When the one-liter soda bottle was three-quarters full, the one-footed gasoline seller righted the large gas jug, leaving the soda bottle on the ground but removing the funnel from its mouth. Then he hobbled toward the back of the RAV, opened the gas cap and put the funnel into the tank. He hobbled back to where the full bottle stood on the ground. He bent and lifted the three-quarters full soda bottle, nestling it under his arm. Then, leaning on the car, he hobbled to the back of the car and carefully poured gas through the funnel into the gas tank. Then he put the one-liter soda bottle under his arm again, and hobbled back to the table that held the larger glass jug as he got ready to repeat the procedure.
“It’s a ten-gallon jug,” Carl said. “This is going to take all day.”
Terrance shook his head. “Slow-slow,” Terrance said.
Levin started to open the door, but then he stopped himself. He was trapped by the crutch that was leaning against his door.
“Me,” Terrance said. He opened his door, stepped into the sun and stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the light. He was the man in charge now. He was in his own country.
Terrance stood next to the one-legged man as he poured gas into the one-liter plastic soda bottle on the ground for a second time.
“Me,” Terrance said. He lifted the bottle and the funnel while the one-egged man watched, walked to the back of car and emptied the bottle into the gas tank. Then he brought the bottle back to the table.
“Na ga,” he said. “Wa me. Betta wa.” No good. Watch me.
He lifted the jug, which was still mostly full.
“Whew,” Carl said from inside the car. “Terrance is gonna make magic happen, Terrance and our new friend. American time. Not glacial time. Not that there are any glaciers in these parts.”
Terrance lifted the jug and carried it to the gas tank. The one-legged man followed. Terrance tasted gas in his nostrils and felt it burn his eyes. The one-legged man hobbled close to the car. He put the funnel in the gas tank and steadied it, balancing himself by holding onto the car.
“Very cool,” Carl said. “Team work. Ya’ll are reading my mind.”
Terrance tipped the jug. Gasoline splashed in the funnel and flowed into the tank. One smooth pour. Clockwork. Cake. Easy. All in this together. Sweet as pie.
The jug was almost empty when a white Toyota pickup roared past in the direction of the airport, its bed filled with soldiers in camouflage uniforms, “ECOMIL” stenciled in blue block letters on its doors. The pickup slowed, stopped, and swung around. It pulled into the gas station. It drove up just perpendicular to the RAV so that the doors were just beyond the RAV’s nose, its cab abutting the small raised island that had once held gas pumps and now held only a rickety table and an empty plastic one-liter soda bottle, and stopped so it was blocking the RAV’s escape.
“USA!!!” said one of the soldiers. The rest of the soldiers in the bed of the truck joined him. “USA!!! USA!!!” they said together. The soldiers wore camouflage helmets and had folded sky-blue berets under the epaulets of their shirts.
The driver, a dark-skinned soldier with spit-polished black boots and a blue beret got out of the truck. He looked at Terrance. He wasn’t smiling.
Terrance finished pouring the last of the gasoline. He straightened and set the now empty but still heavy ten-gallon glass jug on the rickety table.
The soldier in the blue beret, who Terrance, Carl, and Levin took to be an officer, assessed the facts of the case. American flags. No identifying information on the vehicle. Not a Humvee. No uniforms—just men, could be Agency, could be anyone.
A well-fed man in clean clothing was pouring gasoline, while a one-legged poor man watched. There was a white man in the back of the vehicle.
“Have you paid for the gasoline, sir?” the soldier said.
“Wha?” Terrance said.
“Have you purchased the petrol, sir?” said the soldier. The soldier spoke a stiff African accented British English so he sounded more like a diplomat than he did a soldier. He stood square—his shoulders thrown back, his feet spread wide apart, his hands on his hips. In command of the situation.
“We pa,” Terrance said, turning to face the soldier. We paid.
