In the Belly of the Elephant (12 page)

“We get the money machine going, do the projects, and send good PR reports back home to ensure more money next year,” a man with a heavy Scot accent said over a bottle of Sovobra. “It’s too easy to get sloppy. We need to question these projects, make sure they don’t cause more problems.”

I’d had the same discussion with Kate the week before. Though the harvest had been successful this year, the women hadn’t reimbursed the seed loans. They had considered the loan a
cadeau
. We had not included the women in every step of the project—the organization, the purchase of the seeds, the development of repayment schedules and procedure. The women had held onto the handout mentality and heard the concept of loan as
cadeau
. We wouldn’t make the same mistake next year.

I threaded my way through the crowd and into the kitchen to snag a beer. Another circle of people stood conversing near the kitchen door.

“I heard it this morning,” the Dutch volunteer who lived in the house said. “Iran offered to release the hostages for twenty-four billion dollars.”

Twenty-four billion dollars. My God.

I wiggled into the circle and several Dutch, French, and Germans looked my way. “Don’t mind me.” I smiled.
I’m just your local ugly American.

“They got themselves into this mess,” a Brit working for OXFAM said. “America has a bunch of idiot oil men dictating their foreign policy.”

He sounded just like Philip. I wondered which crowd he was gracing his menace with at the moment.

“You’re a collector of myths,” a voice spoke into my ear.

Groan. It was Philip. Standing behind me, he was just tall enough that his mouth was at the level of my ear.

“You’ve heard of the Fulani god,
Doondari
,” he spoke so that only I could hear. “
Doondari
created man, but man was too vain. In our case, let’s say man was Anglo-Saxon.”

“If I recall,” the Dutch volunteer said to the Brit from OXFAM. “British oil companies were the ones that were nationalized by Mossadeq. And British agents organized the riots that allowed the CIA to reinstate the Shah.”

“Man was too vain with his ideas of race superiority and Manifest Destiny,” Philip whispered. “So
Doondari
created blindness. In our case, man was blinded by his own greed.”

“Yes,” the Brit continued. “But the CIA got the Shah to turn Iran’s oil fields over to American companies in exchange for training the Shah’s death squads. The same thing they did in Nicaragua and El Salvador.” The Brit turned to me. “Using
your
tax money.”

“Hey, just because I’m American doesn’t mean I agree with CIA covert operations,” I blurted a little too loudly. “You know,
covert
usually means without the knowledge of Congress or the American people.”

“Yes,” a German volunteer said. “And if Americans just keep their heads in the sand, they won’t have to see the mess they’ve made.”

I felt like a punching bag.

Philip bent closer. “When blindness became too proud,
Doondari
created sleep. The great American media put us all to sleep with TV and movies that showed Americans as only one thing—the hero. Americans still refuse to consider they could be anything else.”

I raised my hands in surrender and fled the kitchen. Another group sat in a clutch in the living room.

“…and sells arms to rogue armies to fight their wars for them,” a French volunteer said. “It was on
Radio Français
this morning. U.S. special forces have armed Islamic groups in Pakistan and Afghanistan to fight the Russians. The same thing is happening in Iraq.”

“
When sleep became too proud,
Doondari
created worry.” Philip was at my ear again.

I turned. He wasn’t wearing his typical sneer, just an intense glint in his glass-green eyes.

“With the rise of Communism,” Philip said. “We began to worry. We started a Cold War and sent out the CIA to overthrow democratically elected leaders in Iran, Zaire, and Chile. Anyone who had the balls to accept help from the Soviets.”

I turned away from him, and a few people looked our way.

A German spoke in heavily accented English. “The U.S. sells more arms to developing countries than any other country in the world.” He turned to the French volunteer. “I believe France is second.”

“
When worry became too proud,
Doondari
created death,” Philip whispered. “The CIA took American worry and turned it into death squads.” He raised his voice so the whole group could hear. “The U.S. supports a government in El Salvador that has tortured and killed more than nine thousand of its own people in the last year alone.”

I turned and left the living room. As I passed through the kitchen, I asked the Dutch guy where I could find the latrine.

He pointed to a flashlight hanging on a nail by the kitchen door. “Out that door, follow the path.”

