Paul Theroux - The Lower River

“Famous pop stars in the bush!”

But Hock was looking at the compound. It was like a fortress, a prison, or perhaps, given its remoteness in this empty valley, a space station — all the steel and the compact buildings, a detached and singular platform in this hidden place. On top of the buildings solar panels were propped at an angle, black squares on gleaming brackets, with a white satellite dish and a tall radio antenna. What held Hock’s attention and consoled him was the neatness of the place, the idea that such order was possible. His eye had become accustomed to dirty huts and windows, the filthy underworld of the Lower River. This sight of a cared-for place was bittersweet; it lifted his spirits and saddened him, too — the clean symmetry was an aspect of his own world that he had forgotten. Encountering this compound unexpectedly gave him hope.

Hock clapped his hands to announce himself, and called out, “ Odi! Odi! ”

Only then was he aware of the sound of an engine that had just started up, which he took to be a generator. The rattle was disturbing, a reminder of the harshness of that other world and its motors.

He saw an African man in a clean uniform — green, like army fatigues or hospital scrubs, with a green baseball cap. The man, his back to the fence, was polishing a fat stainless-steel tank, a water tank most likely, about the size of a basement boiler and as tall as the man who was wiping it, with a cloth dampened with water from a plastic bottle. He then coated the tank with a whitish fluid, which quickly dried in the heat to a dusty film.

“You talk to him,” Hock said, unable to get the man’s attention.

“No. It is for you. Get some supplies. We are needing.”

“Why me?”

“Because it is your duty,” Manyenga said, and bared his teeth again, breathing hard.

“What are you talking about? It’s not my duty!”

Even as he spoke, he saw the absurdity of his arguing in this remote valley of the Matundu Hills, beside the chain-link fence and the big half-polished tank — no apparent door, only a seamless enclosure. Hock was screaming at Manyenga; Manyenga was screaming back at him.

“I don’t have a duty!” Hock shouted. “Do I, Festus?”

“You lied to me! You tricked Zizi into the hut! You stole my motorbike! You ran off down the river with those boys. You betrayed me when I trusted you.”

“You didn’t trust me!”

“I made you my chief minister. I respected you too much, but you did not respect me, not at all, isn’t it?”

“I came in good faith,” Hock said, almost weeping at the memory of his arrival in Malabo. “I came to help.”

“You are talking bloody rubbish,” Manyenga said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “I saved you from these boys who capture Europeans and sell them.”

Their shouting was loud enough for the man in uniform to hear over the rat-tatting of the generator. He turned from his polishing and, startled by the sight of the two quarreling strangers outside the fence, dropped his cloth and the bottle of polish and hurried across the compound to the largest of the green bungalows, losing one of his rubber flip-flops as he ran.

“You scared him away,” Hock said.

But when, hearing no reply, he glanced around, Manyenga was nowhere to be seen. Hock hooked his fingers on the fence and hung there, his head down, jarred by the chattering of the generator. The whole self-contained compound, with its lawn sprinklers and its bougainvillea and its gravel paths, so hopeful a little while ago, filled him with despair, because here he was, contemplating it from behind a ten-foot fence.

The African in the green uniform reappeared at the far side of the compound, near a building, talking to a man in sunglasses. The man in sunglasses was white, the first mzungu Hock had seen in more than six weeks — since Norman Fogwill in Blantyre. This man wore a green baseball cap and a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts and sandals, like someone on his way to the beach. Seeing the man, Hock became hopeful again, as when he’d first seen the compound. He felt like an earthling on a planet in deep space who’d just had a glimpse of another earthling — a brother, he thought, and he was almost overcome by a hatred for Manyenga. Seeing another white man inspired and allowed this feeling. He was stronger, not alone anymore, and, being stronger, he was able to admit this feeling of indignation.

He waved to the man in the flower-patterned shirt, who was still talking to the African at his side — laboriously, perhaps because of the loud generator. Hock tried to call out, and his voice caught and failed him — he was too full of emotion, near tears in spite of himself. He snagged his fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply.

The white man stared and then walked toward him, taking his time, kicking the gravel. Hock could see from the casual way he walked that he would be unhelpful. His cap visor was pulled low; his sunglasses were too dark for Hock to see his eyes. The double-A stitched on his cap Hock took to indicate the agency, L’Agence Anonyme.

Before Hock could speak, the man said, “What are you doing here?”

“I need help — please,” Hock said, clinging to the fence.

“How did you get here?” The man stepped back as though from a bad smell.

“With another guy, on a motorcycle.”

“I don’t see anyone,” the man said. “And there’s no road.” The man was stern, and his sternness emphasized his accent, which Hock could not place.

“We pushed the bike through the bush — does it matter? Listen, I need you to send a message for me to the consulate in Blantyre. It’s very urgent. I haven’t had a decent meal in a week. I’ve been sleeping in the bush. I’m thirsty — I need water. I need a lift out of here. All I’m asking…”

The man set his face and his beaky cap at him and said, “You know this is a protected area?”

“Please help me.”

“You need permission to come here.”

“I’ll get it. I have friends in Malawi.”

“This isn’t Malawi.”

“Or Mozambique. Whatever.”

“It’s not Mozambique.”

“What the hell is it then?” Hock said in a shriek, his voice breaking.

“It’s the charity zone, between both countries, and it’s policed. So take my advice and go away.”

“Can’t I just stay with you tonight?”

“We are not running a hotel.”

“I need a drink of water.”

“This is one of our busiest days,” the man said, sighing in exasperation. Hock hated the man’s shirt, hated the flowers, hated its cleanness, the neat creases on the sleeves. “We’ve got VIPs in the field — I mean, serious people. Heavy security. And you expect me to drop everything because you show up at the fence? Do yourself a favor. Go away. That’s a polite warning.”

“What’s the name of this outfit?”

“That’s confidential. We’re contractors.”

“I know. The agency — Agence Anonyme,” Hock said. “Okay, I’ll go. But just send an email for me. Please.”

“Who says we have the capability?”

“You’ve got a satellite dish.”

“It’s not operational.”

“Look, I’m an American, like you.”

“I’m not an American”—and saying so, accenting the word “American,” Hock knew the man was telling the truth.

“Where are you from?”

“Who wants to know? Who are you with?”

“I’m alone.”

“What agency?”

“No agency,” Hock said. “I’m a retired businessman. I came to Malawi over a month ago. Almost two months — I lost track of time. My clothes were stolen. My radio was stolen. I used to teach school here…”

As he spoke, Hock could see the man backing away, and finally he turned and walked along the gravel path, snapping his fingers at the African in the uniform, beckoning him.