一篇很有趣的英语小说-Skirmish In West Africa

Skirmish In West Africa Skirmish In West Africa Copyright © 2007 Richard Christman “I see you’re American—you can pay,” said the Cameroon immigration officer. I had asked Harvey, in Galveston, when I would get my inoculations for the trip to Douala. “You won’t need shots,” he said. “I have a ride for you to the Huston airport. He’ll be there in half an hour. Just get on that plane.” I’d been with Sealcraft about a year and could testify they weren’t a great company. No overtime pay. No vacation pay. Men were fired as quickly as they were hired. They were in the lower strata of the shipping business. I spent most of my time drunk, so we were a good match. It struck me that so far from Galveston a guy could get away with just about anything. It was hot in Douala, nearly a hundred degrees. Sweat poured off me—some from the heat, some from the many drinks I had on the flight. I felt bad. I was in the immigration office at the airport in Douala, Cameroon, West Africa. Being a small airport, it probably didn’t get more than three or four flights a day. When you enter foreign countries, you need to show proof you’ve been immunized against the diseases common to the area. When I couldn’t produce a shot card, they took me aside to a small room off the terminal. A tall black man in formal military attire, flanked by several other serious looking gentlemen, frowned as they brought me into the brightly lit room and sat me in front of his desk. Other than the desk, phone, file cabinet and my chair, the room was unfurnished. He continued to give me the evil eye for several seconds while the man who escorted me spoke with him in French. When my escort handed him my passport his attitude lightened noticeably. He scanned through the pages seeing the stamps of the couple dozen or so countries I’d traveled through in recent years. That’s when he concluded I could buy my way into his country. “How much do I need to pay, sir?” I asked, trying to show as much respect for the man and his office as possible. “Why are you visiting Cameroon, Mr. Jones?” he asked, again staring directly into my eyes. I wondered if my hangover showed or if he thought I might be a drug smuggler. “I’m catching a ship here tomorrow, sir.” “Are you a passenger on that ship?” He shuffled through my passport. “No sir, I’m a crewmember. I’m a merchant seaman.” “What does your ship carry, Mr. Jones?” “It prospects for oil. I believe we’re working for your government.” “What company is that?” “The ship’s crew work for Sealcraft Operators. The ship is leased by Geophysical Services International—GSI, a British company.” “Why did you not get inoculations?” “The man who sent me here made the mistake. I barely had time to catch the plane. He sent me without shots—said I wouldn’t need them.” “That sounds like a Cameroon company,” he said laughing. “Okay, Mr. Jones. For you, the cost is fifty American dollars.” I dug into my pocket for my wallet. Fortunately, I still had a little over $200 dollars with me. I pulled out a crisp new fifty and handed it to the man. As he took the bill, everyone in the room relaxed. Lifting his stamp, he winked and hit my passport leaving one of the more elaborate pictorials I’d encountered. “Thank you, Mr. Jones,” he said handing me my passport. “I hope you enjoy your visit with us.” My escort led me back to the terminal. The company man, Johnny Mack—a tall dark-haired British fellow with a weathered face, waited as promised. I grabbed my bag and he drove me into town to the Hotel Ivory. The drive took a little over half an hour. We passed stretches of jungle and stretches of open grassland. Great rolling hills rose in the background. Blacks on foot crowded the roadside. Many of the men wore only shorts and flip-flops—cheap flip-flops, the kind we would call shower shoes. Women were wrapped in colorful fabrics; some carried the proverbial tall baskets balanced on their heads. My room was comfortably furnished in dark paneling and African art and nicer than I expected. Scouting for a local bar I spotted one just a block and a half away. Not bothering to freshen up, I decided to take a walk. The bar was in an open-air building. It also contained a restaurant and newsstand. It appeared I was the only customer, except for four young women setting along one wall. They didn’t strike me as customers. I took a seat at a table and motioned the waiter to bring a beer. A tall black man, he looked elegant in his white jacket and gold-rimmed glasses. At that, he came over to my table and showed me two brands of beer—one was Heineken, the other a local variety. I decided to try the local beer. It turned out to be bitter but refreshing. As I sipped my beer, I noticed one of the four young women was watching me the whole time. She seemed like a pleasant person, smiling as I looked at her. When the waiter brought another beer I asked, “Why are those women sitting over there?” “They’re prostitutes,” he said. “Would you like to talk