Her face remained expressionless. Then she shrugged slightly. “Ahud will be disappointed, but he’s been disappointed before.”
“I’m sorry, Nouga,” I said.
“Well,” she said, “that’s Ahud’s concern, not mine.” She took a long sip of her drink. “I have a room reserved. It’s the same one.”
CHAPTER 22
THE SANDE
Stumpy Biezell wasn’t difficult to work for. He scheduled me for two or three trips a week and the other days I worked for Andre. As an employer, Stumpy treated me well enough, though he wasn’t the kind of man you could really get to know. It was strictly business with him. He did have occasional visitors—men in poorly fitting dark suits with hard-set faces and intense eyes that he would hustle into his office. The door was always locked and the shades stayed drawn.
The Israelis obviously had grounds for their suspicions, but no proof. I was tempted. I was very tempted. I hated the thought of ex-Nazi thugs getting away with it. Then again, I didn’t really know what they had done, if anything. They could be just scared former German soldiers running headlong from what they believed was the overreaching vengeance of the Israelis. The men Stumpy hustled into his office did not look scared—in fact, they looked quite the opposite. I decided, nevertheless, to take pictures of the next batch of visitors.
I didn’t have to wait long. A couple of days later, Stumpy had another late afternoon visit. I waited in Junebug, hoping that there would be enough light when they came out of the operations office. They appeared sooner than I expected, so I quickly got the camera ready and snapped a couple of pictures before they entered their car. I drove over to the Airport Bar immediately and called Nouga from the payphone there. I told her that I wanted to meet her, that it was important. I think she understood. She told me to meet her in our usual room at the Ambassador.
When I got there, Nouga was sitting on the bed, smoking—something she seldom did. I explained what had happened and that I had taken a couple of pictures that she might find interesting. I handed her the camera. I told her that I did not know, nor could I prove, that Stumpy was arranging transportation for his visitors out of Liberia, but that I had to admit that his actions did seem suspicious. She didn’t say anything but got up from the bed, put her arms around me, and held me for a long while.
“I know you don’t like doing this.” she said, “but we thank you, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“I’ve never liked schoolyard bullies,” I said.
A couple of weeks later, Stumpy had a trip scheduled for me. The Firestone Rubber Company owned a very large rubber plantation in the interior, and Stumpy wanted me to fly three of their executives up to the plantation office. They called it Base One.
These men had not stopped traveling since leaving New York two days before. Their suits were wrinkled, and their collars stained with sweat. Nevertheless, they had not loosened their ties. Their faces were office pale and sweat trickled from their foreheads and off their noses. They were clearly uncomfortable flying in a single engine airplane over the African bush.
I found Base One. It had been cut out of the bush like the runways at the iron mines. I landed and cringed, as I always did, when the laterite pinged against the tail and the underside of the wing.
I helped the men with their few bags and started to get back into the airplane for the return trip when one of them—the oldest—came up to me and offered a tip. I thanked him but explained that an air transport is not the same as a ground taxi. He looked puzzled for a moment then turned and walked away.
I had some extra time and the mission where I had taken Sarah was not far off the track. I plotted a quick change of course to it and in less than fifteen minutes I was circling the airstrip. I landed and taxied to the cleared area off the center of the runway. People were running toward the airplane, so I switched the engine off immediately then completed the rest of the shutdown check list and stepped out of the airplane.
“I want to see the Head Man,” I shouted above the noise of the crowed.
“Ah take you to eem,” a young man said, taking me by the hand. “Come wit me, boss.”
“Ya ha good ting for us?” someone from the crowd shouted.
“Not today,” I said. “I’ve come to see the Head Man.”
I followed the boy up to the hut where I remembered speaking to the Head Man before. We stopped at the open door. The boy waited. I reached into my pocket and handed him a quarter—my last one. He smiled broadly and ran down the path to the village. The Head Man was standing in the door, his face expressionless.
