THE MEETING AT the airport lasted all of a half hour, a hail-fellow-well-met sort of thing. Chet announces at the morning briefing that during an uncharacteristic display of humility and candor, General Morgan admitted that his men hadn’t realized what a big job clearing the brush would be; working under the scorching sun, the warlord said, his men were exhausted. Because there is a local Somali liaison man at our briefing, Sierra Sierra offers that statement without comment. Everyone knows who is really doing the work. Morgan wants another hundred dollars to finish the contract. Sloane agreed, but only if the general’s men also paint a white line down the middle of the runway.
Brian hands our resident soldier a map of the Jubba River, torn out of a National Geographic magazine, and points to where he thinks we could base the riverboats. Apparently my experience at five hundred feet hasn’t taken. He still insists on Hum Hum and, as an aside, assures me that when the time comes to set up camp, the warlords will have agreed and peace will reign over the Jubba Valley. I bite my tongue.
With movement that perhaps only I detect, Chet extends the map to arm’s length, trying not to squint. I recognize the symptoms. Chet can’t quite read the writing and can’t find the village we’re talking about. I’ll be damned, the old soldier needs reading glasses!
I’m reluctant to offer mine; I don’t suppose Chet would appreciate my help, and it would reveal to the others that I also wear them.
Brian is saying that he and Chet will have a final meeting with the elders at Goob Weyn later in the morning. He turns to me and, with his tic working overtime, announces that I am definitely going upriver, up to Hum Hum and Goob Weyn—this afternoon. It’s the verdict I was hoping never to hear.
“That’s where I got shot at,” I say quietly. It is time I reminded him.
“Yes, but you were in the air. It was our fault, I suppose. We should have gotten word out that you were doing an overflight,” he concedes. “But now you’ll be on a boat. They will know you are coming. And why.”
“I hear that’s enemy territory.”
“It is only enemy territory to General Morgan,” Chet comments. “Still . . .”
We may take both boats, Brian says, ignoring the remark. He says he is considering taking one up the river himself. That’s an improvement. I don’t want to go alone.
“What about the guards?”
“Forget them. Pick up Marehan militia when we get there.”
“Flak jackets?”
“Sure, we can take ’em. But if you want a flak jacket for the river trip, then you might as well wear one every day here in town. Look, if you don’t want to go, I will bloody well find someone else.”
If I had expected to steer clear of challenge, then I should not have signed on. The challenge does appeal to a common if not childish weakness. If he goes, then I go. That is my job. That is why I am here. I cannot take a walk. I’ve got too much pride for that. Organizing the deliveries to the southern Jubba from Kismayo is Brian’s job, and he is as frustrated as I that we haven’t begun the river operations.
(I mentioned this conversation months later to Matt Wolff. “So you told him to find someone else, right?” he said. No, I didn’t. Sometimes I’m a stranger to myself.)
Our trip up the coast, I caution Brian, should be made not in the afternoon but during the early morning, before the sea breeze kicks up a nasty and dangerous chop. A tiny tin can out on the open ocean in fifteen knots of wind can spell a bad day.
“I don’t care about the seas. We’re going as soon as we get back. We have wasted enough time.”
I suspect he knows nothing about small boats; I am my own captain, and if the ocean passage appears too risky, my boat doesn’t go. Full stop. In acceptable conditions, however, I can’t refuse: I am just the captain, not the organizer. On the other hand, I owe no obedience to heroism.
Back at the port, I tell my Somali mates that I’m going upriver to Hum Hum this afternoon. Everyone talks at once, to me, to one another. The Marehan, their sworn enemy, they warn me, are bloodthirsty, cruel, and crazy. They think this gal is just stupid.
There’s an intellectual exercise here, one that I am sure confronts many others out in the field: At what point does one’s life become more important than the mission and the paycheck? Andrew remained in Mogadishu after most of the military forces had withdrawn “to keep an eye on” the millions of dollars of equipment left behind at the airport. That lasted only a few days before he was evacuated and the equipment became the booty of the warlords.
“I wouldn’t know when my life becomes more important,” he says later. “By the time I find out, it will probably be too late.” That says it. We paint ourselves into that corner. We might realize it only when it is too late. What is it that interferes with good judgment? Pride? Face? Ego?
I don’t fear death. Just, like most, the inability to control it. But then, had we the choice of time and place, would we accept it?
