Pialou

PIALOU

Bill Newman

You can’t get there from = here. Never had this platitude been more true. In this case “there” was a small west A= frican village called Gambasalu. I had to find a way to get to Gambasalu from Toronto by November 16 – one week away.

I’d worked as a project manager for an insan= ely intense American company that only hired workaholics. I knew all about PERT charts, drop= -dead dates, and critical paths, so I told myself that organizing the trip, even = in such a short time, should be a no-brainer. Now retired, I regretted that I’d not taken time off work and made the tr= ip while my wife was still alive.

First stop: pick up the yellow = fever shot from the pharmacy on the ground floor of my doctor’s medical building. Luckily for me they stocked it, and I didn’t have to drive across town to their main offi= ce.

“Normally I’d recommend the hepatitis = and malaria inoculations, too, but…” My doctor paused. I nodded to acknowledge that he didn’t need to complete the sentence. I knew that while a Yellow Fever in= oculation was mandatory for entry into the country, the other two weren’t.=

He injected me with less than half of the contents= of the vial, poured the rest down the sink, and slotted the syringe into a receptacle designed for that purpose.

I slipped the Yellow Fever certificate into my poc= ket and departed immediately for O= ttawa and the embassy. With the vis= a stamp in my passport, I could now book the trip.= And on November 12th, I locked up my two-bedroom condo and caught the overnight KLM flight to Antwerp.

In Antwerp, I bought Pialou’s presen= t. It was expensive but I had taken w= ith me an international money order. A few days earlier, the vendor told me to make the money order payable in Euros. = “No credit cards,” he s= aid. I got the figure almost right ̵= 1; those last minute currency changes are a nuisance – and paid the shortfall with cash. Next sto= p: the railway station to catch the train to Paris. I felt like a contestant in The Amazing Race.

I prefer to travel by rail than fly; but the optio= n is rarely available or practicable. The Antwerp to Paris leg was the only part of the elev= en-thousand kilometre journey that permitted me to savour the pleasure of the railways – for me, a= love affair since childhood. The small indulgence would have been hard to explai= n to someone who wasn’t a train buff, but the diversion didn’t slow = me down. And that was important, because this was one of the rare times in my life when it was better to arr= ive than, as Robert Louis Stevenson once put it, “travel hopefully.”=

The Mirabelle Hotel nestled beh= ind the Gare du Nord, which meant that on alighting from the Antwerp train I c= ould walk there. My luggage didn&#= 8217;t present a problem; I carried only a smallish backpack. I planned the hotel’s proximi= ty to the railway station for a second reason.&n= bsp; I would be back there in the morning to catch the airport express to Charles de Gaulle, the only one of two airports in E= urope with a direct flight. Direct flight to the capital, tha= t is, not Gambasalu.

Finding Gambasalu on a= map had been a challenge. Pialou = had told me in a letter that her village was forty kilomet= res from Soubtoua, the nearest large town. Given this piece of data, I estima= ted that the distance from the capital to Gambasalu via = Soubtoua must be about 245 kilom= etres. Should be there in half a day̵= 7;s driving, I thought, which showed how much I knew about west Africa’s roads and culture.

My Air France flight touched do= wn in the early evening, and, because I was now close to the equator, the sun had already disappeared for the day. In the air, approaching the capital, I’d noticed only a few lights illuminating the city. A blac= kout, I guessed. I’d read tha= t electricity in Africa was not something to be taken = for granted, along with many other everyday items, like clean water and food.

The smell of the tropics hit me as soon as I exited the plane and reminded me of the Caribbean. What was it: the powerful oxygenated fragrance of the vegetation or the salty sea air? Both.

In the terminal building (presumably lit by it= s own generator), the President greeted new arrivals.&nbs= p; Not personally, a gigantic poster did the job for him. Perhaps it was an election year? <= /span><= /p>

I patted myself on the back for bringing only carry-on baggage, as the lack of encumbrances enabled me to skip around those who had to retrieve bags from = the conveyor belt. My foresight a= nd business class seat put me in first place at the immigration desk. Just as well, for behind me a scrum formed, mostly locals elbowing bewildered tourists out of the way. The uncivilized behavior made me w= onder if lineups were peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon culture.

The darkness outside the terminal building didn= 217;t hamper arriving passengers from finding taxi drivers, or vice versa. They were all over us, shouting pr= ices like brokers on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. My taxi driver understood “Atheni,R= 21; the hotel I’d booked via the Internet. I’d chosen it because = the photograph, with its backdrop of palm trees and beach, made it look as though it had be= en transported from Waikiki Beach.

