by Fiona Quinn
Rooster’s voice brought her head up. “Well, we’re starting here to try out different ideas and see how we do, then we hope to expand. We chose Tanzania because it’s relatively stable, politically, and they have the crater that is the Garden of Eden, one of the spots that has the most diversity in flora and fauna. Many of our endangered animals live there. It’s an important place to put our attention.”
The doors burst open with the wind and the crowd at the bar all turned to watch the bartender wrestle it shut. Rooster stood up to help the guy. That was nice of him, she thought. Gentlemanly.
“Big storm tonight, tomorrow all better,” the bartender said. “It’s good inside. We drink and enjoy.” He raised his hands like he was conducting an orchestra. The men at the bar moved back to their conversations.
When Meg travelled, she didn’t think she could get the flavor of the area if she went to places that catered to tourists—spots where it was in their best interest to provide her with what they thought she was looking for. What Meg was looking for was authenticity. At this bar, there was a mix of tourists and non-Muslim Zanzibaris—it was one of the few places that sold alcohol on the island. Meg was one of only a sprinkling of women in the room. She tried not to feel intimidated by the eyes on her. Being with Rooster and Randy helped.
“This deadlock isn’t just an African phenomenon,” Randy said as Rooster rejoined them. “Just look at what’s happening in America today. There are groups of people who live in areas where their families have traditionally lived, following the careers their families have traditionally followed. Families who took over a wildlife refuge in Oregon, families who are fighting to keep mining coal in West Virginia, factory workers in the rustbelt—those jobs are going away. That way of life. American traditions are dying and people are fighting to keep them in place. I obviously don’t feel that way. I left my homeland for a better life.”
“It’s completely understandable why people would want to preserve their heritage.” Meg tucked her hair behind her ears. “Things are changing everywhere. I think people are struggling with the idea of day-to-day survival. All over our country, all over the world, things are changing faster than they ever have. The industrial revolution was more than a hundred years of shift and change. The technology revolution changes daily. If folks want to survive, they have to keep up. Even if they keep up, computers are taking over blue collar jobs. White collar. Even scientific jobs. Take the CRISPR for example, have you heard of it?” She glanced between the two men.
“Fighting insects spreading disease? They have some kind of way to mutate the males?” Rooster asked.
“Well yes, that’s one application. CRISPR is a gene splicing machine. It works sort of like a word processor. The scientist identifies a sequence that they think is problematic, and they decide how they would like to fix that sequence. Sort of like the find/replace command on your word processor, the computer will search out all the times it finds that sequence in a gene and do the exchange. Fast. Easy. They’re hoping to apply that knowledge not only to pest insects but to malaria-causing mosquitos here in East Africa.”
“That would be a huge success story,” Rooster said.
Meg shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. We don’t know the effects of our interference. It’s hard to predict because, well frankly, we don’t have enough of an understanding of how the whole interdependency works. The wrong move could have unexpected and maybe devastating outcomes. These kinds of questions are being thought through by medical ethicists. But let me tell you about the CRISPR and cancer. It used to be that in order to study cancer, researchers had to develop a strain of mice with a type of cancer that they thought might mimic the cancer in a human and then experiment on that strain of mice. It could take years to develop that colony. Maybe they’d need to hire nine or ten graduate students for the project. Now, CRISPR can do the same thing in just days at a very low cost—a win for cancer research. But it can be run by a single graduate student. Eight have lost their jobs. Everything is becoming mechanized, from picking crops to robots that are being developed to monitor and socialize our elderly populations.”
“What? Buy a robot and let it take care of Memaw?” Rooster leaned back and crossed his arms over his broad chest.
