“Do you know what them bastards did?” Little Billy said. “They took all my stuff, my boots, my Stetson, and my belt, and I want ’em back.”
“That’s the least of your troubles Billy. We’ve got to get out of here PDQ or we may not live to see the sunrise. How is your gas? Can you make the coast?”
He looked doubtful. “I don’t think so, maybe Wiesua.”
Wiesua was the heart of the diamond area, a small town in the center of the rain forest lying a hundred miles toward the coast. It should be lit up from the several generators located in the Mandingo stores.
“We’ll figure a course later,” I said. “Leave your lights on and I’ll follow you.”
Outside, dusk had turned to night. A small group of spectators surrounded the planes, still silent but seemingly less hostile. The commissioner followed at a distance with his soldiers, mumbling drunkenly. I swung into the plane quickly, my pulse beginning to race. Nothing was going to stop us now.
“Stop. Stop!” The commissioner and his soldiers ran forward in the dark.
My throat was dry; one hand posed on the starter switch, the other casually pushing in the mixture control. “What is it, Monsieur Commissionaire?” Little Billy’s plane cranked and started. My fingers turned the magneto switch to BOTH. The seat belt dangled out the door.
“Ah mus dash yo.” He blurted the words drunkenly. The soldiers handed me a dead chicken and a small hamper of eggs. I thanked him but his response was lost because I hit the starter; the propeller on Charlie Fox rotated several times then caught. With my left hand, I flicked the navigation and landing lights on and pushed the throttle in with my right. The seatbelt flapped wildly against the metal skin of the airplane. I belted myself in, slammed the door closed, and I was away.
I climbed rapidly, turning southeast toward the diamond mines of Wiesua, and found the lights of Foxtrot Papa. Little Billy was good at celestial navigation. He knew all of the major constellations and the orientation of the Milky Way. I stayed with him just aft of his right wing and followed his lights.
After about an hour, a light glow appeared in the blackness ahead. Wiesua! We approached carefully and landed safely. Little Billy later found less than five gallons of fuel remaining in his tanks. That night we slept on old army cots in the room of a small store. We were up fairly early, so I asked the local cook to fry up some of the eggs from the commissioner. He broke the first ones into the pan and immediately pitched them out the door of the hut. The stench of rotten eggs filled the air.
“De yeays are spoil, boss,” he said. Monsieur Le Commissionaire, it seems, had the last word.
The cook got some eggs from his own stores and we had those plus a few strips of pork and the local coffee. I gave the cook the chicken from the commissioner, and he took it but eyed it suspiciously. We fueled up from the fifty-gallon barrel of aviation fuel outside of the small shack that served as a flight office. I reached in my pocket to pay the lone attendant, an old man well into his seventies. As I did, I pulled out John Zizzi’s letter. I had forgotten to leave it in Kankan. I felt a pang of regret, even though I could not think of any time I could have handed it to anyone. Given the situation, perhaps it was for the best.
We flew home together, this time with Little Billy maintaining a tight echelon right position to Charlie Fox. He was a good pilot, that Little Billy from Oklahoma.
We reached Spriggs-Payne and I contacted Andre over the radio.
“All the sparrows are coming home,” I said.
Andre, along with the pilots who happened to be on the airfield, the load boys, the errand boys, and the mechanics were waiting on the ramp. All cheered as we emerged from the airplanes and crowded around us, shaking our hands and asking how Little Billy lost his boots, belt, and hat. I proudly handed Andre the remaining wad of money as well as the American Express rejection letter. One of the load boys loaned Billy his sandals and we all, except Andre and Kemo, piled into cars and drove to the Airport Bar.
Normally, Little Billy didn’t drink—I had never seen him drink—but that day at the Airport Bar he downed gin and tonics one after the other and even flirted with Madeleine. He told the story of the Guinea flight several times to any attentive audience until suddenly he seemed to melt in his seat like a piece of warm plastic. Colin offered to take him home and tuck him in, saying that I had done my fair share. I agreed, feeling an overpowering need for sleep myself.