to one of them?” “Yes, I like the girl on the left.” She seemed such a sweet thing—smiling and giggling when the bartender introduced her to me. Her name was Amina. I guess her age around twenty-five. An attractive young black woman, she was soft and pretty in a tube top, above the knee skirt, and hair drawn back in a bun. She had several gold ring bracelets on one wrist. I recall being surprised she wore a pair of wooden soled clogs. “Drinks for both of you, sir?” asked the bartender. “Sure, that’d be great,” I said and the bartender spun around returning to his station. “I’m from America,” I said to Amina. “Cameroon is a beautiful country. I just arrived this morning.” I waited but no reply. She giggled but continued to look at the table. It became apparent—she spoke no English; I spoke no French. It would be a challenge. “What’s the customary pay for the services of such a lovely young woman?” I asked the bartender when he returned with our drinks. “Twenty dollars American, for the day, will make her very happy,” he said, turning to leave. Amina and I spent the rest of the day together and managed to enjoy each other’s company quite a lot. We walked nearby streets, visited several bars, spent a couple hours at my room at the hotel and, since the company paid for meals, we had lobster dinner at the hotel restaurant. After dinner we returned to the same bar where I met Amina. We were both pretty drunk. Amina had been an excellent companion and escort. It may seem odd to you, but given a sufficient level of intoxication, two people without a language in common can still communicate freely. I learned she came from a family of a mother and five children who lived originally in Congo. They had moved to Douala two years earlier to escape tribal wars. She had three sisters, all in school, and one brother who’d been killed in Congo. Life had been much safer in Cameroon. Most money Amina earned, she gave to her mother to help support the family. At about 12:00 am I decided to head back to the hotel. The walk to my room was short. Staggering, we both did our best to be very careful. A foot and a half wide sewage ditch ran along the side of the street. That was common in third world countries. At all costs avoid stepping, or, God forbid, falling into that ditch. As we walked toward the hotel, I noticed something on the walk ahead of us. As we got closer, I could see it was a cockroach—about four inches long. At that moment, it reared up on its back legs and charged directly at us. Jerking back in shock, I considered crossing the street. Amina stepped forward, getting between the bug and me and crushed it beneath her clog. Seeing the look of horror on my face, she let out a deep howl of laughter that undoubtedly carried several blocks. Seconds later, I heard rustling in the nearby bushes. Squinting in the dark, I saw an elderly woman sleeping on a piece of blanket or rug on the ground. When we got to the hotel, it occurred to me that I’d have to get up in a few hours. The company would send a driver early, to take me to the ship. I went through my pockets and found a twenty-dollar bill and a ten. What the hell—I offered her the whole thirty dollars and tried to make some sign indicating she should go home. Ignoring the money, she got a very angry look on her face and suddenly began yelling and swinging her fists at me. Shocked to say the least, I headed around the building to my room. Stumbling over a rusty old newspaper-dispensing machine, I nearly went down. She hammered me with her fists the entire distance, screaming at the top of her lungs. Getting to my room and unlocking it, I squeezed my way in, trying to keep her from getting in at the same time. Oddly enough the door opened outward rather than inward. Once inside, I tried as hard as I could to pull that door closed. I pulled on the inside and she pulled on the outside. She also kicked at the lower panel of the door with her wooden clogs. The door seesawed back and forth. The lower door panel actually broke and flew into the room hitting me on the leg. At one point I nearly had the door shut to where it would latch. If only I could get it latched and locked. How could she kick that door panel in like that? It was a heavy door. Suddenly, something let go and I felt a thump to the back of my head. Blinking I tried to focus. I was lying flat on my back on the floor with the doorknob in my hand. An old Elmer Fudd cartoon played out in my mind. The door swung wide open and Amina jumped on top of me. Grabbing my hair she started kicking me in the ribs and hips, legs and arms. Screaming at the top of her lungs she swung at my face continually. I had no chance to get up as she continued to pull me around the room by my hair all the while hitting me with her free hand and kicking me with those clogs. I don’t know how long the attack went on—several minutes anyway. Through the blur of fists and feet, I saw the hotel manager at the door. He yelled at Amina, grabbing and pulling