It took Meg a second to pull her eyes away from the expanse of his shoulders, the size of his biceps. And to push down her guilty feelings for eyeing her brother’s boyfriend. She wondered if the bar was dark enough to hide her pink cheeks from Randy. “Wouldn’t it be easier to buy a robot and program it rather than hire a caregiver?” she asked. “Possibly more reliable. Possibly a cheaper alternative with no employment documentation or taxes. No concerns about elder abuse or theft. Some countries are beginning to see that soon there will be little reason to work. And they’re the ones who are considering paying everyone a living wage. Finland’s experimenting with it now. You get a paycheck just for citizenship. Now, that hasn’t passed anywhere, but it’s on the horizon. Something like it, anyway. What will people do with their days? How will they gain esteem and be self-actualized? Here in Africa, it’s a petri dish. It’s happening here and now. The Maasai can no longer gain prestige by hunting lions, the El Molo tribe in Kenya proved their worth on alligator hunts. Now, that’s illegal. There are no new rites of passage—nothing that can take the place of their ancestral rituals. A whole generation of tribal men have missed out, and they’re angry about it. Angry young men with no good alternatives can become dangerous.”
Rooster nodded. “I’ve seen some extremist tactics that are taking advantage of the changing circumstances. With tribes’ traditional ways of living, herding, and hunting disappearing with the changes in climate, relief workers are sending supplies to help the transition—food, medicine. The militants steal the supplies and then use them as recruiting tools, incentives to get the men to join their ranks. That, or they keep the resources away from the people so they become desperate. When that’s the case, if the UN declares an area of famine, they say that that’s an exaggeration and they ban help from coming in. Once the people are desperate, their leaders start blaming others, mostly the US and the EU, giving the people an enemy to hate and a desire to fight.”
“I’ve seen this. And it needs to be stopped.” Meg’s tone was adamant. “There are thousands of people suffering—children.”
Randy chuckled then upended the last of his beer. “Sounds like you’ll be running for political office when you get back to the states.” He waggled the bottle in the air, and Meg saw their server nod in response.
“Never. Washington gridlock just exacerbates the deadlock. I’m choosing my words very carefully there. This is it. This is all about survival. All animals fight for survival, humans included. As humans, though, we have the unique ability to see the effects of our actions and make decisions. Washington can be very myopic—looking at what will get someone more money in their campaign chest, get them a few more votes. I take the long, long, long range view. The one I get from looking at satellite images. Comparing them year to year. I’m telling you, we’re at a tipping point. People are dealing with survival this day, maybe even this minute. I truly understand that. Here in Africa it’s so obvious. I was just out talking to the Afar tribal elders about it.”
Rooster canted his head. “In Djibouti?”
A wrinkle creased between Meg’s brows. The Afar had a larger population in Ethiopia, or even in Eritrea to the north of Ethiopia. It was odd to her that Rooster knew that there were Afar tribespeople in Djibouti. “Yes, you’ve heard of them?”
“Salt, right?”
Something tickled at the back of Meg’s memory…something Randy had said, but the beer was working on her. God, she was a lightweight. The server stood beside them. “Did you guys like the banana beer enough to want another one?” she asked. “Or would you like to try something else.”
“Something else would be nice, to get a better tour of what Zanzibar has to offer,” Rooster replied.
“Two Kilimanjaro, please,”
Meg said in Kiswahili.
“Three,” Randy corrected her. The server looked at Meg to see if she agreed and when she nodded, he moved off to get the next round.
Rooster hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “Go on, about the Afar, you were speaking with the elders…”
“Right. They’re gathering salt now to make money. They are herders by tradition. No rain in the Djibouti region means there is no vegetation, nothing to feed the herd. The lake where they live is highly salinized. There’s no fresh water to drink. They must buy everything, and they raise the money to do that by digging up the salt left by the evaporating lake or wading out in the water to gather the salt spheres that float there. They will die off very soon if they don’t move. Change is imperative. But right now, they won’t. Initiatives are being tried—tourism, though it’s one of the hottest places in the world. Wind farms. They have crazy high winds that blow through the region. Momo—one of the men who is interested in shifting the tribes to adapt to the new realities—wants to spread the work that we are focusing on here in Tanzania and Kenya and bring it up to Ethiopia and Djibouti. We need that kind of grassroots push to make things expand quickly.”