CHAPTER 25
SMALL, SMALL TING
It was late in the afternoon when I awoke. Ku had carefully placed the mosquito netting over the bed.
“No sickness, boss. Ya no wan sickness.”
I agreed. I had fallen in bed with my clothes on and, apparently, Ku had removed my shoes.
“I coo big supper for ya, boss. Ya eat notting all day.”
“Could you get me a beer, Ku?”
“Yes boss. Mr. Andre call. He ha work for ya tomorra, say ya to be at de airport by eight.”
“Did he say what it’s about?”
“No boss, only dat ya shou come.”
I went through my mail. There was a letter from my dad telling me that everything was all right at home, and that whenever I was ready to return just let him know. There was also a letter from Jenny telling me that she was coming to Monrovia and would be here in two weeks. I was glad Jenny was coming. I didn’t think I would be, but I was. For the first time in a long while I was happy. Ku returned with the beer. I told him that we were going to have an important guest from Washington in two weeks’ time and that things should be “clean and shipshape.”
“Dis person one of yo senators, boss?”
“Hardly, Ku. She’s a very close friend.”
“Yo fiancée, suh?”
“Not quite, but who knows what the future may bring. It is important that we make a very good impression though. She will have come a very long way.”
I arrived at the operations office around seven fifteen in the morning only to discover that the flight had been delayed. The twelve hundred pounds of rice I was to deliver would not arrive for another three hours. That was enough time to treat myself to a decent breakfast at the Airport Bar. Madeleine’s chef’s du jour was a plate of scrambled eggs, fried pork strips (not quite American bacon but close), and a tomato along with a dish of peeled pineapple and mango, plus a large mug of coffee. I had just taken my first sip of coffee when I felt a powerful hand on my right shoulder. I turned and recognized Honorable Williams standing next to me with a broad, toothy smile that looked like he was going to burst into laughter at any moment.
“Everyone is talking about you, my son! How you faced down the commissioner and rescued Little Billy. How you led him through a stormy night to land at Wiesua just as your plane ran out of gas.” I started to object that it wasn’t my version of events, but he continued. “Please, my son, join me for breakfast. Here, let us sit at a table like gentlemen.”
Madeleine’s bartender followed us to the table that Honorable Williams chose near the open doors.
“I will have what this gentleman is having.” He smiled. It was meant as an honor. “How I do admire you young men free as birds in the air. So like gods you are, commanding the skies, fearful of nothing. You handle your flying machines as though they are not machines at all. I always wanted to be a pilot, you know. I used to build model airplanes as a boy and fly them from the roof of my father’s house, but alas, it was expected that I would go into government as my father and grandfather had done before me. It is the lot of us ‘Congo’ people to lead this country. It is our burden, so to speak. Without us, the country would descend into civil war, the tribes fighting one other until nothing is left but a waste land.” He hesitated for a moment. “You are from Washington, DC, yes?”
I said that I was.
“I spent several years in DC—at the Embassy. I even met President Eisenhower and Mr. Nixon. Before that, I graduated from the University of Maryland and attended law school at Georgetown. When I was at Maryland I use to wa
lk over to College Park Airport when I had some free time and watch airplanes take off and land. There was a small restaurant on the field, or was it at the edge of the field? I don’t remember now. I would drink coffee and watch the airplanes. I met some of the pilots and instructors too. They all had names like Buzz or Lucky!” He laughed loudly, holding his hand over his mouth. “God, how I always wanted a name like that, but you have to earn it, I suppose, like Little Billy. Do you have such a name, my friend?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I do not.”
“Then we will have to give you one.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then his face brightened. “I’ve got it. We shall call you Spike for the way you handled the commissioner. Is that good? Do you like it?”
He seemed so happy with his decision that I did not have the heart to say anything but yes. Besides, I doubted that it would stick. I had been given nicknames before in school and none of them stuck.
The bartender came with our breakfasts and we ate while Honorable Williams told me about his family. He had two sons, one a student at UCLA and the other training as a pilot at Embry-Riddle in Florida.
