THE SUNRISES ARE brilliant and come on fast: tangerine sky in the east above low, gray night clouds, silver stars against the blue-black in the west, squalls out over where the sea should be. The haze and smoke from the early-morning cooking fires cling to the surface of the water. I wade out in the half-light toward the boats for my daily performance. The flood level is no higher than it was last night, possibly even a little lower.
I don’t use the platform today. Squatting in the water like the Somalis seems more hygienic—let the current carry it away. I feel a little nibbling on my butt. A half dozen catfish have been attracted to my efforts; they don’t seem interested in the excreta but more in my shiny white cheeks. A splash of the hand sends them scurrying.
The catfish are clever. Our compound not only feels like a garbage dump but is taking on the trappings of one. Scattered over the site and in the water are the empty Humanitarian Daily Rations, bright yellow plastic packs that contained halal food acceptable to Muslims. Each of these HDRs, with an American flag decorating the front, provides about 2,200 calories, enough to sustain a person for a day. Each costs the American taxpayer $3.93; with door-to-door delivery, this is one of the most expensive meals in the world. Inside, the chef’s surprise: foil packages of lentil stew, or pasta with tomato sauce, or red beans and rice, and always shortbread, peanut butter and jam, fruit bars, and a book of matches, also decorated with the American flag. It is because this stuff is put together in Texas, I suppose, that there is included a packet of crushed red chili pepper.
Those yellow plastic packages floating throughout our campsite are evidently feasts for the ravening sea life. Catfish shove their noses into the torn-open packs to get at whatever leftover food remains inside—crumbs, sauces, spillage. To watch an empty HDR break the surface and zip through our compound lake like a yellow submarine makes you briefly forget why you came here in the first place.
Out here there is time, finally, to reflect, to breathe, to observe. There is time to ask questions, to wonder, a luxury we never had in Kismayo. It took Kismayo to appreciate the ability to collect. In the mainstream, we have the opportunity but we are usually too busy.
In mid-morning, when the sun warms the last of the dry land to the south, storks and giant white pelicans freewheel in the thermals above, reaching ever higher in great sweeping circles. They are a joy to watch until they spiral so high that they disappear. Somewhere in the bush there is also a bird I have never seen that teases with the mock of a child: nana-nana nah, nana-nana nah. I hear it every time I pull out of the campsite; I’ll not rest until I’ve seen it. In the evening a pair of black and white sacred ibis, stilt-legged with curved beaks like a hand scythe, flap over the strip, noisily bickering in raucous and impatient yawps. These are the birds revered by the pharaohs as the embodiment of Thoth, the god of wisdom. The ancient Egyptians described Thoth as having the head of an ibis; there is nothing known about the sound of his voice. At about the same time, hundreds of white cattle egrets skim low in silent graceful flight, undulating just above the surface of the water like a shining white satin ribbon. We have a resident marabou stork, a carrion scavenger with a wingspan of about five feet. With a scabrous naked head, a sack that hangs below his neck like loose skin, and square black shoulders, he is suggestive of an undertaker—certainly one of the most repulsive birds on the planet. He stands on stilt legs midway down the runway, silent, observing, waiting for death. This is the type of bird I first saw in Kismayo Bay tearing apart something meaty and large.
* * *
Yusuf and some elders board the go-fast for an early-morning delivery to Marerey. A swarm of white butterflies sweeps across the flood just above the surface and briefly engulfs us in their gentle white cloud. “Flood will soon be finished,” Yusuf says. “They come when the water begins to drop.”
The villagers are there waiting. They stand atop the dike looking down at my inadequate contribution in baleful silence, and only when I greet them in Somali do some respond. The youngest children run along the base of the dike as we approach, excitedly splashing into the water toward the boat. With the swirling current it is difficult to maneuver, but the teens keep the younger ones under control.
“John-John!” the children call. One of the children at this village had asked my name on an earlier delivery. “John-John!” The distance from Captain Diep Maleh to John-John is about twenty miles and, it seems, a lifetime.