“Momo?” Rooster asked. “I knew a guy by that name, he was educated in America. Momo Bourhan.”
Meg smiled broadly. “Small world. Yes, it was Momo Bourhan.”
“So he was with you when you went to visit the Afar tribe, when was that?” Rooster slowly peeled the label from his bottle.
“Early June, about four weeks ago. I have his contact number if you want to get in touch with him.”
“Yeah, that would be great.” Rooster pulled out his phone. “I’m wondering how common that name is in East Africa. Did you take any pictures with him? Or better yet, any video?”
“Yeah, sure, let me see.” Meg scrolled through her phone. “He’s going to be a good resource, I think. He travels a lot in this region and has political connections.”
“What was he doing out in the salt beds?”
Meg glanced up. “Reaching out to start a dialogue with the tribe. There are people who understand the idea of short term/long term survival. Laws that limit and destroy indigenous cultures create a lot of anger. We don’t want a fight; we need results.” She focused back on her phone. “He and one of my colleagues, Abraham Silverman, are trying to be inventive. I’ll give you an example of what I mean. The European Geographical Society recently awarded Dr. Omgu an award for protection of the natural environment.
“It’s a weird award to give to a medical doctor, but Dr. Omgu works in Borneo where she only provides medical help to people who don’t cut down the trees for money to pay for things like medical care. Some people think it’s unethical for her to turn sick people away, some people applaud her. Either way, if you log, you can’t get help for yourself or your family, including your children. It becomes a survival decision. The forest she’s trying to protect is the home to the Borneo orangutan.” Meg looked up to find Rooster paying close attention. “The patients pay in other ways. For example, they might bring in manure for the re-forestation efforts. If the people can get what they need to survive and incentive to protect rather than destroy, then it’s a win-win. I want that for every living thing. I want us all to win.” She scrolled further. “That’s what Momo is trying to figure out in Ethiopia, a way to bring hope and power to the people, so they can survive both short term and long.” She held out her phone. “Here he is.”
Rooster took the phone from her hand and tapped the play triangle. Randy hunkered head to head with Rooster so they could both see.
When Momo began to talk, Randy’s body gave a jerk, and his face tightened. “You were at the Afar camp four weeks ago with this guy?” he asked. “Was there anyone else there besides the Afar tribespeople? Those tourists you mentioned, maybe?”
“I wasn’t allowed to go into their camp proper, I was only allowed to go out to see the lake—Lac Assal—and meet with the elders. Are you okay, Randy? You don’t look well.” Her frown deepened with concern.
“I’m good. Shocked that Momo and you were in the same place, same time. Like you were saying, small world.”
Rooster put Momo’s contact information into his phone. “Mind if I forward this video and his photos to a friend of mine? He’ll be interested to see Momo looking so well.”
Randy caught Rooster’s gaze. He and Randy had a full conversation without saying a word. Meg sighed. She wanted to have that kind of connection. It had been a long time since she’d had a partner for anything besides sex. Sure, sex was stress-relieving and fun. And sex-centered relationships left her with zero in the way of guilt when she had to pack a bag and go. But she longed for intimacy. She just wasn’t sure how she could work that out and keep her career. Meg nodded her thanks to the server as he brought their Kilimanjaros. She lifted the bottle and let the yeasty bubbles slip down her throat.
Rooster slid his glance back to her and raised his brows, looking for his answer.
“No, that’s fine. Send it to whoever you want.”
“You told him about your conference?” Randy asked. “Your plans with the other scientists?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? Why do you ask? You’re both acting weird. What’s going on?”
“Just wondering if I might get to see him again tomorrow,” Randy said.
“No, I’m sorry. He’s not on our roster. We’ll be a small group of twenty.”