“Heloo ya,” he said, extending his hand. “Goo ta see ya, ma fren.” We again shook in the Liberian manner, and he invited me in for the ceremonial coffee.
“We ha new mission man,” he said, handing me a steaming, battered cup of coffee. “He young an fulla hope an zeel. He smile much. He also ha young, pretty wife who ee alway looking round scared. Deres a vey young boy who play wit our boys, an a daughta, maybe forteen year, who weep like a lost soul mos de time.”
“Does he drink the whiskey?” I asked.
“Na,” the Head Man said.
“But he will,” I said.
The Head Man laughed. “If he stay long nuff, I tink so,” he said.
“I have come to ask about the girl I brought back from Monrovia. Her name is Sarah.”
The Head Man’s face went blank. His lips tightened a little.
“Is she in the village?” I asked.
The old man shook his head slowly. “Na,” he said. “She dead.”
“Dead!”
“She wa taken by de Sande.”
“The Sande, what is the Sande?” I asked.
“It a secret society o’ women. Dey take young girls in de night. Dey take ’em to a secret place where a priestess cuts away some of der private part. The Sande believe dat dis act will make the girls better wives, cause it take away all desire to bed wit oder men. Sarah, she ha ben wit oder men not her husband.”
“Did she have a husband?” I asked, hardly able to get the words out.
“Na, she nedder ha no husban.”
I had read something of this practice but did not believe that it existed in Africa during the mid-1960s. The Head Man saw that I was now unable to speak, but he knew what I was thinking. He went on.
“Much of de girls die from dis. Dey bleed to death or de corruption enter deir bodies and they waste away in great pain. Sarah, dey told me, died from de bleeding. She ha no ma or pa. Dey ha die o de sickness long ago. So de women o de village took her an bury her. You wan more coffee, Mr. Pilot?”
I shook my head.
”You wan see her grave?” he asked.
“No, no thank you,” I said feeling a sudden and painful tightness in my chest. “I must go now.”
We stood up and shook hands. At the door the old man said, “Many bad tings happen. De missionaries say dat it de will of God. An we mus pray. But dat not stop de bad things or fix de sickness.”
“You’re a wise man, sir.”
He paused and looked at me as though for the last time. “May good fortune go wit you, Mr. Pilot.”
I thanked him and walked back down to where the airplane was parked.
The villagers had dispersed. The only people standing by the airplane were a white man and woman with two children. They were waiting under the wing. As I approached the man extended his hand. I took it.
“I’m the Reverend Joel Burns and this is my wife, Janet; son, Jason; and daughter, Margaret. I understand that you transport passengers?”
I said that I did.
“My daughter, Margaret, is going to live with her aunt and uncle in Lubbock, Texas, until our mission here is completed. Would you take her to Monrovia? She can stay with our mission there until her flight leaves in two days.”
“Did you ever know a girl here in the village named Sarah?” I asked. The reverend looked hesitant for a moment. “I’ve heard of a Sarah in the village, but she
died last month. Would that be her?’
“She was killed by a secret society called the Sande. Do you know of them?” I asked.
“I have heard of them,” he said. “They practice what is clinically called female genital mutilation or FGM. I thought the practice had died out. We are trying to change that through Christian teachings, but it’s very difficult—traditions, no matter how evil, die hard.”
“Are you afraid for your daughter? Is that why she’s going back?” I asked.
“No, no, Margaret hasn’t been happy since the moment we arrived. The change and cultural shock has been too much for her. She misses her friends, her school, all those things she now feels closely linked to. She’s too young to understand the importance of our work here. I’ve tried to explain it to her, but you know how teenagers are.”
Margaret was clutching her small cloth bag like someone clinging to a life jacket before jumping into the water. Her mother watched her anxiously.
“I can take her to Spriggs-Payne airfield,” I said. “It’ll cost fifteen dollars. Can you have someone pick her up at the office of Beizell’s Air Service?”
