The Dung Beetles of Liberia

by Daniel V. Jr. Meier

  “Hi Sam!” I said, running up to them. Sam looked at me, clearly not recognizing me. The other woman looked back and forth at both of us.

  “Ken,” I said ridiculously pointing to myself like a circus clown, “pilot for Monrovia Airlines. We met at Zigida. You wanted me to deliver something.”

  “Yes, I think I remember you—a sort of mercenary fellow who robs from the poor and gives to the rich.”

  “You’ve got me confused with someone else. I’m just a simple college dropout doing a simple job for which I get paid a simple wage.”

  “Being a mercenary sounds more exciting, Ken. And you remembered my name. That is impressive!”

  “I also remember saying that the next time you’re in town maybe we could do something—like take in a movie maybe?”

  “Would you believe I lost your number?” she said.

  “It’s plausible, I suppose. It could happen, but no.”

  She smiled.

  “Could I call you then?” I asked.

  “The director discourages that kind of thing, and besides, we only have one phone. It’s in the office and sometimes it doesn’t work.”

  “Then when will you be in town next?”

  “Two weeks from now,” she said, glancing at the other woman that I presumed was another Peace Corps volunteer.

  “Then let’s make plans to meet at the Ambassador’s beach bar and from there take in Hollywood’s latest creation.”

  She hesitated for a while then smiled slightly. “Okay, maybe.” She reached into her shirt pocket and handed me a typical business card with her name on it, the Peace Corps logo, and a penciled in phone number. “Now we’ve got to go,” she said. “See you later then.”

  I watched her walk away. Everything around her seemed to focus on her as though she were the center of gravity wherever she happened to be. She was one of those people that everyone recognized as one of the best—her elegance and her beauty were only the outward signs.

  I watched her until she was out of sight. It started to rain again. It was pointless trying to run to get out of it. I tucked the book inside my shirt, leisurely walked to where Junebug was parked, and drove back to the beach house with the toy-like windshield wipers beating uselessly against the glass.

  I discovered that she was based in the village of Voinjama, near the Guinean boarder, which made sense, given where I first saw her. I checked Andre’s latest flight schedule and found that there was a trip to a village named Malmai, maybe ten miles from the Voinjama. Next day I took two Mandingos up to Malmai, and after saying goodbye, cranked up Charlie Fox to fly over to Voinjama. I found it easily enough but there was no airfield. The dirt road leading into the village looked straight and wide enough, but it would have to be a maximum performance type landing. I decided against it, then circled the village a couple of times and headed back to Monrovia. Back at the operations office I leafed through the paper to check what was playing at the movie theater. The page had been torn out.

  I asked Andre, “Is anything playing at the Ravoli?”

  He looked up with a slight smile. “One of your American westerns. I think it’s North to Alaska.”

  I could use the telephone at home in relative privacy. I dialed the number on Sam’s card. An official sounding voice answered, and I asked to speak to Miss Samantha Kay. I was quickly told that she could not come to the phone, but if I would leave my name and number, she would call me back. I told the woman the information, repeating it all very slowly.

  I was feeling rather giddy and excited, so I decided to stretch out on the bed. I dropped the mosquito netting, folded my hands behind my head and slowly slipped into a deep sleep. An hour later I was awakened by Ku telling me that I had a phone call from a mysterious woman. I threw the mosquito netting aside, hopped out of bed, and dashed into the hallway where the phone was kept. I took a couple of deep breaths and said hello in my calmest voice.

  “Hi,” she said in a crisp voice. I paused for a few seconds to make sure I could remain calm.

  “Well,” she said, “you called me.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Just checking to if you still had plans to come to Monrovia.”

  “As I said, next week. On Saturday.”

  “Great. How about that drink and the movie I promised you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve got a lot to do. What’s playing?”

  “North to Alaska,” I said.

  “Don’t like westerns and I especially don’t like that phony, draft-dodging, careerist John Wayne.”