The brash boys, the shy little girls, the smaller naked children, always make me feel welcome. They are a good audience. I make funny faces and they laugh. I even dance a little jig in the boat and they respond with a similar dance on shore. I act the madman, and they squeal with delight. A fifty-something white-blond-haired relief worker stands in a boat belting out at the top of his lungs before a depressed and helpless group of children:
Peanut butter sitting on a railroad track,
His heart was all aflutter,
Along came a train along the track,
Choo choo pea-nut butter.
I have no idea where I picked that one up.
They don’t know what it means, but it is a silly childish melody and it makes them laugh. To experience their genuine pleasure and their open expressions of unquestioned trust is a great personal joy. For a brief period, I ease them out of their mud-stuck drudgery, and it is then that I begin to feel that I am helping and personally getting some good out of it. They make me feel like the Pied Piper, a wandering Muppets show. To make people smile, to laugh—those who need to smile, to laugh—I have some idea why Bob Hope entertained the troops year after year. If this personal joy is what relief work is all about, then I could stay on for more.
“John-John! Good morning!” An emaciated little boy of about six or seven wearing only the bare remains of shorts wades through the water and hands me a “baggie” of tobacco. The old man on top of the dike grins and offers a little salute with his walking stick.
I recognize the child. He was the curious one who first asked my name. I taught him “good morning.” Through him the other children learn. I answer him and the others chime in, just as eager to participate but too shy to be the first to ask. They teach me: “Much water,” I say, sweeping my hand over the flood in front of them. “Bia bidan,” the children say, “bia bidan.”
“Diep maleh—means no problem,” I say. “No problem,” the children shout back.
The child is reed-thin, ribs like a washboard, evidently very, very hungry. His face is angelic, highlighted by quick, intelligent eyes and a wide, bright smile.
There are about a dozen HDRs still locked in the forepeak of the boat from our preparation for escape from Kismayo. Most people don’t eat the main meals unless there is nothing else available, but the fruit bars and peanut-butter-and-jam packets are like candy, a sugar fix. I pull out a foil-packed fig bar and hand it to the boy as a reward for the tobacco.
The cheerful sounds of the surrounding children suddenly stop.
The silence lasts for about as long as it takes the child to realize what comes next. The children only moments before so cheerful and happy scream as one in outrage. As a pack they charge down the slope and attack the boy. Clawing fingers try to pry away his precious reward. The child holds on and gathers it tightly into the pit of his stomach and tries to run. He dodges and twists and splashes through the mud along the embankment, chased by the mob of frenzied children. He tries to run up the bank but is blocked by the older boys who, with their arms crossed, form an impenetrable barrier. He turns, runs back down to the shallow water toward me. The pack again surrounds him and wrestles him into the mud. He manages to wiggle out, crawl on his hands and knees into deeper water, carrying several of the punching and scratching children on his back. It is like a shark feed. He is in water up to his waist and he seems about to break away when the mob re-forms and attacks him again. He disappears under the surface. The children continue jumping, pounding, slapping blindly at him below the surface. Finally, his tiny black head breaks the surface. He gasps for air. Older boys grab the child and drag him back into the mud and continue to beat him while another tries to prise the treat from his little fist. He curls into a ball. An older boy kicks the child in the head, once, twice, three times.
The villagers who are not involved press around the boat for a better view of the battle. I cannot get out of the boat, there are too many children, too many adults who have now come down to the water’s edge to watch. The adults do nothing, say nothing. It has become gladiatorial, a blood sport. I yell to the adults to stop the beating. They tamp their open hands downward, orders for me to relax—just kids. The child stumbles away from the attack and falls onto his knees in the shallow water. His eyes are nearly closed from the beating, and he is bleeding. There is no sign he is crying. He still has something in his hand.
Three older youths leap off the land onto the boy’s back and punch him in the head. One pulls his legs out from under him, sending him facedown into the water. They are trying to drown him. I can stand it no longer. I jump out of the boat and bull my way through the crowd. A sudden shout and the biggest boy, in his early teens, raises his hand victoriously with the crushed silver packet of a fig bar.
I reach down and pull the child up and out. He is sputtering and gagging and half conscious. The battle is over, and he and I are ignored as some of the villagers begin to disperse and slowly return up the hillside, the entertainment concluded. He opens his eyes and, seeing me, shrieks with fright and passes out.