Years back, I once had an opportunity to find out. I was living alone in a small cabin well north of Fairbanks, just below the Arctic Circle. I was totally isolated and often snowbound; I did not open my mouth except to feed it for months at a time. Upon completing the last draft of a little dime novel and with a treasured publisher’s contract in hand, I had reached the conclusion that life had been fully digested. Life could hold no more joys, no more loves, no more secrets. I could hope for no better. I had lived it to the fullest, had met senators and presidents and dined with ambassadors and rock stars, had worked oil rigs and fished commercially. Hell, what was there left to do? I concluded, perversely, that as much as I loved life, it was a good time to end it. Armed with the euphoria of well-being, I considered that this point was as good a time as any—a time of my own choosing.
I look back on that night and realize clearly the utter absurdity of that decision. I also think that my self-imposed solitude, combined with my eremitic tendencies, caused me to see existence from another level. Or, as they say up there, perhaps I had simply gone “bushy.”
Going bushy is more than just a precarious mental state. The physical manifestations are also strange. During the isolation there was no noise, no sounds other than those I created: the crackling of burning wood in the jerry-built fireplace, bustle and movement. I heard nothing. The only constant sounds were those inside my head (I am not one to talk to myself), and they were ancient melodies, tunes, music I had heard as a child: “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” “Round and Round,” “Love Letters in the Sand,” “Heartbreak Hotel,” but mostly “Take Me Out to the Ball Game”; I repeated this over and over until I thought I would go nuts. The music died finally and was replaced with unidentified male speakers, voices all heavily accented—Southerners, Germans, Jews, Frenchmen. Each babbled unrecognizable words. Those voices lasted for no more than a week, and I was abandoned to merciful silence. Then I heard the engine. A plane flying down the valley, I thought. But the sound of the motor never varied. A new settler, I thought, I hoped, I feared. But in February? I strapped on my snowshoes and scuffed up the frozen creek to higher country, and yet I could get no closer to the sound. I returned to the cabin disappointed and pleased—disappointed that I couldn’t solve the mystery, and pleased that whoever was out there was far enough away that I would not have to see them or meet them. (I discovered years later that this is the affliction of single-handed sailors who cross oceans: If after a long solo passage at sea you have concluded that you are just as happy being alone and keeping your own company without the need of others, the approach to land is fraught with fear and dread. There will be the communicating, the relating, the returning to the world of people. Misanthropy starts here. As well as in the Alaskan wilderness.)
It was not until a year later that the source of the mysterious motor was revealed. A psychologist from Johns Hopkins University who had specialized in the effects of isolation (she had studied POWs after they were released from Vietnam) told me she was quite convinced that I had been so long without real sound, without real input, that the motor I heard was the sound of blood rushing through my head. Apparently, there is no such thing as total silence.
So I suspect I had gone a little bushy when I concluded that this night was a good time to end life. It was minus forty Fahrenheit and blue dark outside the log walls of the cabin. It was so cold that if you were foolish enough to piss outdoors, your pee would turn into ice before it hit the ground. Dressed in no more than my union suit and felt-lined boots, I dragged an old wooden chair behind me, pushed the door open against the freshly fallen snow, sat back, and gazed contentedly at the confusion of stars above. I felt I was sane and I knew I was committed. My fate, my death, was in my hands, my hands alone. The conclusion was a luxury I was thankful to reach.
The Alaskan night sky is perhaps one of the most brilliant on earth—little moisture, pollution from afar thinned by distance. This night, the Northern Lights covered the frozen land as a veil with threads of iridescent shades of blue, green, pink, and lavender, sinewy ribbons of variegated color that wove seductively along the ecliptic. They straightened and curled, rose and fell in the form of a wave that rolled gracefully toward the horizon in a ballet of color. The performance was accompanied by sharp cracking, like the snaps from a fire of freshly felled wood.
I didn’t feel the cold, although I should have already begun to turn to ice. I was in awe of that which I could not explain, of this display, of this message, of this gift. I returned inside, stood before the fired-up drum stove, and, beating some heat into my body with one hand, took a swig of rum with the other. I dressed properly and returned to the chair outside to watch the light show.
* * *
At the port, sitting on a flat rock of the seaward breakwater, I finger-eat some rice and beans and stare hard at the sea. A ship moves slowly along the horizon. In any man’s marina language, the local conditions—an onshore breeze from the north against a southeast current—would be considered a notch or two above “small-craft warnings.” My sixteen-foot tinny doesn’t even qualify for that moniker. I sure in hell am not going out today, whatever the orders.
This existence is one of contradictions and unexpected change. After these days in this place, I wonder if I will ever take seriously events over which I have no control. I used to plan, scheme, prepare, anticipate my life. Now I know better; it just doesn’t matter anymore. I am now sure that I have less confidence, less certainty about my own place on this earth than Euclid, led across the Pons Asinorum by his blind ass.