The reverend smiled and nodded. He dug into his pocket and handed me a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep it,” he said excitedly. “Keep it. I’ll get on the radio now and someone will be there to meet you. Thank you so much, sir. I will pray for you and may God go with you.”
The reverend started running up the path to his house, which was little better than a large native hut. His wife and son remained to watch as we taxied to the end of the runway and took off. I climbed straight ahead to about four hundred feet, then did a 180-degree descending turn and made a low pass over the runway. As we passed, Margaret’s mother and brother were standing and waving from their midfield position. Margaret ignored them. I did a few shallow Dutch rolls as a parting gesture. Perhaps they thought of it as their daughter waving goodbye.
Margaret, however, was completely uninterested. She sat in the front seat next to me still clutching her bag, her head pushed against the headrest, her eyes closed, her mind counting the minutes until we landed.
Margaret did not open her eyes until we landed a Spriggs-Payne. We taxied to the ramp, and she pushed the door open at the same moment the propeller stopped turning. I watched her run toward Beizell’s office. I secured the airplane and followed her. A middle-aged, white man in a gray suit was talking to her.
“Are you the person who is supposed to meet her?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m Reverend Pickle.” He extended a hand. I took it and tried to suppress a smile.
“I think I’ve heard most of the jokes,” he said with a laugh.
I turned to Margaret and said, “Do you know this man?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “We’ve been to his house many times.”
“Okay,” I said. “Have a safe trip home.”
I watched as they left the office, the Reverend Pickle with his hand on her shoulder saying, “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll have you back in Texas before the sun sets over El Paso.”
CHAPTER 23
SICK LIKE HELL
I gave Stumpy the paperwork and fifteen dollars, told him I was done for the day, and drove over to the Airport Bar. Madeleine was there and, as always, was very good to look at. I asked for a bourbon and ginger. I had always preferred bourbon and water, but I knew not to drink the water or to come into contact with it in any way. This meant no ice, no fresh vegetables, and make sure they open the beer in front of you. Even then, I would wipe it off with a cloth before I drank it.
“Are you feeling all right, mon cher?” Madeleine asked.
“Nothing that a strong drink won’t cure.”
“Hello mate.” I recognized Colin’s voice behind me and felt his hand on my shoulder. “Say, mate, you look like something the big cats just dragged in.”
“Madeleine, bring Colin whatever he wants.”
“Thanks mate, but seriously, you don’t look so good. How have you been feeling?”
“To be perfectly honest, like shit.”
Colin looked carefully at my eyes and skin. “Let me guess,” he said. “Shortness of breath, fatigue—more than usual, I mean—sweating, headache?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Have you been taking your quinine meds?”
“Yes. Religiously. My family doctor at home sent me over with Resochin quinine tablets.”
Colin sat down next to me. “Sounds to me like you’ve developed a resistance. You’re gonna need a new one.”
“Great.”
“Welcome to tropical Africa, matey. Whether you like it or not, you’ve got malaria. You’ve got all the symptoms. Most people who get it, get it within the first six months of coming here, but you’ve held out much longer than that. Must be that tough American hide of yours. Funny thing though, some people never get it. And them that do, there ain’t no cure, mate. We’ll have to get you some new drugs.”
“Can you recommend a doctor?” I asked.
“Oh, you don’t need one of them quacks. Finish your drink and I’ll get you what you need. The dealers around here see it every day. They know what you need.”
“You can get drugs without a doctor’s prescription?” I asked.
“You don’t have to have a doctor around here for anything except signing death certificates, and most people don’t even bother with that.”
Colin insisted that I ride with him in his car. We stopped in front of a door that looked like the entrance to a fish market—at least it smelled like a fish market. Colin said he would be back in a “jiffy,” and I watched as he disappeared through the dark opening. In a few minutes he emerged carrying a small brown paper bag bulging on all sides.
“You owe me twenty quid, mate. The cost of black market drugs is rising.”