at her, but without luck. When he disappeared, I thought for sure she’d kill me. Shortly after that, two uniformed black men, apparently police, came in the door and grabbed her. She fought them hard. Catching one on the nose, she bloodied him. That was a mistake. He swung and landed his fist square on her chin and she went over backwards hitting the floor even harder than I did. Good for her. I began to comprehend what had happened—but I had no idea why. The police officers picked Amina up off the floor. Holding her arms behind her, they took her outside to their patrol truck. I followed. One of the officers, a tall, slim, well-groomed man with a short afro haircut, went through her purse. Among other things, he examined what appeared to be an empty prescription medicine bottle. Maybe that had some significance. The other officer, spectacled and clean-shaven, gave the impression he might be a student in his off time. The shouting and swinging began again. “Sir, what the hell is wrong with her?” I asked, wincing in pain from my badly bruised ribs—and fat lip. “She’s crazy. She’s not making any sense,” he said looking just as puzzled as I did. “I’m sorry,” I said sincerely. “I have no idea what I did. We spent a very nice day together.” “I can’t tell what her problem is. Probably drugs,” the officer said. Dabbing a paper towel to his nose, he went back into the lobby. I could see the manager talking and gesturing in an exaggerated manner. It was 12:30 am and Amina continued to shout and wave her arms. Her tube top had disappeared and she wore only a skirt. Her large breasts bounced vigorously as she shook her fists at me, shouting at the top of her lungs. The breast nearest me bobbed and pointed, over and over, adding it’s concurrence to the whatever accusations she made. It was like some surreal scene from a National Geographic Magazine. What the hell had I done? “I see you’re American, Mr. Jones,” said the police officer. “Will you pay for the door?” “No—I won’t pay. I didn’t break the door. She did.” I was vehement. Why should I pay for the damn broken door? “Are you ok?” he asked. “You’re pretty bruised up. Do you need a doctor?” “I’m okay. Shit, I never had a chance. Once I hit the floor it was all over.” The young black officer nodded, then walked quickly back to the hotel lobby. I stayed near their patrol truck where the other officer restrained the crazy woman. It didn’t go well for him. At one point, she actually got away. He whistled loudly and the other officer came from the hotel lobby sprinting towards the woman. The next thing I knew, they had her on the ground kicking her. Those cops were serious. Amina stopped shouting. They both yanked her up and stood her beside the truck again. She started ranting and one officer smacked her hard, right in the face. She went quiet. A large crowd had gathered to observe the event. Everyone seemed to find the scene quite funny. The near-full moon lit the narrow palm lined street. Dark two-story concrete buildings rose on both sides. I admit it. I was drunk—but sobering quickly as events progressed. Half drunk was sober to me anyway. The officer in the lobby returned to the truck and took me aside. “Mr. Jones, the manager says someone must pay for the broken door. Will you pay?” “No. I didn’t break the damn thing. She did and I don’t even know why she’s so pissed off.” “Okay, Mr. Jones. We’re taking her to the police station and you’ll have to come with us and speak to the judge.” “Okay, that’s fine with me,” I said, believing anyone could see this was not my fault. “Can I go to my room for a minute.” “Go ahead.” Returning to my room, I got rid of my knife. They’d undoubtedly throw me in jail if they found that. Fortifying my nerve with three fast shots of Jack Daniels, I returned to the front of the hotel. The army green patrol truck had a canopy over the bed with benches along both sides. Maybe it was the Douala version of a paddy wagon. It looked like it could hold maybe eight people. “You’ll have to ride in the back with her,” the officer said, “but I’ll handcuff her to the bench so she won’t be able to get to you.” Both officers tried to hoist her into the bed of the truck. She ranted and struggled. Each time they got her close to the truck, she’d get her feet up against the back of the truck and hold them off. They could not move her forward. Then one officer used a rather odd tactic. He goosed her. She shrieked and jumped into the truck all by herself. I tried to imagine the instructor at the police academy explaining the tactical application of the goose. Once inside she moved to the front of the bed and they handcuffed her to the bench. I hopped in and sat a safe distance from her and her clogs. The drive to the police station took about fifteen minutes. Amina sat with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. During that time one of the officers spoke over the radio several times. I felt very disadvantaged not knowing French. It was approximately 12:30 