It doesn’t matter that this is Liberia, not Nigeria, Terrance thought. It doesn’t matter that NiBatt is fat, stupid, and afraid of its own shadow, that they will never go out into the bush. It doesn’t matter the Carl and Levin are big men, each in his own way. All that matters now is that armed men in the truck are locked and loaded. And that there are seven of them.
The soldier looked at the one-legged man.
“No pa,” the one-legged man said.
The soldier pulled his gun out of its holster and pointed it at Terrance.
Then the one-legged man reached for but knocked over the second crutch, the one that had been leaning against Levin’s door. The second crutch thudded as it hit the ground.
The soldier, seeing the sudden movement, swept his gun toward the falling crutch and then jerked the gun up just as quickly, keeping Terrance in his sights.
Behind them, the men in the truck sprung into position—the near row kneeling, their guns trained on the RAV—and the back row standing, their guns shouldered and trained on Terrance, the guns held over the heads of the men in the near row.
Carl and Levin froze in their seats.
The soldier with the gun turned left and pointed the gun at Levin. “Out of the truck, sir,” the soldier said. “Slowly. Hands on head.”
Levin opened his door slowly. Carl started to open his door and stopped when he realized that only Levin had been ordered to move.
“One side. One side only,” the soldier shouted. His voice echoed in the empty space in front of the dusty cinder block walls that had once been bright blue.
The one-legged man put his left hand back on the car for support and rocked backward, closer to Terrance, who shifted to make room. With the crutch on the ground and the one-legged man in the way, there was no place for Levin to stand.
The soldier looked from Levin to the one-legged man to Terrance and to Carl.
“I pi crutch just na,” Terrance said. “Na fea.” I’m going to pick up the crutch now. I’m not trying to hurt or frighten anyone.
Terrance bent and found the crutch with his hand. He kept his eyes on the soldier in the blue beret. Then he slowly lifted the crutch and handed it to the one-legged man, keeping his eyes on the soldier with the blue beret. The one-legged man took crutch, Terrance’s simple kindness giving lie to the claim of no pay. He hobbled back to the table and Levin stood, his hands on his head.
The soldier now pointed his weapon at Carl.
“Out. Out of the car. Now,” the soldier said.
Carl opened the passenger door and stood, moving very slowly. He put his hands on his head, and Terrance did so as well. The one-legged man kept his hands on his crutches and leaned slowly into them now that he had two. He rocked back and forth, shifting his weight between his one leg and the crutches, his version of being ready to run.
The soldier with the blue beret kept the gun trained on Terrance, but he straightened his knees, coming out of his shooter’s crouch. Carl, Terrance, Levin, the one-legged man, and the soldier in the blue beret all let go of a breath together.
Then another soldier in a blue beret, an officer, older and heavier, came around the front from the passenger side of the pickup.
“Report,” he said. The second soldier stood at attention next to the soldier in the blue beret holding the gun and looked only at the man with the gun.
“Looters, sir,” said the first soldier.
“You know your orders,” said the officer.
The second soldier turned to the men in the truck.
“Aim,” he said.
The soldiers in the truck with their guns shouldered tightened their grips. They focused on their gunsights, aiming at Carl and Terrance.
“Papers?” said the officer, who Carl, Levin, and Terrance now took
to be in charge. “You have checked their papers?”
“No, sir,” said the second in command. “Not yet, sir.”
The second in command turned to the soldiers in the truck and raised his left hand, spreading his fingers and stretching out his palm as if he was a policeman at a busy intersection, stopping traffic.
The sun was still bright and strong, and there was a hot breeze from the ocean, which was just a mile away over a bluff that was across the road. The morning smoke had cleared, but the smell of the charcoal fires still hung in the air.
The second in command pointed his gun at Levin.
“Papers!” he said.
Terrance noticed that all the other guns were aimed at Carl and himself, not at Levin.
These soldiers are Africans, Terrance thought, who have come to show the world that Africa can solve Africa’s problems. But these men, who are as likely to kill us as they are to talk to us, are still looking at this white man as the only source of power and looking to that white man for instruction and redemption as ineffective and disorganized as this white man is, however decent his intentions.