By the time Bravo Delta and Sierra Sierra return, it is too late to discuss the issue. More negotiations tomorrow. Postponed for a day or two. Thank God.
I am securing the boat for the night when Chet’s voice barks over the radio: “Juliet Bravo, if there is still time, I thought we might come down to the port and take a look at your operations.”
“Good copy. But you should get down here ASAP. The sun will be setting soon.”
“Be there in about twenty mikes.”
The high-speed ride around the bay is cathartic. I push the boat to its screaming limits, carving dangerous snap turns, bouncing over our wake with a ball-breaking thump. Brian and Chet hold on with white knuckles. I notice our battle-tested security officer observing me with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety, but he withholds comment.
The radio barks as we get back into the Land Rover:
“Good news, Juliet Bravo,” Andrew says cheerfully. “Our CARE package has arrived. See you back at the ranch. Out.” The first shipment of South African beer has been delivered. Sloane flashes a grin and a thumbs-up. I don’t know whether to laugh or be embarrassed. How do you expect to give a thumbs-up when you don’t have a thumb?
“It got in the way,” Chet had said enigmatically, turning his hand this way and that as if looking for the missing part.
“How did it happen?”
“Shot off.”
What did I expect?
“I notice you haven’t exactly got the hands of a concert pianist.”
I look at my own damaged forefingers on my right hand, which I jokingly refer to as my claw. These are perhaps one of the first things most strangers notice. I watch their eyes drift down to my mangled fingers that look like stunted chicken legs.
“Fishing accident.”
Funny thing—once, a long time before, I did take piano lessons.
* * *
There is no evening briefing; there is not much to say apparently, and I pick up Andrew at Unicef and we return to our compound with the precious taped cardboard box at our feet—labeled as Mombasa bottled water. Warm or cold, the beer will be ambrosia. I salivate at the thought.
Two Somalis talking quietly between themselves are waiting in the open-air dining area of the HCR compound. One is Omar, a paid translator for Unicef; the other is Major Yeh Yeh, with his trademark Palestinian headdress and pointy goatee and dark evasive eyes. He wears loose-fitting gray trousers and blue blouse and a pistol jammed into his belt.
In our imagination, Andrew and I have drunk that first cold beer a half dozen times these past few days, but we don’t in front of this imposing stranger. We are not supposed to have alcohol here, and if they knew, they probably would want a few. We drink tea and make light talk with Omar. Major Yeh Yeh says nothing but occasionally offers a vague smile. I’m not sure he speaks English. But Omar, with his squeaky voice and inflated ego, keeps up a steady meaningless chatter. Andrew shoots me an angry look when I excuse myself. He knows. I do feel guilty but, hell, he is the Empire man. He can drink tea at this time of day. Me, I need that medicinal ale.
Chet arrives, hot, tired, a bit cranky, and ready to sink into a beer, whatever its temperature. He draws up short when he sees the two Somalis.
“Good evening, Major Yeh Yeh. Omar. What brings you here?” Barely concealed dread clouds his face.
“There are small matters the major would like to discuss,” Omar begins. “The major is aware that this is the end of your day, and he is concerned that this may not be a good time to discuss problems of some minor importance to him and his people.”
“As good a time as any,” Chet says tiredly, taking a seat. “What’s on his mind?”
The major, in steady emotionless tones, describes the good work the UN is doing for Somalia and for the region and on and on. Chet sits impassively across the table with one hand atop the other, staring at nothing in particular, during the droning translation. His eyes seem glazed but he holds on. Major Yeh Yeh doesn’t see Chet’s reaction, because he, too, is speaking to some distant point before him.
Major Yeh Yeh is both military leader of the Somali Patriotic Movement and our guarantor of security. I wonder if he isn’t the one playing us like a cornered mouse. His is a curiously unctuous statement. A thousand polite words convey the meaning of about ten. I can imagine I am sitting in a Bedouin tent with T. E. Lawrence, listening to negotiations with a white-robed Arab sheik; this kind of communication, this double-talk, is a traditional art form.
“I have been responsible for the protection of the United Nations for the past fourteen months,” Yeh Yeh says. “I have lost many of my friends, lost much of my influence, and have been too long away from my village and family.”
He comes to the point: additional payment for himself and for his men.
“As you know, Major,” Chet responds, “all compensation for security is paid to General Morgan, who pays you.”
“General Morgan does not pay me.”
