heard about these understandings. What’s yours?”
“It’s simple. I don’t especially like circumcised men. They look so . . . so . . . mutilated. It’s disgusting. It’s hard to find a man who isn’t circumcised today.”
“And this is okay with the major?”
“He understands,” she said with a shrug.
“How do you know that I’m not circumcised?”
She looked at me over the rim of her glass. “I don’t, but I’m betting that you’re not.”
“And if I am?”
“Then we will have a beautiful friendship.”
Lack of confidence was not one of Nouga’s failings. When one of the major’s informants (the major had informants everywhere) told her that I was at the beach bar, she rented a room at the hotel. I suppose it wasn’t difficult to predict what I would do or what any single young man faced with the prospect of a beautiful, rather exotic, uninhibited woman would do. Saying no seemed pointless and even illogical.
We had a sumptuous dinner—medium rare lamb chops and green peas with pearl onions and a bottle of Chateau Julian. I asked if she kept kosher.
“Ahud and I are very liberal about such things. We are not orthodox. Sometimes we do, sometimes we don’t. We both believe in Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish state and we both work to ensure that, but we are not all that religious. It’s funny, you know. The first thing people want to know about newcomers to Israel is if are they religious.”
Nouga wanted to hear about the flying, and I didn’t think I could give away any state secrets by telling her. She was also very interested in the diamond mines, and how the mining, transport, and selling of the diamonds took place. We talked about the role of the Mandingos. I asked her what she thought of the future of Liberia. She said that Liberia was living on borrowed time; that it was essentially a dictatorship even though President Tubman was democratically elected in 1944.
“He’s got that useless congress packed with his men and everybody else eating out of his hand,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Tubman is an Augustus Caesar. He came pretty much out of nowhere, like Augustus. He has a genius for government like Augustus, but also like Augustus, his one fatal flaw is his Congo clan, his fellow Americo-Liberians. He has put them everywhere. He wants the dim-wit Tolbert to succeed him, and he’s got that wife whose ruthlessness rivals Livia’s.” She noticed my puzzlement. “Livia was the wife of Augustus and notorious for being ruthless. Tubman,” she continued, “probably hasn’t got much longer—five, maybe ten years as most. Then all hell is going to break loose.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Unlike Augustus, he’s got African tribalism to deal with. He’s considered the head of his tribe, the Americo-Liberians. They run things here. If you look,” she continued, “at a map showing all the Liberian tribes, you can’t help but notice there is no Americo-Liberian tribe shown. That’s because when the Bible-thumping freed slaves arrived from America in the 1800s, they just took the land they wanted. Nobody here wanted them, and they still don’t. And the other tribes, some of them, want to run it their way. They see it as a tribal conflict, not a party conflict. It’s almost like a racial thing. The Americo-Liberians consider themselves a little superior to the native peoples, and the native West Africans don’t consider Americo-Liberians as truly African. Tubman’s kind of politics is not going to solve these problems.” “What about the prosperity here? Do you think these people are likely to cut their own throats—especially the other tribal chiefs?”
“You’re right,” she said. “As long as he pays them off he can buy peace. He really has captured this Augustan mystique—the people love him, but they hate his tribe.
“The way the other tribes see it, at least most of them, is that the Americo-Liberians are getting it all while they get nothing. The few get much while the many get very little—a dangerous situation.” She took a deep drag from her cigarette. “I will say one thing for him though. He hates the communists. You may have noticed that the Russians, the Chinese, even the Cubans are absent from the diplomatic scene here. That’s the biggest reason the Americans love him—a strong proponent of capitalism and free market e
conomics.”
“I understand that he’s not a friend of the Israelis either,” I said.
“This is true. We have to be discreet. We have to keep our heads down. But I didn’t come here to talk about politics. It’s pointless anyway and yes, I am expected to pump you for information.”
Nouga had rented a room with an ocean view, not that she gave me much time to enjoy the view.
“I don’t want romance,” she said. “I want to fuck.” She liked clean sex, she said, with no strings and showers before and after. She wanted to shower together, but the shower stall was only large enough for one.
She showered first and was waiting for me in bed.
After breakfast, I walked back along the beach to the house. I didn’t feel great about what happened with Nouga, but I had to admit, it was the best sex that I had ever had. She had completely separated any emotion from it. There was to be no affection, no moral responsibility, no obligation, just raw lust and the exploration of ultimate pleasure. There was a kiss and a smile before she left, but no promise of a tomorrow.
I thought about this as I walked along the beach and couldn’t help but feel a little abandoned, a little saddened, but strangely, despite my Episcopal upbringing, free from any feeling of guilt.
It was around 11:00 a.m. when I reached the beach house. Deet was sitting in a beach chair swinging a bottle of scotch by his side.
“Vell, my friend. Look at you. It’s happened just like I said.”
“What’s happened?”
“Vell, vhile you were screwing your brains out—Oh yes! Don’t vaste your breath trying to deny it.” He waved his finger from side to side. “Vhile you were screwing dat Jewish woman—some of the mannlich saw you with her at de beach bar—Herr Mike cleaned out de company’s account. He even took vhat vas left in de till and has flew de coop.” He made a flying motion with his hand.
The Dung Beetles of Liberia Page 11