Rooster handed her back her phone. “Since we’re talking old home week, Momo and I had some mutual friends. Derek Bowen and his wife Anjie Bowen? They were headed over to the Red Sea on vacation. Did Momo mention them to you?”
“Well, no. I can’t imagine why he would tell me about them. I don’t know the Bowens personally, but I do know of Derek Bowen. He’s an executive with an American oil company, Hesston. He’s coming here to Zanzibar sometime soon, this week I think, to talk about off-shore oil. It’s creating problems for us in the adaptation/survival field. Here we are, asking people to change, and then in comes American big oil, putting these beautiful waters at risk.” She gestured out toward the ocean. “The tourist industry, the fishing industry. All on the line. Again, personal prosperity and survival in the now, but the potential is there for catastrophic outcomes, even if it’s just putting more fossil fuels in the air. Regardless of your stance on that industry, there’s no denying that it’s increased anti-American sentiment, and making the Key Initiative’s job harder, though there are only two of us who are American on the team. Lucky for me, I’m an animal migration specialist. The wildebeests don’t care where I come from.”
Rooster’s phone buzzed. “Sorry,” he said, looking at his screen. “Headquarters. They’ve identified a threat we’re keeping an eye on.”
Chapter Nine
Meg
Poseidon Bar, overlooking the Indian Ocean, Zanzibar
Randy watched Rooster head out the door into the storm winds, then turned his attention to her. Leaning his weight onto his elbows perched on the table top, he cocked his head to the side. “What do you think of Rooster?”
“Besides big?” Meg took a swig of beer to realign her thoughts from the inappropriate place they had meandered. “He seems like a great guy. I think he’s charming and smart. Are you two partners now?”
“He’s a straight shooter, you have to like that in a guy.”
“With a gun and in his personal life?” Meg grinned. “When did all this happen?” How did she fall out of the loop? Meg was a little hurt. She had thought she and Randy were closer than that.
“This last time? Just over a month ago.”
Meg slipped her hand over Randy’s and gave it a squeeze. She was sorry to hear that, things must not have been going smoothly for them if their relationship status was clicking on and off. Randy deserved to be happy. He’d fought hard for what he had in life. Meg wished at least his love life came easily. Well, there was nothing more romantic than an evening in Zanzibar, seconded only by the Tanzanian wildlife. It could
be the perfect lovers’ getaway for them. Maybe she should go back to the hotel, and leave them to their own devices. Before she could say anything else, Rooster blew back into the bar. He sought out Randy’s eyes first thing and held them for a long minute. Meg sighed. She really needed to do something about her dry spell, she missed that kind of intensity and connection.
“All good, Honey?” Randy asked.
“Interesting, at any rate. It’s been a long day, and I’d like to get to bed,” he said with a significant look at Randy.
Okay, Meg was jealous. She’d just flat out admit it to herself. As much as she loved hanging out with Randy, and as much as Rooster… She stopped herself from forming that sentence in her mind. God, these next two days as a third wheel were going to feel long.
Chapter Ten
Rooster
Seraphina Hotel, Zanzibar
The three arrived at Meg’s door and Randy reached for her key card. “Old habits die hard, let me do a quick sweep.”
Meg laughed. “Sure, if it makes you feel better. But I’m not expecting a boogeyman under my bed.”
Rooster watched her face go from grin to grim. He wondered what thought she’d just landed on. Before he could ask, Randy was back.
“All clear.” He handed her the card. “Hey, do me a favor, if you’re planning on leaving your room tonight, give me a call. We’re just up one flight.”
“You do realize I’ve travelled all over the world without a private security detail? I can handle myself.”
“Handle yourself, as in fight your way away from a predator? Or handle yourself, as in you’ve been lucky enough never to have faced an attacker?”
“Don’t jinx me.” Meg reached over and knocked on the wooden door. “If it means that much to you, I’ll call. But you’re only with me for a few days. I’ll be on my own again very soon.”