“Okay,” I said. “Just take me to my place. I’ve got a little cash stashed away.”
Colin drove to the beach house. “I’ll go in with you and put you to bed. I’ll talk to your house boy about what should be done, but I ain’t talking to that damn, fucking, Kraut Nazi pilot you live with.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. He’s working and will be drinking tonight at Heinz and Maria’s until late.”
“Great,” he said. “I’ll know where to drop the bombs.”
I got undressed and crawled into bed. I could hear Colin talking to Ku telling him to boil several more gallons of water and prepare it for filtering. All of the water we used came from our cistern. In order to purify the water, we would boil it for a minimum of five minutes then pour it into a stone tank that had a spigot on the bottom. The stone was some kind of pumice or porous volcanic stone that acted as a very fine filter. It would take a couple of days to seep through the stone, but when it did, all the particles that happened to be in the water were gone. The water was pretty pure. And it tasted good. But this was mainly a European custom and was not done in restaurants or bars. A house boy had to be taught how to do it and, more importantly, convinced that it was necessary.
“Take this money, boy,” I heard Colin say, “and get some goddamn fucking mosquito netting and string it up over Mr. Ken’s bed or I’ll stick this dull knife right up your arse. Do you understand me?”
“Yes boss!” I heard Ku say.
Then I heard Colin leave. A moment later, Ku came into my room, his eyes wide with terror.
“Don’t worry, Ku. He isn’t going to hurt you, but I think he’s right. If you could get some mosquito netting, I would very much appreciate it, and do the water thing. From what I’ve read, malaria is going to be a rough ride.”
“You ha de sickness, boss. My auntie, she know much abou de sickness. She take care o you. I go get her now.” Ku started to leave.
“Don’t forget the netting,” I said as he left. I knew it was like closing the fence gate after the horses had gotten out, but I had no idea what would happen if I was bitten by another anopheles mosquito while I was dealing with this bout of malaria.
Soon af
ter Ku left I started throwing up; every joint in my body was throbbing with pain. I felt cold and started shivering. Then I was sweating as though I had just run a marathon. Sometime later, Ku returned with a large, middle-aged woman that he introduced as Aunty Martha. She took one look at me and told Ku to get as many clean towels as he could find and heat up a pot of water.
“I make you de fever tea right away an you drink it right away,” she said.
“Oh, please, no, Aunty Martha. I want real medicine. Not some voodoo concoction!”
“Don’ worry, Mr. Ken. Malaria fever tea is good. Is jus local tea leaves wit basil.”
“It hep your stomach, boss,” Ku assured me.
Aunty Martha did what she could to make me comfortable. She made sure that I took the new Paraquin quinine tablets Colin had bought for me; she made sure there was plenty of filtered, boiled water; she checked the mosquito netting daily; she changed my bed linen regularly and washed it herself. It was five days of agony. Deet and the other pilots would bring Coca-Colas and bottles of ginger ale to keep my strength up. I could barely drink, let alone eat anything solid. When I did, I would inevitably throw it up. On the sixth day the symptoms started to diminish, and I was told by Aunty Martha that I was lucky to have had a mild case of the sickness and that I should take my quinine daily.
On the seventh day I lay in bed, physically exhausted to the point that I could hardly move, but somehow I found the strength to use the chamber pot without help. Later, Aunty Martha came, as she did every day, but this time with a pot of freshly made soup. Whatever it was, it was delicious. I could almost feel my strength returning, but it would be several more days before I could get out of bed with any degree of confidence.
Toward the end of this period, Colin showed up. I was sitting on the porch enjoying a cool ginger ale and listening to the ever-soothing sounds of the surf.
“Hello, mate,” he said. “I figured your Kraut friend would be out, so I wanted to see how you were doing, and it looks like you are doing all right. You know, a bad case of malaria can knock people out for months, sometimes forever. About fifteen to twenty percent of the cases are fatal. You are lucky, my man.”
The Dung Beetles of Liberia Page 16
