Mark Lee - The Canal House

“I don’t suppose you know anything about water pumps?”

“I can fix a broken camera, but that’s about it,” Nicky said. “If there’s a real problem, you should talk to Daniel. I’ve seen him adjust the timing on his sports car.”

“They didn’t offer a repair class when I was studying medicine. Wish they had.”

“Where did you go to school? London?”

“Bristol. I was going to be a pediatrician.”

“How did you get into relief work?”

“It was sort of an accident. I went to Pakistan during the summer with Save the Children. It was only supposed to be for three months, but when the contract was up I couldn’t make myself leave. I’ve worked for Médecins Sans Frontières and a few other NGOs, but this is the first time I’ve been in charge of the entire operation.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks. But all that means is that it’s my responsibility to fix the pump.”

Nicky kept moving around me, the camera shutter clicking rapidly. “What about the illustrious Richard Seaton? Why can’t he help?”

“That’s enough questions—and photographs. Put the camera away and make yourself useful. Hold this hose steady while I turn the wrench.”

Nicky looked embarrassed and lowered his camera. Well, that’s good, I thought. At least he had a degree of self-consciousness, perhaps even a sliver of morality.

In fifteen minutes, the pump was working. A thin stream of water began to fill up one of the empty oil drums. The pump drew up liquid in pulses and the pencil-thin spurt of water reminded me of a cut artery.

“Can I take another photograph?”

“Just one.”

I walked over to the northern well and turned off the pump that had been running nonstop for the last three days. After that we walked to the medical tent where Fiona and Ellen were trying to organize a group of Karamojong children for inoculations. One of the nurses would get four or five children to stand together, but the line would dissolve and they would dart about, whistling and calling to each other like little birds. Finally, Peter and Tobias appeared carrying eight boxes of oranges and the children clustered around them.

Daniel stood to one side having a conversation with Steven Ramsey, the other physician in camp. He was an American who had worked for several NGOs and I had been forced to hire him as a last-minute substitute when another doctor had a relapse of malaria. Steve was lazy and unreliable, the kind of doctor who got into relief work because he couldn’t find a position back in the States. Now he was talking to Daniel, probably telling him that inoculations were a bourgeois artifact of the industrialized world.

The refugee children didn’t have enough fat and muscle in their arms so Fiona injected the first boy in a fleshy part of his hip. Tobias handed him an orange and the boy tossed it into the air. Within a few minutes, the oranges were rising and falling through the air, little globes of bright color. The children pushed forward to receive their shots and no one cried from the pain. I glanced at Nicky and he looked happy, switching cameras, then moving around to get different angles on the scene.

Richard came out of the staff tent. Billy stood on one side of him carrying his Uzi while Erik Viltner, the bush pilot, stood on the other. Daniel shook hands with Richard in a formal way, as if they were two Victorian explorers meeting on the shores of the Nile. The oranges flew higher and some children began to dance, and the sun blazed bright in the sky.

RICHARD KNEW HOW to handle journalists. Daniel told him that he had come to Kosana to find the Lord’s Righteous Army and Richard nodded yes, of course, quite so, then acted as if he hadn’t heard. He told Billy to arrange a spare tent and insisted that our guests spend the night. After Peter and Tobias flew back to Apoka Lodge, Richard proceeded to give the two Americans another tour of the camp. He pointed out the medical tent, the trucks, and the water wells, then went into the supply tent and showed them our battery-powered computer.

“I suppose you’ve seen the towers scattered around the camp. Each one has a digital camera that feeds into this tent. The images are sent out on a sat phone to the Hand-to-Hand web site. You can sit at your computer in the safety of your home and see refugees being fed and children’s lives being saved. Right now, we only have the live feed, but my staff is going to introduce a choice bar next month. If you click it with your mouse you can instantly contribute twenty, fifty, or one hundred pounds.”

Daniel studied the image on the computer monitor. “So you show them what their money is used for.”

“Yes. But it’s more than that, really. We’re trying to develop an emotional link between our donors and the refugees. In previous generations, people gave money to charities because they believed in God or the vicar told them to do it. That doesn’t work anymore. People don’t respond to moral imperatives. They need personal connections.”

“Too bad there aren’t any dogs,” Nicky said. “I spent a week in Turkey waiting for some rescue dogs to show up. Dogs and cute babies. That’s the way to go.”

“We’re not making a Hollywood movie here,” I said. “Richard just wants to show what happens in a relief camp.”

Richard was oblivious to Nicky’s sarcasm or my annoyance. He concentrated on Daniel, trying to win him over. “No, this isn’t a Hollywood movie. But the success of reality-based television in Europe and America has showed me that people do want a dramatic, true-life story. In the future, we might train our local staff to carry around video cameras. People can watch at home and wonder if a certain refugee will live or die. They can click their mouse and save a life, for a small contribution.”

The sun was going down when Richard finished the tour. “Want a cold beer?” Billy asked the visitors. “Still on ice. Straight from Nairobi.”

We all went to the staff tent and ate curry rice mixed with canned chicken. There were two tables and benches where everyone ate together, telling jokes and drinking the beer. After dinner, Daniel moved down the table and began to talk to Ellen Reagan. Ellen was twenty-five and still innocent about journalists and their questions. Every relief camp had a few scandals that needed to be concealed. There had been a minor disaster two weeks ago when some Karamojong left the camp and crossed the border into Kenya to steal cattle. If a reporter decided to publicize this incident, I would have to fly to Nairobi and sit in a government office while some bureaucrat scolded me like an angry headmaster.

I sat down beside Ellen and forced a smile. “Is Mr. McFarland asking you too many questions?”

“No,” she said, clearly enjoying the attention. “We’re talking about my family’s village. Mr. McFarland has visited Carrick on Shannon. He even remembered the name of our pub there.”

“I’m sure that Mr. McFarland has visited a great many places.”

“I’ve never been in this area of East Africa,” Daniel said. “What do you think about Kosana, Ellen? Do you like it here?”

Ellen chatted about the camp. The children were wonderful, but it was very hot and dusty and Mr. Monroe had killed a snake that slithered into her tent. I watched Daniel stare at Ellen’s Celtic cross earrings and the anxious, fluttery way she moved her hands. Throughout the conversation, he would turn his head slightly and glance at me.

Finally Ellen got tired and left the tent. Daniel looked straight at me as we faced each other over the table. I felt like we were two gamblers ready to play cards with each other.

“So why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Doing what? Running an aid organization?”

He nodded. “I’m trying to fit you into one of the six categories of relief workers.”