Vernon Mooers writes

THE WHITE MAN'S GRAVEYARD

chapter 17 (2) 

Back at the camp, things were normal. They pulled in by the trailer they used as the office. He would discuss with the resident engineer what they had done and then walk to his house. That was usual protocol and routine.

"Got to fix the generator if we're going to have the party," Giseppi said. He was standing in front of the trailer, shirt off and his fine tanned physique shining from the sun beating down on his sweat-drenched muscles. The young mechanic wore his trademark -- grease covered hands and oily pants so you couldn't even recognize the colour any more.

"Saturday night here we come!" The mechanic was a joker, young, always out for a good time. He came to Africa on a lark "just to experience," he'd said.

The usual Saturday night party, Alex was thinking.  Of course, he wouldn't go.

Inside the trailer, the resident engineer was working. They made small talk about the job, then the older man, a Brit, a walking remnant from the old colonial days, looked him square in the eye.

"The party," he said, "you haven't been coming. Why don't you bring her?"

Alex was taken aback.  He didn't answer.

"Look, we all know she's staying in your house. I've been around the block a bit myself -- why not bring her? We're just passing the time here. You'll never see these people again when you leave here."

The old guy was perceptive. He'd been in Africa, all over, for the last twenty-five years or so, everywhere in the continent. He didn't miss a thing.

"I'll see," Alex answered finally.

On the way back to the house he was thinking about it. That changed everything. They all probably didn't know, but of course some suspected. Anyway, most of them kept one or two on the side or hired them as cooks sometimes. It was common in all the camps he knew. He would take Falmata. Let them think what they wanted. This was different anyway. He was in love with her. They wouldn't understand anyway. They could think he was just fooling around, so let it be that way. He didn't care any more what anyone thought about his business. Now, he was immune. He'd learned only to depend on himself when it came down to survival here. That's what it came down to.

He was in his house, his domain now. She was there and warm to him. He had things in perspective. It was as it should be. He was doing his job and his woman was there taking care of him.

They ate together in the back compound. Dusk was a pleasant time. Now there were no bugs. The sky was clear. They talked some. He fixed himself a drink and they sat outside for a while more. The air was warm and the night rich with stars. It was the nights he liked best in Africa. It made it all worthwhile. They went to the bedroom and made love. It was still early. He lay there thinking. Yes, he'd take her to the party later. He needed to get out and she would enjoy it also. He would take care of her. She would only have to dress up. She was lying nuzzled close to him.

"We'll go to the party tonight," he said, "you only have to get ready." She didn't protest. Maybe she understood. That was what he wanted. She only had to be there. She knew it was O.K. She trusted him and so she fixed herself up. It was no trouble and it didn't bother her. He wanted it that way.

When Alex walked into the club room, all eyes were on him. It was a minute of silence that seemed like an eternity. He just walked straight toward the bar and the uncomfortable situation passed with the clinking of glasses, laughter and a continuation of conversation. The interrupting lull was over. The Italian women, as always with nothing better to do, chattered on in the gossipy way of their small world. The men were jovial and friendly, as always, determined to have a good time and unwind from the tensions of work.

Giseppi had a new girlfriend, a Danish U.N. nurse from some bush posting. He always managed to sniff them out of the jungle. He was introduced and Giseppi had Falmata up dancing. Some of the men joined in with their wives. The partying mood continued. No one paid him much attention except the wives who kept absorbing the whole thing out of the corner of their eye, gathering ammunition. He ignored them and carried on the best he could.

"She's very pretty," the resident engineer said.  "No reason a man shouldn't enjoy himself out here. No life like it as far as I'm concerned. This is the last outpost. You never know when your days are numbered in Africa .... live for today out here, laddie."

The old Brit was like a sergeant with his troops. He let the old sea-dog ramble on. There were stories to tell of course, funny antidotes about times and places or people they'd never heard of and didn't even know if they existed. They rolled off his tongue like water gushing from a faucet. He had mastered the art of keeping his audience interested and spell-bound and entertained.

There was dancing, tapes from Italy and stewards brought around drinks and food. The pasta and lasagna, cheese and wines were all flown in and the company made sure the bush camps were well-provided. Since Alex was used to Falmata's cooking, he hesitated, then dug in, savouring the Italian flavour of the food and music. He fixed a plate of small portions and gave it to her to try, which she gingerly sampled, explaining to her what they were. Falmata smiled and he was relaxed and joked and enjoyed himself in the festive atmosphere. He had forgotten how to party and enjoy himself and socialize with his own people. The mood was light and they fit in, blending inconspicuously into the scene. 

One of their colleagues from the main office even arrived later on. He had met Gino before, a big jovial man who worked at the head office and was a company man from way back. The party livened up with dancing and drinking.  They all enjoyed themselves immensely. When it was over they went home.

The next morning, Alex was woken early by a messenger and summoned to the office. He was thinking he'd had it but he didn't care to worry about it -- his head was still too unclear and foggy to think or worry about it yet.

In the office, all the senior expatriate staff were gathered. The mood was intense and serious. The chief engineer was talking.

"Gino brought the news last night. I didn't want to spoil the party. We have to get out, that's the order ... from the main office." He caught bits and pieces of the rest of the speech, something about an uprising in the city, burning and looting of all the Lebanese shops and a call to kill all foreigners in the country. "Getting blamed for something," he said, "we have to get out till things cool over, came from the government office, no question of it."

There it was. Every once in a while the natives turned on the expatriates when things were unstable or they were restless over food prices or religion or politics or something. They got worked up and once the idea ignited, there was no stopping the mobs. They didn't even know what was going on half the time.

"Happens every now and then ... Kenya, Sierra Leone, Ivory Coast, Zaire, Chad, everywhere ... just happens to be here this time ... nothing you can do about it. We have to clear out, all there is to it," the chief engineers words echoed and slowly sunk in. He'd been through it before and went into details about the pull-out like an army officer, a matter-of-fact practical procedure, tactical manoeuvres. They'd leave in the morning ... the plane would be there ... lock up the camp and leave the clerks to pay the guards and the junior technicians and staff to run things in the camp and do a few small jobs.

"It could be temporary," the chief engineer said, "could be we could be back in a few months, or maybe never. Just the way it is."

That night Alex packed his things, what little he had, into a suitcase and shoulder bag. The words "that's all there is to it" kept running through his mind. He could not take Falmata -- she had no passport. He lay beside her, trying to find a way out of it. He couldn't hide out anywhere nor live with no job, in case they'd find him out eventually. A white man just couldn't disappear into the woodwork. He had to go, that was all there was to it. He kept milling it over. He didn't understand but he knew he had to go. He could not hide from reality.

He left her all the money he had. He didn't tell her everything, just that they had to go for a few weeks. She could never understand the politics. He said she should stay and wait for him, take care of the house. If he was not back in a couple of weeks, she was to go to her family and he would get her there.  

He didn't wake her up. They left in the early morning, packing essential items into the trucks -- petrol, water and a couple of ledgers and a few important papers. The load was small. They'd be at the airfield even if a truck broke down and they had to leave it, by early afternoon.

Alex was trying to figure the whole thing out as they drove out of the camp. He was watching the road wind ahead of him. He'd have lots of time to think and then there'd be the long flight. The plane would be there. It always was. He let the driver do his job and the truck carried him along. He was powerless to do anything about it. Things happened. Changes occurred. There was nothing at all he could do.