  “Then how about lunch?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Okay,” she finally answered. “I like the little restaurant next to the Chase Bank. They have great fufu and peanut soup, but I may have someone with me. We travel in pairs, you know.”

  “Great!” I said. “See you at twelve on Saturday outside the Chase Bank then?”

  “Okay,” she said. “See ya.” Then she hung up.

  It didn’t sound very promising, but at least she agreed to meet me. I went back to bed but was completely unable to sleep. I decided that what I needed was company—loud, boisterous company—the tinkling of ice in glasses and some raucous laughter. For that, I needed the Gurley Street Bar. I rolled out of bed feeling restored and renewed and drove there as quickly as Junebug would take me.

  I was pleased to see Colin sitting at the end of the bar. He was throwing back a scotch and not looking very happy. I pulled up a stool next to him.

  “Let me get you another one of those,” I said.

  “Absolutely, mate. That’s the most promising vision I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours.”

  I signaled for one of the bartenders to come over. I pointed to Colin’s empty glass and said, “Two more of those please.”

  He saluted with two fingers and went to make the drinks.

  “Don’t ever let that little limp prick Andre talk you into taking a ‘special flight.’ The little shit, he knows all of our weakness. He knows all he has to do in dangle a wad of cash in my face and I will fuck anybody.”

  “So who did he get you to fuck?”

  “He said it was an easy flight. Christ! I should have run out the door when I heard that. All I had to do was fly these two blokes up to a cutout airfield near the Sierra Leone border, wait for them to conduct their business, then fly them back. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? So I got Charlie Alpha ready in the morning, and these guys didn’t get there until after twelve. They showed up in an old truck that looked like it had been used to haul horse dung. They took out a couple of backpacks and two bicycles from the bed of the truck. I just thought they were a couple of eccentrics—you know, we get them here all the time.

  “So we get their shit packed in the aircraft somehow and off we go to this toilet at the Sierra Leone border. It was a short runway and I had to hang it on the prop going in. I managed to clear the trees okay and got it stopped before ramming it into the trees on the other end. The two blokes get out without so much as a how do you do, get on their bikes, and head for the border. By this time the locals are swarming all around me trying to sell me shit. I tell them to get away. Naturally, they ignore me so I have to pull my gun. It’s funny, isn’t it? You can go to the end of the earth and there are always two things people recognize and respect right away: one’s a snake, and the other is a gun. So they get the picture after that and back away. I crawl into the back of the plane and close everything up so that the bugs won’t get me and try to get some shut eye.

  “I fell asleep—more like passed out. When I woke up I was bathed in sweat. The air inside the aircraft smelled like old farts and it was getting dark. I crawled out of the plane. The locals were gone. I did a quick check of the aircraft. Nothing was missing or broken—a fucking miracle. Then I heard this series of muffled explosions from quite a ways off and saw black smoke rising in the distance toward Sierra Leone. I knew from my years in the RAF what had happened. These fucking guys were saboteurs, Israeli saboteurs, who went across the border t
o blow up something—probably some Lebanese establishment. I started getting the aircraft ready. I wasn’t going to wait for those fuckers.

  “I was just starting the engine when this taxi pulled up next to the aircraft. Smoke was coming from under the hood and the thing was full of bullet holes. The two guys got out, left the engine running, and jumped into the aircraft shouting, ‘Go! Go!’ I fast-taxied to the end of the runway. By then it was dark. You know how fast dark comes in the tropics. I couldn’t see shit except for the glow of the fire they’d started, and all the time these guys are shouting, ‘Go! Go!’ So I put in a notch of flaps and pushed the throttle in and held it balls to the wall because there was nothing else that I could do to get more power. I held Charlie Alpha down until I got to best angle of climb speed then pulled it up and hung it on the prop until I figured I was clear of the trees. I must have miscalculated a little because I felt the landing gear hit some top branches and the tail brush against the leaves. We kept flying though. We stayed in the air. All I can say, mate, is thank God for Cessna engineers.”