“We go Buchanan,” Terrance said. “Who dere na?” We going to Buchanan. Who is there now?
The second in command stepped closer to Terrance and looked at him full in the face. “Papers!” he demanded. “Papers now. Now!”
“Ya ho he foo. So-so bi ma. We pa petro. Sear de cru ma. Fi a-ee dolla U.S. No papers. Taw i sorry,” Terrance said. You should hold his foot (be ashamed). This is a very important man. We paid for the gas we bought. Search that man on crutches. You’ll find eighty U.S. dollars. You don’t need our papers. You apologize to this man.
The second-in-command pointed his gun at Terrance’s chest. The guns in the truck swung a few inches, so they were now all aimed at Terrance’s head.
There was a crash. The gasoline jar fell over. The one-legged man was running away. He hit the table with a crutch as he backed away and toppled the jar. He swung between his crutches, springing forward with his one knee, the crutches out in front of him as far as he could reach with each stride, like an oarsman on sculling shell.
All the guns in the truck pointed at the one-legged man.
“Stand down!” the commanding officer said.
“Let him go,” Carl said.
“Le he be,” Terrance said. Leave him alone.
“At ease,” the second in command said, and he holstered his pistol. The men in the truck lowered their guns.
“I’ve got papers,” Levin said suddenly. He reached around and pulled his wallet from his pants and slowly removed his driver’s license. He held it out for inspection.
“Nigeria good,” Terrance said. “Nigeria and Liberia good together. Nigeria, Liberia, and U.S. all good.”
“Papers,” Carl said. He pulled his wallet and took out his own driver’s license, as well as a wad of bills, and walked carefully around the car.
Then Carl handed his driver’s license and ten more twenties to the commanding officer. The commanding officer glared at Carl and the muscles on the back of his neck tightened, pulling his head back and stiffening his neck.
The commanding officer took the twenties and the license. He paused. He looked the license over, handed it back to Carl, and put the twenties in his top pocket to give to his men later.
All at once, Carl felt the pressure of cold steel on his temple on the right side of his face, and felt a man’s hot breath on his neck, as his nostrils tasted the stale burnt paper smell of cigarette smoke. The sergeant was standing next to him, holding his gun to Carl’s head.
“America thinks it can buy the world,” the commanding officer said.
For one brief moment, the commanding officer, weighing the space between simplicity and complexity, between threat and risk, between emotion and opportunity, moved his head almost imperceptibly from one American to the next.
“You plenty-plenty trouble,” said the commanding officer, and he almost smiled. Then the muscles of his neck smoothed.
“Nigeria good. Africa good. America good,” Terrance said.
“Your ships off Mamba Point give us cover,” the commanding officer said. “Your marines are with us at the airport. Nigeria and U.S. will bring peace to Liberia together. America takes care of Nigeria, and Nigeria takes care of Africa. Together we bring peace to Liberia and order to Africa. Together.”
The sergeant lowered his gun. The lieutenant glanced at the camouflage helmeted soldiers in the back of the pickup. He nodded, and his men lowered their weapons as well.
“Together,” Carl said. “Peace to Liberia. Honor to Nigeria. Nibatt, we salute you.” Carl took half a step backward, and Terrance and Levin did the same.
The lieutenant and the sergeant stepped backward. The sergeant holstered his gun. The one-legged men hobbled over the hill behind the RAV, looking smaller and weaker than he had looked a moment before.
“Safe journey,” said the lieutenant. He and his sergeant watched as Carl, Levin, and Terrance opened and then slammed shut the doors of the RAV.
Terrance started the RAV, backed it up a car-length, and pulled onto the airport road, headed south and east.
Chapter Twenty
Carl Goldman, William Levin, and Terrance Evans-Smith. Robertsfield Airport, Harbel, and St John’s River, Liberia. August 17–19, 2003
PEOPLE FILLED THE ROAD AGAIN, SLOWING THEM. BUT BY MID-AFTERNOON THE THREE MEN were at the airport.