I stand before a wall of strange people, no faces, only a black curtain of hostility. It is a standoff. The children so violent a moment before stand in silence on the shore, looking at me as if waiting for me to make the next move. The adults above look down with savage condemnation. Is it because I did something so stupid? Because I didn’t give every single one of them a little goody? Maybe they think I treated them like animals in a zoo. That I was consciously manipulative, toying with their primal instincts, their most basic needs.
A young woman with eyes flared fights her way through the villagers. Seeing the boy at my feet, she utters a cry and stumbles down the embankment and drops to her knees at the child. Her colorful kanga swaddles an infant to her back who, awakened, begins to scream. She grabs the boy’s face with two hands and shakes, but the child remains unconscious. She looks up at me and, in a shrill that deafens, screams unintelligible frightening charges of accusation. I retreat slowly, walk backward to the boat; I dare not take my eyes away or she will attack. My own standoff with her is my only defense. Yusuf elbows his way through the back of the crowd.
“You come now! Now!” he says, and grabs me by the arm and pulls me to the boat.
The woman’s voice slices through the sound of the outboard, even, it seems, when we are out of sight.
“Is he going to be all right?”
Yusuf shrugs. “Bantu.”
I suppose that could make me feel better, but I feel like shit.
Back at the base, the Somali with a headset at the HF radio calls me over. The radio shack has been improved: a new tarp strung over the card table to protect the equipment, a cement block in front of his chair to keep his feet dry, and freshly cut poles to keep the antenna wires out of the water.
“Juliet Bravo back,” I squawk into the mike without much enthusiasm.
“Hey, John, Alpha Kilo here!”
“Andrew! Good to hear from you. What’s up?”
“I have a rotation coming your way; might be too late today, so probably tomorrow, first thing. Unimix, BP-5, blankets, maize meal. And a French photographer. Word is we have to be good to the photographer. You copy?”
“Roger, Alpha Kilo—another tourist. We’ll make sure he gets what he wants.”
“And I’ve got some, uh . . . Mombasa water aboard. The photographer is looking after it—making sure it doesn’t go astray. You know those pilots. . . . I assume you’ll take care of that too.”
“Yeah, sure. Good to hear the flight is bringing in the important things. Thanks. Anything further?”
“No, that’s all. How’s it going your end?”
“Not real great. I just—” and I decide not to get into it. I still don’t understand. “Water on three sides, and if it gets much higher, we may find ourselves washed down to Kismayo. You?”
“Dodgy. Still the dispute about the number of camels—the price of a life! Anyway, I hope to get out there one day. Cheers. Alpha Kilo out.”
The Somali radio operator looks up. I shrug.
David and Robbie are relaxing under their shelter, each reading their respective magazines—one the conservative, the other the literary, and both are drinking scotch. Occasionally Robbie breaks the silence by reading a passage he thinks will interest his partner.
“Rotation on the way,” I announce quietly. “Probably coming in tomorrow morning.”
“Anything interesting?” David asks, looking over his reading glasses.
I don’t tell them about the beer, in the event it gets hijacked on the way. “A journalist.”
“Oh, swell. Our name in lights, David,” Robbie says. “You drink whiskey?”
“Not usually, but today I think I need it. Had a fuckin’ crazy day!”
“Do tell.”
“. . . So he finally gave up his prize,” I say, recalling the frightful scene. “Rather, he wouldn’t give it up—that was the problem; he would have rather died than let it go—but one of the older kids finally got it from him. When you have twenty hysterical children all going for a small piece of food, whoever won got no more than mush.”
“What happened to the boy? Is he dead?” Robbie asks.
“Christ, I hope not! The last I saw of him he was unconscious; he was lying in the mud with—I guess it was his mother screaming bloody murder. I thought she was going to get a piece of me.”
“Oh, boy.”
“It is not like I did anything to the kid. . . . But I was responsible.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Robbie says. “Certainly, it is not the sort of thing they teach you in your basic humanitarian training course. It is something you learn the hard way, although I must say, it is too bad a child has to suffer so that an aid worker can learn a lesson.”
Before I respond, David says, “Better stay away from the village for a day or two. I’ll take the Marerey runs.”