  Colin took a long swallow of scotch and continued, “When I got back to Spriggs-Payne there were leaves and sticks embedded in the main landing gear and tail wheel; and there was some leaf stain on the stabilizer as well. I was glad I had forgotten where I had put my gun because I think I would have blown those fuckers heads off I was so pissed.”

  “What did happen to the two guys?” I asked.

  “The instant I shut the engine off they jumped out of the aircraft, ran and jumped into their piece of crap truck and left in a cloud of smoke. When I reported this to Andre, all he wanted to know was how badly the aircraft was damaged and did I want to give back the money that I was going to be paid for the job. I told him to fuck off.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  Colin shook his head slowly and smiled. “Nothing,” he said. “The little shit didn’t say anything. He just smiled. He knows we’re a bunch of whores.”

  CHAPTER 30

  VOINJAMA

  As fate would have it, two days before I was to meet Sam I awoke in a cold sweat, followed by all of the symptoms of a malaria attack. Ku came into my room with coffee. He saw my condition and quickly checked the general medicine cabinet.

  “Ya nee mo quinine peels Boss. Yo eyes look mos yellow.”

  I pulled a twenty out of my trouser pocket and wadded it up in his hand.

  “Go to the pharmacy,” I said, “and get me a bottle of Chloroquine.”

  He looked at me for a moment, puzzled.

  “You can have what’s left of the money.”

  He left hurriedly, jumped on his bicycle, and started for town. The pharmacy wasn’t too far away, and I knew it should only take him less than an hour. I went back to bed and pulled the mosquito netting over. I managed to drink half the coffee. It was hot and good and warmed me a little. I then went to the kitchen and retrieved one of the half gallon jugs of filtered water that we kept in the storage locker. I hardly had the strength to carry it. I took it back to my bed and started drinking it through a straw. It tasted flat and a little like chlorine, but I knew that dehydration was a serious result of these attacks and it could make a bad attack worse. I made sure the mosquito net was in place then pulled the bed covers over me and tried not to shake.

  I took the Chloroquine as soon as Ku returned. Later that day I started throwing up. If I couldn’t keep the medication down I was going to be in truly bad shape. That night, in between moments of near comatose sleep, I sipped water and swallowed the Chloroquine as prescribed. The next morning I was not improved, and I knew that after one of these attacks I would be drained of most of my strength for a while. Ku brought in a cup of coffee and two boiled eggs. I tried the coffee but couldn’t finish it. The eggs were impossible. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to meet Sam the next day. I asked Ku to call her and tell her what had happened and that I would contact her as soon as possible.

  Sometime after this, I don’t remember whether it was during the day or night, I slipped into a feverish, coma-like sleep. I was aware that I was standing next to the fireplace in my parents’ house. There was a log fire burning, its orange-yellow flames casting flashes of light and shadow into the room. I turned and Arthur was standing at the other end of the room, his face and form dimly lit by the flickering firelight. He walked toward me and stopped at the other side of the fireplace. He was smiling, not menacingly, but the smile of one who understands. I asked him what he was doing there, that I thought he was dead. He laughed and said that he was dead. Then I asked again why he was there. He said that he just wanted me to know that everything was all right, that it wasn’t my fault. He was killed by a drunk and that it could have happened to anybody at anytime. He wanted me to know that he was fine and that I shouldn’t worry. Then the fire went out. It grew dark and he was gone.

  I awoke with a start, covered in sweat. I must have yelled or screamed or something like that because Ku ran into my room shouting, “Boss, boss, you good, you good?”

  I told him about the dream. He listened intently then, after a few moments, said, “Your brother he come to ya, he forgive ya, he wan ya to be at peace. Dat’s wa it is.”

  “It was a dream, Ku—a sort of nightmare. That’s all it was.” I said lying back on my bed. I couldn’t stop wondering if Ku had been right.