“He will, one day, take over ownership of Monrovia Airlines,” Honorable Williams said. “And I’m hoping he will start a major inter-African air carrier, but that is in the future and we will see.” He hesitated then continued, “You know, I am well acquainted with M. Swaree. I shall inform him of the way you were treated.”
“Sir,” I said. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m sure the commissioner was only doing his job as he saw it.”
“That may be,” Honorable Williams said, “but this is Africa and if you don’t remind these petty officials who is really in charge here, things could get out of hand. He’ll just get a slap on the wrist, but it’ll be a slap that he will remember, and the next time you visit Guinea, the commissioner will consider it an honor.”
By the time I returned to the operations office, Paterson had Charlie Fox loaded with two hundred and forty bags of rice in five-pound bags. I took off as soon as I could get strapped in the airplane and headed for the village of Gboyl that supplied the nearby iron mine. I landed at the mine’s airstrip around noon. A soldier, a sergeant judging from the faded stripes on the sleeve of his dirty and rumpled uniform, was waiting with two of the village boys. I taxied onto a small ramp at the midsection of the runway. The moment the propeller stopped, the soldier opened my door.
“Do ya ha it all?” he asked.
“Two hundred and forty bags,” I said.
“Da good,” the sergeant said and called for the two boys to start unloading.
“The usual practice is to pay for the stuff before you start unloading,” I said.
“Yo gowana be paid. Come wit me to de jeep.”
I climbed out of the plane and followed the soldier to a battered World War II–era jeep, its olive drab paint fading to light green along with the faded white lettering that spelled out U. S. ARMY. The soldier was carrying a US 45 caliber 1911 pistol on his hip. He shouted something to the boys that I did not understand and, although they didn’t acknowledge, I knew that they understood.
The sergeant drove the short distance to the village, grinding the gears of the jeep, and not bothering to avoid the holes in the road. We stopped in front of an old army tent that had been patched and stitched in various places.
“Ya stay here,” the sergeant said, indicating that I should sit in one of the folding chairs in front of the tent. He went inside, pushing the door flap to one side, and in a few minutes returned with a dirty manila envelope.
“Ah wanna receipt,” he said.
I took the cash out of the envelope, counted it, stuffed it in my pockets and wrote, Paid in full for two hundred and forty bags of rice, on one side of the envelope, signed and dated it, then handed the envelope to him. He looked puzzled as though he couldn’t decide whether to feel insulted, indignant, thankful or just confused.
“Wait!” he said and disappeared back into the tent. In a few minutes he returned. “Go!” he said pointing to the jeep. “Ah tay ya to ya plane.”
I was about to hop into the jeep when I heard the sergeant shouting, “Comma hee! Ya! Coma ova hee!”
I looked in the direction that he was shouting. A man had emerged from the bush at the edge of the village. He was carrying a heavy five gallon can on his right shoulder. His short trousers were ragged, and his brown shirt was torn in several places. The man appeared to ignore the soldier. The sergeant drew his sidearm. “If ya no comma hee right now, ah shoot ya dead!”
The man stopped, hesitated for a moment, then turned to face the soldier and walked toward him.
The sergeant holstered his pistol and when the man got to within six feet of him said, “Stop! Put dow dat can.”
The man did as he was told.
“Wha ya got in dere?”
“Dis palm oil, boss. Ah go sell it at de mine store”
“Ya go to sell notting less ya pay da tax.”
“Ah pay ma tax, boss. Ah pay dem long time hence,” the man protested.
“Ya lie,” the sergeant said. “If you pay yo tax den show me de receipt.”
The man looked frightened and desperate. “Ah got no receipt,” he said. “Dey give no receipt wen ya pay de tax.”
“Ya lie again. Ya go en get proper receipt or ya pay me de tax an ya get yo palm oil back.”