I checked in, dumped my bag in my room, washed and shaved, then headed back down to the front desk.

“I’m looking for a reliable guide with= a car to take me to Soubtoua.”

I thought the desk clerk might not speak English, because he looked at me blankly. Had I said Soubtoua correctly? I decided to translate into my lim= ited verb-less French, “Soub-tou-ah, par la voiture, avec le guide,” and hoped my pronunciation held up.

The clerk continued to stare. I repeated the name of the town an= d held an imaginary steering wheel in my hands in a mime of me driving – I r= efrained from providing the sound track.

“I understand English,” he said. “We don’t often have requests to go there.”

“But do you know anyone who could take me?” I paused, then add= ed, “He must be reliable and English speaking.” I stressed the language requirement because my French was barely sufficient to get around France, let alone this countr= y.

He gave a Gallic shrug, which I took to mean that = the English speaking part of my request was redundant. “I will make a phone call. Would you like to wait in the bar?= I will send him over.”<= /o:p>

“Thank you, I am very grateful.” And to prove it, I put a twenty US= dollar note on the desk.

He beamed, dropped a hotel brochure onto it and sl= id the two items off the desk into his pocket. I turned and headed for the bar= .

A man approached me in the bar an hour later. He introduced himself as Alain, no second name. He was a t= all, spindly man with Hollywood good looks an= d a smile to match. Alain informe= d me that he’d spent a year as a hotel worker in London – the town of my birth. Funny how a si= mple common link can bond two people.&nb= sp; I ordered some food and drink for us both and spent the next half-ho= ur explaining what I wanted. I o= mitted telling him that I didn’t want to fly to the nearest airport and get a ride from there. I’d re= searched it, though. The closest airpo= rt to Pialou’s village was in Tokadé = 211; still quite a trek away – and it lacked a paved runway. And besides, looking through travel literature, Tokadé sounded like t= his country’s equivalent of = Dodge City in the Wyatt Earp days. I figured my chance of finding someone reliable and English-speaking in that town was zero.

We settled upon the price and terminated the meeti= ng with a handshake.

Alain arrived at seven the next morning, and we breakfasted together. I selected food that I actually recognized: croissants and a fruit cocktail. Alain ordered somet= hing I’d never heard of. = 220;Ablo,” he said.&= nbsp; “It’s made from corn and sugar. Take a spoonful.”=

“Hmm, quite tasty.”= And I wasn’t just being polite; the taste reminded me of Sugar Puffs.

Bellies suitably full, we moved to the parking lot, where he introduced me to his Land Rover.&= nbsp; It looked like an army surplus one David Attenborough might have left behind twenty years earlier after making a BBC documentary. Alain invited me to look it over.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> “It’s a fine machine,&= #8221; I said

“Made in England.”= He seemed proud of the fact,= but I didn’t consider that to be a great endorsement.

The Land Rover started first time, and we drove of= f, heading north out of town. No= w that we were away from the tourist areas, I noticed the local authorities didn’t bother to paint défense d’ uriner signs on the walls.= Toilet arrangements here were handy for men, but where did the women= go?

The open road beckoned, but Alain stopped at a gas station instead. I guessed th= at this was the last chance to fill up for a while. The place also boasted a bar/eater= y, but I couldn’t imagine he was hungry already. Instead of going to the pumps, Ala= in pulled into a quiet part of the parking lot – a field really, but min= us the grass.

He leaned back and plucked a bag off the back-seat. He pulled out an AK-47. &#= 8220;Insurance. Know how to use it?”

Yeah, I have one at home; doesn’t everyone?<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I shook my head.=

“It’s quite simple. The magazine goes in here.”<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He plucked one from the bag and sl= otted it in. “Pull this lever= back to cock it, and you’re ready to go.&nbs= p; One other thing.” He tapped a catch with his forefin= ger. “Single shot.” He flicked the catch forward. ̶= 0;Continuous. In this position, the gun keeps fi= ring until you release the trigger. = Comprenez?”

He smiled the kind of smile that I interpreted as meaning I’d never need to use it.&nb= sp; I hoped not.

He shoved the gun back in the bag. “Bring your valuables,”= ; he said.

I put my camera into a fold-up nylon bag that held= my overnight gear. I carried all= of my other valuables in the deep pockets of my cargo pants and in the belt aroun= d my waist.

We hopped out of the Land Rover and headed for the bar. Alain sprinted ahead of = me, to avoid getting wet, for the morning downpour had just started; I’d forgotten about that meteorological feature of this part of the world.=

We found a seat on the corner, and Alain sat with = his back to the wall. A man appro= ached us carrying some bottles. = 220;Bière ou Coke,” he said.