On a rise near the sea they saw the rows of white tents, white vehicles, and white transport helicopters. A compound. A large compound with high fences topped by razor wire, with guard towers at the corners and along its length. Then they saw the army barracks—long rectangular cement block buildings with tiny windows. Soldiers with machine guns stood in the guard towers, looking down on the throng of people walking and driving on the seacoast road. A sign on the largest building said A med Forc s of Li eria. First Ba talion. The Lone Star flag was flying. But so was the UN flag, as well as a few flags they didn’t recognize, and at the end of a role of flagpoles was the flag of the good old USA.
The UN was at the army barracks and the airport, along with a small American marine encampment. UN and U.S. vehicles drove too fast back and forth on the airport road. There were naked children in the yards of the houses and compounds across the street from the barracks, naked children who wandered onto the busiest road in the country. The ruins of cement block houses stood across the street from the barracks. New jungle was already growing in their foundations.
Progress, Carl thought. Almost half way to Buchanan. Maybe two days. Maybe a day. Not a week.
Army, Terrance thought. No easy escape. Good to have the flags and the men beside him. He sat straight up in his seat. There was a bead of sweat on his upper lip.
Order, Levin thought. We can come here if we need help. Americans. The UN. Stability. Strength. Good old American imperialism saving the day again.
They turned just after the airport. There was a UN checkpoint there manned by Thais, who stood in front of a sandbagged machine gun emplacement and waved them through. Americans, maybe. But no threat.
Then they found themselves driving through a rubber plantation where the road was paved and smooth, though still jammed with people. There were straight rows of trees on both sides of the road, tall slim trees with smooth green bark and branches or leaves only at the treetops, so you could see the rows of trees lining the hillside and far into the distance. The trees had spiral grooves cut into the bark that ended about three feet above the ground, where small white buckets hung from the trunk of each tree. They were driving through the Firestone plantation, one of the largest producers of the sap used to make natural rubber in the world. A million acres of Liberia leased for ninety-nine years to a U.S. corporation for six cents an acre.
The line of people on the road walked five and six deep on each side, strangely silent. The road itself was straight and level with a white line painted down the middle. At the top of the hill was a gr
een concrete block warehouse, and just below it a row of oblong black tanks laying sideways, each as large as a house. A huge white letter was painted on the end of each tank, spelling out F-I-R-E-S-T-O-N-E.
The road forked at Harbel. They turned south and east again.
The road surface disintegrated once more.
Their moment to moment existence became bouncing and jerking again. Terrance steered them around the potholes, zigzagging from one side of the road to the other to make use of the short stretches of good pavement, and then braking so as not to bottom out when the pavement suddenly disappeared.
But the potholes were the easy part.
The endless sea of people everywhere made the going dead slow. Dusty walkers, carrying everything they owned on their backs and heads.
“Woodstock,” Levin said, though neither Carl nor Terrance knew what he was talking about. But not Woodstock. Not people going to. People running from.
Where they going? Terrance thought. Same-same all over. No place to run. No way to hide.
An airplane or helicopter would fly over every few hours, and then all the people on the road dove for cover. Then you might make five or ten miles an hour for a moment. When the people came back and covered the road again, you were back to dead slow.
It was amazing, despite the chaos, how easy it was to eat and drink as they traveled. Women and old men carrying woven trays or baskets of food and drink for sale walked among the throng, sometimes shouting out but mostly just walking, sad-eyed and without hope or energy, but always able to drop the tray or bin from the heads and negotiate a deal. Plastic bags of water or ground nuts, oranges that were much more green than orange but still had a sweet taste and enough moisture to wet your mouth, overripe mangoes, dried river fish, and roast field corn that tasted like cardboard or paste. The vendors quoted prices in Liberian Dollars, but came flocking when Levin or Carl made a purchase in U.S. currency, one single dollar at a time. What they bought wasn’t good, and it probably wasn’t really safe to eat, but it kept them alive and gave them a little fluid to sweat out as the RAV nosed its way toward Buchanan.
Abundance Page 23