Once out the door, I walked in circles for a few minutes, clenching my jaw and fists so hard it hurt.

“God, I hate that man!” I walked more circles, swearing in the dark. I wanted to scream and pull out my hair. I pressed my fingers to my face. My cheeks burned. It had all been there, in the back pages of newspapers and tucked away on library shelves. I had seen bits of it in Liberia. All the volunteers had been furious over the wages Firestone had paid the Liberian people who worked on the rubber plantations. I had read about Chile and heard about Zaire. But I had hoped they were aberrations—mistakes we had made and wouldn’t make again. I had been raised with a fairy tale, taught to keep my head in the sand.

An ignorant American was an ugly American.

I clicked on a flashlight and followed the dirt path to the outhouse. I opened the wooden door and swung the light inside. Most outhouses in Africa were places a person didn’t even want to enter, let alone hang out in, but this one was deluxe. My outhouse in Dori had a hole in the ground the size of a dessert plate. This one had a two-foot-high mud-brick base built around the hole with an actual, true-to-life toilet seat on top. After shining the flashlight across the ceiling and in the corners to check for King Kong spiders and scorpions, I tapped the toilet seat a few times to dislodge any cockroaches from underneath and sat.

I hid in the outhouse for a bit, needing the solitude and imagining ways to deck Philip. Lily had sent a Christmas card saying she had finally learned to control her anger and frustration just by recognizing it and stopping. She had found greater harmony with life and talked about both of us striving for wisdom, compassion, love, truth, and beauty. I wished she were with me. I was getting a good dose of truth, what I needed was wisdom and love. I sat there until the urge to pull out my hair subsided.

On my way back up the path, the windows of the house glowed with the light of kerosene lamps and candles. Waves of muted conversation and laughter escaped through the screened door and windows. I paused, not yet ready to return. My head buzzed from the morning’s champagne and the evening’s beers. The treetops reflected silver starlight off the face of each leaf. The air rested cool against my cheek and carried the sweet fragrance of wood smoke. I took a deep breath and stretched my fingers to the sky. If I ran far enough away, could I escape what it meant today to be an American? I imagined myself rising into the sky away from this point on the earth. In the night, there would be a vast ocean of darkness for hundreds of miles. How could I get much farther away than this?

How could I ever go back? I flashed on the bumper stickers of so many cars and pickups at home—“Love it or leave it!” I had left.

Iran, the Congo, South Africa, Chile, Nicaragua, El Salvador. When we sowed so much death, how could we not expect to harvest it?

I thought good intention would be enough. Drabo had compared aid workers to the story of Okonkwo’s wives who polished the outside walls of Okonkwo’s compound with red ocher and painted beautiful patterns, while inside the huts, Okonkwo beat his wives and bullied his children because his fear had turned to anger.

My hands dropped to my sides. I remembered the
I Ching
and asking Lily if I could make a difference. How naive that all seemed now. How vain.

Philip stepped out of the shadows that cloaked the kitchen door.

I was suddenly cold and very tired. “What do you want, Philip? Why can’t you leave me alone?”

He came toward me and grasped my upper arms. “I want you to wake up. And then I want you to be able to stand up and shout, ‘Fuck it!’”

The tears that blurred my vision made me furious. “I don’t want to be like you, Philip.”

I jerked away from him and went back through the kitchen door. I wanted to find Gray, go back to the nurse’s courtyard, and wrap myself in my sleeping bag. Gray was in the living room with Wendy who had her arm around Caroline.

“Why did he go there?” Caroline said. She was crying.

“What’s wrong?” I whispered to Gray.

“We just heard John Lennon was killed in New York.”

“How?”

“Somebody shot him.”

Chapter 9

Greed

January/Rabi al-Awwal

Chinua Achebe had moved into my “best author” spot since I’d found his book,
Things Fall Apart
. It was a favorite of Drabo’s, where he’d discovered the tale about the tortoise and the feast in the sky. Like Drabo, the hero of the book, Okonkwo, believed himself to be a strong man. Okonkwo’s father had indulged himself in life.
Whenever he saw a dead man’s mouth, he saw the folly of not eating what one had in one’s lifetime.
But Okonkwo denied happiness to himself and his family. Okonkwo’s life fell apart because fear and anger chose every path he set his foot on.