I don’t drink, so the decision was easy. Ala= in ordered a beer.

The man put the bottles on the table. He said something that, to my untrained ear, sounded like, “Cinq cents.”

“Five hundred,&#= 8221; Alain said.

I had no local currency but made the calculation i= n my head and handed the waiter two US dollars – fifty percent more than he’d asked for. With Al= ain, I was getting the non-tourist price for a drink.

It had occurred to me that Alain might not like driving in the heavy rain, but I thought I needed to find a polite way of asking him why we were sitting here drinking instead of being on the road to Pialou’s village. ̶= 0;Do you need to get gas?” <= o:p>

“We have to wait for the next convoy.”=

Convoy? Oh, yes, of course. My research had told me that out of the main urban areas the highways weren’t the safest of places. But this bar didn’t strike me as the safest of places either.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It’s an uncomfortable feelin= g to be the only white person in a bar populated by men who are probably unemplo= yed or, if they did have a job, were earning less per week than I’d spend= on a bottle of wine. The lighting level didn’t help my state of uneasiness – the place was almost windowless.

Half an hour after entering the bar, Alain cupped = his ear, stood up, and went to the door. = He turned to me. “Bring the bags; it’s time to go.”

I re= ached the door as the convoy rolled by. We tagged along.

Forty kilo= metres into the journey, the paved road petered out, to be rep= laced by one surfaced with a mix of dirt and gravel, mostly dirt. I thought it odd that in spite of = the deluge earlier, the road had already dried out. An unpaved road, searing temperatu= res, and enough trucks to transport a whole army brigade, meant that the rest of the journey was going to be as dusty as a cattle drive.

Alain’s Land Rover had no air-conditioning – I hadn’t expected it to – and in the stifling heat we w= ould broil with the windows shut. = So we ate dust, but it was the small price to pay for the security that the convoy provided. <= /p>
The smaller vehicles had edged their way to the fr= ont. And we did, too. But there wa= s a certain pecking order to respect. A late model Volvo headed the line. “A government official,” Alain said. The car had its windows closed.

I settled back for the now slightly le= ss dusty ride.

“Do you do this kind of job very often?” I asked.

Alain turned, looked at me, and chuckled. “Guide? Yes, I have a good network of cont= acts, and tourists seem to trust me. I have the added advantage that I share your European blood.”

“Oh?”

“My father was a French civil servant. He deserted my mother shortly after I was born. Pos= ted back to Paris, my mother said.”

“You’ve never met him?R= 21;

“No. But it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. He sent money every f= ew months, so my mother lived in relative luxury and could send me to school.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> That’s where I learnt English. She insisted upon it= . ‘Key to the world,’ sh= e told me.”

Alain gave me an account of his life growing up in this country. A= nd I reciprocated with my life story as we trundled along at the speed of the slowest tr= uck, about forty kilometres an hour. Even at that speed, it seemed fast= on the pitted, unpaved roads. Mu= st play havoc with the suspension and tires, I thought. Then, as if to prove the point one= of the tires let out a loud bang.

“Puncture,” Alain said. He pulled over.

We hopped out to examine the damage. The front right tire was indeed fl= at. Alain dashed to the back of the ve= hicle and grabbed one of the two spares. He emerged from the dust cloud and dropped it at my feet, then retur= ned for the wheel wrench and jack.

The long line of cars and trucks continued to pass= by, drivers tooting their horns and passengers waving.

“Will they wait for us?” I asked.=

“No, they know we can catch up.”<= /o:p>

I now knew how a wounded buffalo felt when it could not keep up with the herd.

“Undo the wheel nuts while I position the ja= ck,” Alain said. I could sense the urgency in his voice. He, too= , seemed to understand the notion of being separated from the herd. But he would, this was his country= .

We went into action like a pit crew in a Formula O= ne Grand Prix. It took awhile, a= nd the convoy’s billowing dust had disappeared over the horizon by the time = we threw the flat and the tools into the back of the Land Rover.

We were off again but didn’t get more than a couple of kilometres before spotting another wo= unded buffalo in the shape of a battered white Toyota pickup truck. It was parked i= n the middle of the road, blocking our path. “Bandits,” Alain shouted= .

The white pickup looked familiar. “Weren’t they in the convoy?”

“Yes.”

Oh. = I get it.