“It is quite a common mistake, actually,” Robbie says in a tone more ironical. “Swamp water with your whiskey?
“Most soldiers without experience make the same mistake—must be a carryover from the Second World War, when your GIs rolled through Europe introducing us all to American chewing gum. I remember American soldiers in Mogadishu were also guilty of such well-meaning but destructive generosity and gave candy bars to the street children. I suppose it is human nature: Give something to someone and you hope to win their loyalty, their love in return. I tell you, not the proper way to pacification, sport. We Brits learned long ago in Northern Ireland that handing out sweets to the children does not win any favor. Indeed, the Yanks found that out in Mog: Twice as many children returned the next day—the word was out—and when the sweets ran out, the children became resentful and began to throw rocks. They were joined by the townspeople, and the soldiers ended up firing over their heads. That was the beginning of the end of the Americans in Somalia. So, here’s to lessons learned, J-B.” He leans over and hands me a glass. It is filled with eighty percent whiskey, five percent mud, and ten percent water.
“Now, David, what have we done today?” Robbie says, reaching for a notebook. “How many sacks of Unimix, boxes of BP-5s, blankets, etcetera?”
I duck into my tent, a little tipsy, less disturbed now because I discussed it. I did not need Robbie’s avuncular insight to define my mistake, but I do appreciate having been able to talk about it—not that it absolves my guilt. Or my foolishness.
Closing the mosquito flap quickly behind me, stripping off my clothes, I lie down on my sleeping bag and pull a cotton sheet over me. My balls itch. I scratch and feel a small insect fastened to the base of my scrotum. I can’t get it off. In the light of a torch, the tick is no bigger than a gun pellet. I grew up in tick country, have removed many from myself and from my dog. Back home, we used to take a hot poker or a cigarette to swollen ticks embedded in the dog hairs and they would fall off. So no big deal, but these are African ticks. Perhaps it is the whiskey, but I know only one thing: I have got to get it off, get it to withdraw its head voluntarily from under my skin, or I may get the fever.
Robbie doesn’t smoke, David doesn’t smoke, and I don’t smoke. But some of the workers do and it is not too late. Cigarettes to these people are not bought by the carton or by the pack; they are sold individually, and each cigarette is a precious item. Determined—no, desperate—I dress, walk out through the mud to the string of cots under tents of mosquito nets. Cigarette must be a universal word; at least I hope it is.
A circle of men is gathered around a fire. I could take a stick from the fire, but I ask them for a smoke. Several pull individual cigarettes from behind their ears and offer. It is generous and I feel I should pay, but then might I give insult? I have already committed one grievous error today.
They pat the ground beside them and, thinking I am being social, insist I sit with them and share their ugali. I need to scratch my balls. No, no, I say, just a cigarette, thanks, but they won’t listen and insist even a little louder, and I join them. Those who offered cigarettes hold them in their outstretched hands, not sure I still want one. I am extrasensitive now: If I take one cigarette, will I insult the others who offered? If I take cigarettes from them all, will I be considered greedy? Smooth, gentle Yusuf always seems to be there when he is needed, and this is no exception. His tall dark figure enters the circle of light and he greets me with surprise.
“It is difficult to explain, Yusuf,” I say. “All I want is a cigarette.” I have got to scratch my balls.
“Ah, but you don’t eat?”
“Tell them that I just had an HDR. All I wanted was a cigarette.”
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“No, just on special occasions, Yusuf. Now is one of them.”
He says something in Somali, and the cigarettes come back from behind the ears and are pointed at me.
I take one at random, light it in the coals of the fire, take a long drag, close my eyes to express my extreme pleasure to the donor, and then, rising, thank them all, bow, and withdraw into the darkness.
Back in my tent, the operation is hardly straightforward. With flashlight in my teeth, I lean forward, lift up my balls, and spot the little critter as he digs his way into my spiritual center. Taking another long drag and flicking the ashes out under the net, I place the burning ember against the tick; my hairs singe and curl and the surrounding sensitive skin begins to heat up. The tick holds fast. I take another puff but, not used to smoking, begin to feel a little fuzzy, and this time my aim is none too good. That is going to hurt in the morning. The third time, the tick comes out easily and I flick it outside. I think I would rather live through the fever.