am. The streets of Douala were dark. Black people clustered here and there around the few dim streetlights along the way. We passed several nightclubs. When the truck came to a halt I could see from the many officers present on the sidewalk that we were at the police station. I hopped out of the back just as the officers came around to get Amina. “You’ll need to come in with us, Mr. Jones,” the officer said. I followed as they led Amina into the station. They took us to a large, dimly lit, dingy institutional green room. The black man at the desk at the far end of the room appeared to be the judge. They held Amina on one side of the room, me on the other. Along the walls, between the judge and us, stood eight black officers with automatic weapons in hand. All, including the judge, wore army green uniforms. It had the feel of a military court. All the men present talked quietly amongst themselves until the judge slammed his gavel. The room became silent. In French, the judge spoke to the two officers who’d brought us in. The studious officer stood by Amina on the far side of the room. The other stood by me. “The judge has asked to hear Amina’s story,” the officer at my side said very quietly. “What do I call him?” I asked in a whisper. “Call him sir or your honor.” Suddenly Amina began shouting and waving her arms. On and on she ranted. From time to time all the officers would look from her to me and chuckle. How humiliating. It seemed like at least five minutes passed before she even broke for breath. The judge put his hand up to stop her. Then spoke directly to her, asking a series of questions. Then the judge looked at me and said, “Mr. Jones, you’re American, why are you in Cameroon?” “I’m catching my ship here in the morning, your honor.” I said, slightly slurred through my fat lip. “What kind of ship is that, Mr. Jones?” “It’s a geophysical survey ship, sir. It’s working right off shore here prospecting for oil. I think we have a contract with your country.” “Mr. Jones—this young woman has told us her story. Would you please tell us what happened.” “I honestly don’t know what happened, your honor. She just went crazy.” “Why don’t you start at the beginning.” “Okay—I met Amina in a bar yesterday afternoon. The bartender introduced us. We had a few drinks. She was very calm and pleasant. We didn’t know each other’s language but we managed to have a nice time. We went to my hotel room for a while then we had a lobster dinner. After that we went back to the bar and danced and drank until midnight. On the way back to my room I tried to pay her and send her home and that’s when she went crazy. The judge looked back to Amina and spoke to her. She muttered and looked at the floor. He slammed his gavel again. She muttered louder. “This woman says you didn’t pay her,” said the judge. “Your honor, I tried to pay her thirty dollars. That’s when she went crazy. I thought thirty was good. The bartender said twenty. Sir, if she’d just told me she wanted more, I would have given it. We had a good day together.” “Will you pay for the broken door, Mr. Jones?” “Your honor, I didn’t break the door. She did. She kicked the lower panel out with those clogs she’s wearing.” “Mr. Jones, someone has to pay and this young woman doesn’t have any money.” “But I didn’t break the door, your honor.” “Mr. Jones, let me explain what’s happening. We’re going to put this young woman in jail and when she sobers up, we’re going to beat her. I’ll ask you again. Will you pay for the door?” The picture became crystal clear. I thought a moment and said, “Your honor, I’ll pay for the door. I’m very sorry I didn’t initially understand how important it is that I do that. I will pay for the door.” “Very wise,” the judge said, smiling and dropping his pen into his journal. He seemed satisfied with the results he’d achieved. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Jones. The officers will take you back to your hotel.” He slammed his gavel and they took Amina away. I briefly considered speaking with the judge and maybe paying a fine for her, so she could go home, but decided it best I just get out of there. “Mr. Jones,” the judge said smiling as he stood to leave. “Please find us lots of oil.” Everyone in the room laughed and relaxed. Walking back outside, I hopped into the Toyota and the officers drove me to my hotel. On arrival all three of us walked into the lobby. The officers spoke with the manager for a minute. He appeared relieved. “Mr. Jones,” one officer said. “The manager will put the cost of the door on your bill. He says he knows the GSI company man who’ll pick you up. Most likely he’ll pay that for you. We’re glad we could bring you back. Enjoy the rest of your time in Cameroon.” “Thanks very much. You‘re good people—thank you.” Looking me over, the hotel manager said, “I didn’t expect to see you back here.” “No?” I asked. “I thought they’d put you in jail.” “I got that impression in court. I’m glad that paying for the door got me out of