The two presumed bandits had raised the hood and w= ere in the act of performing the something-is-wrong-with-my-engine charade. It involved peering at a supposedly kaput motor. They flagged us down. <= /span>

Alain swerved off the road into the long grass. We bounced over the hard-packed gr= ound, mercifully free of solid obstacles, and rejoined the road, fifty = metres farther up. I looked back. One of the two men fired at us wit= h a handgun. I knew enough about small arms to = know that it wasn’t the best weapon to use at that range. The bandits slammed the hood shut,= jumped into their pickup, and gave chase.

“They have to kill us now,” Alain said= . “Assume you are already dead= . It’ll help.”

I’d heard the same quote from my uncle, who = had been badly injured at the battle of Caen a few days after his D-Day landing on Gold Beach. My aunt always used to say, “= ;Come on Albert, don’t exaggerate.”&= nbsp; But my uncle said it with such passion that I knew he wasn’t making it up. Alain sounded t= he same.

I picked up the AK-47, slotted in the magazine, pu= lled back the cocking mechanism, and climbed into the back of the Land Rover. Peeking though the canvas cover at= the back, I could see them through our dust cloud. They were closing fast. The man in = the passenger seat leaned out of the window and aimed an assault rifle at us – Kalashnikov’s invention seemed to be the weapon of choice her= e. How close would he want to be befo= re opening fire?

Evolution has programmed our brains to think quick= ly even in situations beyond our experience.&= nbsp; I guess that’s how we all got here. I flicked the weapon into “co= ntinuous” and fired a burst at their windshield; twenty shots, I estimated. Christ, where’s the other ma= gazine? But I didn’t need it. The truck veered off the road, hit= a boulder and flipped over. As it did s= o, the guy in the passenger seat flew through the window and came to a quick stop against a boulder. The truck = burst into flames and, as far as I could see the driver had not been able to extricate himself.

“They’ll have to wait for the next convoy,” Alain shouted over his shoulder. I assumed he’d said this jus= t in case I harbored any thoughts of going back to check on them. “But I doubt they are still = alive,” he added with a chuckle.

I made my way back to the front seat. Alain had not slowed down by even = one kilometre per hour.&= nbsp; He slapped me on the shoulder. “Good shooting, white man.”

Not something to be proud of. Was my life worth more than theirs= ? Probably not, but I rationalized t= he act by telling myself that I’d saved Alain’s life. After all, he wouldn’t have = been at that exact place in time and space if it hadn’t been for my obsess= ion to see Pialou. And besides, i= t was them or us.

We soon caught up with the tail of the convoy, and Alain edged his way forward again, one vehicle at a time; a tricky process = as there were no passing lanes. We rea= ched Soubtoua before regaining our position.

In the middle of the town Alain peeled off from the convoy and followed the signpost to Pialou’s village. On a road far worse than the one we’d left, the final forty kilometres of = the journey took two hours.

The Sun had started to turn red on the horizon whe= n we reached our destination. Alain asked the first person we met if she knew Pi= alou Mbingbe. The woman did. “Venez avec moi<= /i>.” She walked ahead of our vehicle an= d beckoned us to follow her.

The drama of the journey meant that I’d forgotten to be nervous about this first-time meeting with Pialou= . Would she think I was crazy coming= all this way? I’d been her “foster parent” since she was eight years old, “adopting” her ten years earlier through a foster children’s charity based in Toronto.

We arrived at her hut.

Pialou looked the same as she had in her photos, e= ven to the white cotton blouse and floral skirt. “Je suis Jo= seph Cosgrove.” I did my bes= t to give my name a French ring to it, but I suspected it came out with an Inspector-Clouseau-like pronunciation.

It didn’t matter. She recognized my name without me = having to ask Alain to explain in French. She flung her arms around me.

Oh, how I wish my language skills had been better. She spoke slowly and I understood her, but my part of the dialogue had to go through Alain.

And then Pialou asked the obvious question. “Pourquoi maintenant?”

Why now, indeed?&= nbsp; “I only have a few months to live,” I said. “I felt I couldn’t jus= t desert you without an explanation.”

I removed my money-belt and gave it to her. The weight of it must have surpris= ed her, for her arm dropped a few inches before she steadied it. She looked in one of the pockets a= nd extracted a one ounce, 22-carat gold Krugerrand= . There were twelve all told, each w= orth about $750. In Antwerp I had paid $9,500 for them. The outlay would barely make a den= t in the inheritance my sons would receive, but in Pialou’s family it woul= d be the equivalent of ten years’ salary.= I knew she’d want to share it with them.

“Pou= r moi?” She started to cry.

I returned home to live out the= final three months of my life – all that the liver cancer would grant me. It allowed me to see the kids a fe= w more times, hand over copies of my will, write this story for them, and send a f= inal letter to Pialou.