The man protested. He tried to explain to the sergeant that he needed the income from the sale of the oil to buy food and medicine for his family and that there would be no more oil until next season. The sergeant again said that he was lying. The man protested to the point where he was shouting incoherently and crying. The sergeant pulled his sidearm and slid the receiver back and let it go. It snapped back into place at the same time placing a bullet into the chamber. The man understood what this meant and backed away.
“Ya pay yo tax or ya show me da receipt. Now go!”
The man walked hurriedly away, occasionally glancing over his shoulder.
“He canna find a receipt an will na pay de tax. Des bush people,” the sergeant said. “Dey are ignorant an will always be so.”
I told the sergeant that I would walk back to the airplane. He smiled and, for a moment, looked puzzled. Then he shrugged and disappeared back into his tent, taking the can of palm oil with him. There was something menacing about this place, and I wanted to get back to Charlie Fox and fly away as quickly as I could.
I had no return passengers or cargo, so I decided to fly down to the coast and buy fresh fish for dinner. I landed on the beach with room to spare. I had bought fish from these people before, and they were always very friendly.
“Oh Mista Pilot!” the women called. “Ya wan some fee?”
As always, they were fascinated with the airplane, touching it with their fingertips as though it was a living thing. They wrapped my fish in newspaper and, after a few pleasantries and laughter, I flew back to Spriggs-Payne, turned in my paperwork, and drove back to the beach house.
Once home I handed Ku the fish told him to put them on ice.
“Yes boss,” he said, “but is best ah cook dem now.” So I said that would be good.
I was enjoying the fish and a beer when Andre called to tell me that he had a job for me tomorrow flying a couple of Mandingos up to the Wiesua diamond mines.
The next morning the Mandingos were punctual and polite as usual. I did a quick preflight inspection of Charlie Fox. I pointed out where we were on the National Geographic map the company provided and where we were going. The Mandingos seemed pleased and nodded their heads in approval. I helped them into the airplane and off we went to the mines.
While the Mandingos were conducting their business, I planned to fly over to a couple of nearby villages to buy some bulk rum. All the villages in this area grew sugar cane and they concocted a potent rum from it, which we, in turn, would sell to the diamond mines for their miners. I was able to purchase six demijohns of rum, which was a good haul.
Each demijohn held about ten gallons.
I flew to a mission nearby where we had an agreement to store the rum until we had a buyer at the diamond mines. It was run by a very gentle and quiet elderly missionary who did not drink himself but was pleased to be of help. I would always try and bring him something special as a thank you, something he would not ordinarily have access to, like sweets and good meat. As I started unloading the rum, I handed out little pieces of candy to the kids that were yelling and jumping around me.
Suddenly, I heard a loud American voice shout, “You will not unload that here!”
“Who are you? Where’s Brother Stephen?” I asked.
“Brother Stephen has been replaced. The mission leaders didn’t feel he was making headway with the native population.”
“I am sorry to hear that. He was a very kind, gentle man. This rum is only to be stored here for a week or so. It is not for you or anyone here to drink.”
“It is the devil’s brew. It is evil and it will not stay here.”
This presented me with the immediate problem of what to do with all the rum. The new missionary made it clear that I had no option but to load it back on the plane. I flew back to Baisu, the village where I bought it, and unloaded it there. I could only hope that it would still be there when I came back to get it.
When I arrived back at Wiesua, the Mandingos were still touring the mine and bartering had not yet begun. I had always been a little curious about how this diamond business was conducted, so after landing, I asked the Mandingos if I could accompany them. They nodded in agreement and I followed them, keeping just behind their colorful, long, flowing robes. We stopped at an open structure covered on top by thick layers of palm fawns.
The Mandingoes stood, as majestically as blue herons, waiting for their customers. They began to arrive only minutes after the Mandingos. Each seller, most of them covered in dirt and mud, held a wadded piece of brown paper containing one or several diamonds, all different colors and shapes. The oldest Mandingo, the Head Man whose name was Tajan Gora, withdrew a small scale from a wooden box he carried under his robe.
The Dung Beetles of Liberia Page 19