“We pay General Morgan for security for our personnel here, and I was under the impression he pays you. That is my understanding.”
“General Morgan does not pay me.”
“That is between you and the general.”
The handheld radio interrupts the discussions: “Sierra Sierra, this is Bravo Delta. There is an emergency at Jamaame town. Will you call them on 7756 Upper Side Band?”
“Roger, Bravo Delta,” Chet says, rising. Major Yeh Yeh, reluctant to lose the flow, presses ahead. In his only demonstrative act, the militia leader jabs a finger hard into his own chest. “When I am wronged and if I am shot, I will not bleed. I will not drop blood.”
“Major, this is between you and the general—”
“No, it is not.” He glares at the big American. “I represent the Somali Patriotic Movement. I do not represent General Morgan.”
“Major, if you’ll excuse me. I have an emergency to take care of. I’ll be right back.” He pushes his chair from the table and heads off into the darkness across the compound to the radio room. Andrew and I follow.
“Jesus,” Chet mutters, rubbing the back of his thick neck.
Through a crackly radio connection to the Jubba River village of Jamaame, a woman’s shaky voice tries to communicate.
“We have a problem here. Can you hear me? Our situation is deteriorating!”
Earlier in the day, one of the lorries carrying relief supplies to Jamaame had broken down. It had taken less than an hour for word to get out and for gunmen to loot the vehicle. Tons of relief supplies disappeared into the bush.
The UN project officer in Jamaame is demanding from the village elders seventy percent of the value of the stolen cargo, payable in cash, labor, or equipment or, better still, all the food returned. Otherwise Unicef and WFP will pull out of town.
“The district officer is telling us to get back to work or get out,” the woman says.
“Okay,” Sloane says. “So get out. Let’s close it down. The hell with them.”
“We can’t get out.”
“You can’t get out? Why can’t you get out?”
No answer.
“I say again, why can’t you get out?”
“I have visitors,” the woman’s voice says. “I cannot communicate.”
“I copy that, Jamaame. I’ll get onto Nairobi Security—they will handle it from that end. There is nothing I can do from here. I’ve got a little crisis of my own at the moment. Hang in there. Kismayo out.”
Our situation is more important than hers? Her desperation, urgent and pleading, is heartbreakingly evident. I can see the guns at her back and hear her fear. But she is on the other side of the Green Line and there is nothing we can do. I’ve never met her, but I do worry about her.
Chet returns to the meeting with Major Yeh Yeh with new energy. His gray eyes are alive and determined; while the other crisis was unfolding, he was giving some thought to the one at hand.
“Major,” he explains, looking directly at the Somali, “I want you to understand that my hands are tied. There is nothing I can do.”
“Mister Chet, I and my people have worked very hard. Now they are waiting to hear from me. I don’t know what to say to my people. I do not want to return with such an answer from my good friend. You must know that they are not pleased with the present arrangements.”
“I am sorry about that, but, like I say, there is nothing I can do.”
“Mister Chet, I cannot be responsible for my people. I cannot predict what their actions will be,” he says, barely above a whisper. Omar’s translation takes on the somber, almost threatening tones of his master.
Chet looks sharply at the Somali gunman. “If you mean that something could happen to our personnel here in Kismayo,” he says finally, his eyes narrow and his voice hard, “then we will have no choice but to leave, and if we do, General Morgan and the community will hold you, Major Yeh Yeh, personally responsible. I will personally see to it.”
The major studies his hands, which are clenched tightly in his lap. His dark angular face sinks deeper into the nighttime shadows.
He looks up at Sloane. His black eyes glitter with anger. He says in unexpected smooth English: “This is very wrong, my friend. We have shared some bad times. Here. Mogadishu. I am very disappointed. Now, it is better at times like this that there is no more talk. I will go back to my people and will give you my answer in the morning.” Standing, he glares down at Chet: “I am sorry to tell you that I cannot be responsible for your safety.” There is an ugliness in the voice, a tone full of menace.
The two Somalis vanish into the night.
“Not very happy,” Andrew says.
“No, not very.”
“Serious?”
“It always is. Let’s just say I’m concerned. But then, I’m paid to be.”
“It could blow?”
“Maybe,” Chet says, rising. He walks outside into the darkness. Minutes later he returns, zipping up his fly. He continues: “Yeah, well, when they don’t show their anger, when there’s no screaming, then you know it’s usually time to think about packing.”
“Like now?” Andrew asks.
He shrugs. “Maybe. But at least he didn’t put his pistol on the table. That happened to me in Mog. When that happens, there is no maybe.”