  After several days of sweats, chills, nausea, and aches and pains, the symptoms eased, then passed. I had survived my second round with malaria, and as soon as I had the strength to get out of bed, I called Sam. I was told that she could not come to the phone and for me not to call back. This did not sound good. I shaved, took a much-needed shower, and dressed. Ku was sitting on the steps of the porch smoking a cigarette and looking out at the ocean.

  “What did you say to her, Ku? What!” I asked.

  He looked up at me blowing a cloud of smoke over his head. “Ah say to her dat ya seek an would na mee wi her, oh,” he hesitated, “dee ah not speak de truth, boss?”

  “Yes, you spoke the truth, but did you not tell her it was the malaria?”

  “Dere no nee, Boss. Every soul here know dat when some soul be seek, ee be de malaria or de dengue fever or a curse. If she been here long, she unnastan.”

  “Did she say anything to indicate that?”

  “Ya, boss. She say to tell ya dat you are de son of bitch an de bastard.”

  The next day, I drove to the airport early. Andre was in the hangar talking to Paterson. I went up to them, ignored their irritation at my interruption, and told Andre that I had to get to Voinjama and was there a flight scheduled for that part of the country today. Andre said he had not posted the flight schedule on the board yet, but if I would meet him in the flight office in ten minutes, he would let me know. I went to the office and paced around until he arrived.

  “What is this about?” he asked, picking up a clipboard and looking at the scheduling paper on it.

  “I need to get to Voinjama,” I said.

  “A woman, huh?” he said, not looking up from the clipboard.

  “Is anything going up there today?”

  Andre shook his head slowly. “Sorry.”

  “Have you got something I can rent?”

  “Christ, you are desperate. She must be some kind of woman.”

  “Cut it out, Andre. Have you got something available?”

  “You can take Papa Sierra, but you got to pay the full charter price for her—no discount on this one.”

  “Subtract it from what you already owe me,” I said, grabbing keys and clipboard with the log and rushing out to where the airplane was parked.

  Papa Sierra was a well-used Piper Tripacer, reasonably fast but noisy. It flew like a box with short, stubby wings and had the glide ratio of a brick. I gave it a quick preflight check—something one should never do quickly. All of the fluids looked good and nothing was loose, hanging, or broken, and no contaminants in the fuel. The airplane was covered inside and out with dust, but that would have to wait. I
brushed the dust off the windshield, the seats, and the instrument panel, crawled into the left seat, and started the engine.

  When I got to Voinjama, there was a light cloud cover. I stayed just below the overcast, circled the town a couple of times, located the school, and decided to land on a road nearby. I made a low approach over the dirt road. It was not perfectly even, but I could not see any holes or obstructions and it didn’t look heavily used. I could not see motor traffic anywhere near it, so I did a descending 180 degree turn into a light wind and dropped it none too gently on the road.

  The Papa Sierra rattled and banged but quickly rolled to a stop, leaving a swirling trail of dust behind. I taxied the airplane as close to the edge of the road as I could, then got out and pushed down on the tail of the plane to lift the nose wheel. I then pushed the lowered tail over the edge of the road. This cleared the road for ground vehicles and got me off the hook with the village elders.

  I took a couple of deep breaths and walked the quarter mile or so to the school. It was a miserable affair by American or European standards but better than many other local village schools. They were usually one room structures with no desks or electrical lighting or plumbing. The rusting metal roofs often leaked, and the metal sheeting sometimes blew away in strong winds. The school at Voinjama where Sam worked had the advantage of Peace Corps money. Not a lot of money, but enough to furnish the basic necessities for learning.

  School secretaries seem to be the same everywhere—officious, busy, and protective. This one was no different. With not even a trace of a smile, she looked up at me as if to say, “Yeesss, what is it!”

  “I’m here to see Miss Samantha Kay,” I said, feeling a sudden twinge in the pit of my stomach.