Not so with me. I agreed with Okonwo’s father.

Propped on an elbow, I explored the smooth skin of Drabo’s chest with my palm. The moon cast a pale light across my bed. My skin reflected the light, while Drabo’s absorbed it. I was a ghost. Drabo was one of the shadows that made up the night. Together we were a play of light and dark.

“There was once a great serpent who lived in the ancient city of Wagadu,” Drabo said, his voice like water rushing over gravel.

“Another story?” I kissed him.

“Stories explain to us the meaning of our lives.” With his fingertip, Drabo drew a line down each side of my face, as if marking me with the tribal scars of myth. “This snake was called Bida Bida and he lay in seven great coils before the southern gate of Wagadu. Tradition dictated that the King of Wagadu give Bida Bida ten young maidens every year, and in exchange, Bida Bida let it rain three times a year.”

I lay my head on the pillow.

Drabo turned to face me. “Lagarre, the grandson of the king, believed the snake demanded too much. So, he talked with Bida Bida.

“‘Will you give me ten maidens every year?’ asked the snake.

“‘No,’ replied Lagarre.

“‘Nine?’ hissed Bida Bida.

“‘No,’ replied Lagarre.

“This went on until the grandson of the king and the mighty serpent agreed on one maiden every year. The people of Wagadu said, ‘When the next firstborn female of Wagadu comes of age, she shall be given to Bida Bida.’

“This turned out to be Sia Jatta Bari, the most beautiful maiden in Soninkeland.”

I sucked in air between my teeth.

Drabo paused. “You don’t like my story?”

“Why is it always the woman who gets sacrificed? Why not the prince or the king?”

“Because it is not a sacrifice unless you must give up the thing you love the most.”

“Yes, but why do the men get to make that decision? Why not the women?”

“If you asked a woman to give up the thing she loved best, what would it be?”

Then I understood. “Her children.”

“And would she?”

I shook my head, rustling the pillow. “Never.” Jehovah had known better than to ask Abraham’s
wife
to sacrifice her son.

A line of white gleamed in the moonlight, a tiny rent in the darkness. Drabo was smiling.

“Now, a very respected man in town, Mamadi Sefe Dekoté, loved Sia Jatta Bari. As the time neared for Sia to be given to Bida Bida, Mamadi grew heavy with remorse at the thought of losing his beloved. The people of Wagadu dressed Sia Jatta Bari as if for her wedding, bedecking her in jewelry and silks. They formed a long procession, accompanying the bride to her destiny with the snake.”

Drabo paused. The crickets continued to play a lullaby. Soft voices passed outside the gate.

“Bida Bida lived in a deep well to one side of town. Mamadi sharpened his sword, mounted his horse, and followed the procession. Bida, when receiving a sacrifice, stuck his head out the well three times before seizing his victim.

“Mamadi stood close to the well as Sia walked to its edge and called, ‘Bida Bida, I, Sia Jatta Bari, a maiden of Wagadu, await you!’

“Bida reared his head the first time. The people called to Mamadi, ‘It is time to take farewell!’ Bida reared his head the second time. They called again, ‘Take your farewell!’ The third time, Mamadi drew his sword and cut off Bida’s head.

“The head flew far and wide through the air and before it came to earth it spoke, ‘For seven years, seven months, and seven days may Wagadu remain without its golden rain!’

“The people heard the curse and ran to attack Mamadi. Mamadi took Sia onto his horse and rode away, escaping the wrath of the people of Wagadu.” His voice trailed away.

A cricket chirped.

I yawned. “And you, Drabo.” My eyelids closed. My words were but a whisper. “Will your people curse you for riding into the desert with me on your horse?”

He didn’t answer, and I fell asleep, knowing that mine would.

Chapter 10

The Telex

January/Rabi al-Awwal

Drabo walked down the stairs of the out-kitchen, carrying a pot. A tendril of steam rose into the air like the first wisps of a genie out of a lamp. It snaked its way to my nose and promised sugar and milk. Morning cold crept under my sleeping bag and I shivered. I put aside
Franny and Zooey
, wrapped a blanket around my shoulders, and joined Drabo at the table.