POVERTY TRAP

by

David Daniels

'But why do you want to go there?' Selina said.

'The articles I've read make me think it's a hell of a place, worth visiting for material. You bothered?' Thornton looked at her innocently, expecting a tirade.

'No, of course, it's your career, you must do what you think you should; I won't interfere,' she said, smiling with a flicker, 'I wouldn't anyway,' mumbled so that he had to cock his ear toward her.

'Should be back in one week, giving me five days there.' He said, picking up his bags and hobbling over, a quick peck on the cheek returned. She held up a farewell hand but stood silent. Thornton wasn't expecting an easy journey and the lead-in hadn't been given much support. His friend, a broadsheet newspaper editor had expressed interest, half-laughing interest but had said he'd 'have a look' when the deed was finished.

The trip to Heathrow was a pain, traffic on Monday mornings at eight a well-remembered log-jam; the Charles de Gaulle leg was a joy: short-haul carriers had it sorted out years ago - he'd flown many thousands of miles in Western Europe and this was the best carrier. He ignored beggars with polystyrene cups, cardboard signs and pleas in the terminal building. Thornton hated CDG (as he called it): too much uncovered concrete mixed with well-designed metal trim gave a cheap, unfinished touch to the place. Typical for the French, they created a fine balance between frugality and comfort, just erring toward the latter; complaints were minimal. The trip to Luanda wasn't going to be easy, he thought, a mad rush and then trying to get comfortable in seats not designed for sleeping in. After reading every word of an American broadsheet, he snoozed for half-an-hour, jolting and then pleased at the timely boarding announcement. He wandered closer to the gate's departure desk. He'd thought of taking a Dictaphone to load a shopping list; then remembered that Jock, his editor friend had said avoid taking anything valuable: 'It'll be confiscated or stolen.'

'Ticket, sir?' Unlike him: he had to fumble around but found it hanging out of his jeans pocket.

'Welcome aboard, sir,' the jumbo stewardess smiled, looking at his ticket stub, 'that side halfway down.'

He smiled a 'thanks' and entered.

The plane, almost empty, had swallowed the dozens in front. It showed age: the fittings and overhead signs had a frayed look that said OK but made him think about engines and there was a dirty cream colour to the trim which said nothing about natural colouring and everything about cigarettes - a plethora of. Servicing a jumbo didn't quite fit in with the profile he'd gained of the country: mechanics dodging bullets as they replaced a solenoid valve, the ricochets pinging off turbine blades. Thornton's prosaic mind was interrupted, by a thin, middle-aged black man standing over his aisle seat.

'Pardon me, sir.'

Thornton did a double take on the 'sir', then said 'Sure' with a thin smile. A twist of the legs was enough to let the man through, squeezing into the window seat. The flight took off on time with much internal rattling. As they reached altitude Thornton clicked his seat back.

'Can I have this, sir?' the man next to him said, pointing to the pseudo pillow.

'If you stop calling me "sir", yes.' Thornton smiled to iron out ambiguity. 'Where are you going?'

'Cabinda.'

'Cab -?'

'Cabinda, little place near Congo, si.' The man said, his small neatly-featured faced creased into a smile at Thornton's frown. 'You?'

'Oh, just Luanda.'

'Why you go to Angola? Very nasty, much hurt, much guns.'

'Yes? How do they pay for them.'

'Guns? Valuable minerals.'

'Really. So the rebels pay for guns with resources.'

'Resou -? Sorry English,' he said, twisting his hand from side-to-side.

'Minerals. Wrong word, sorry. And the government?'

'Same, same. Be careful in Luanda, white men watched. Hit for things.'

'Mugged?'

'Yes, yes! mugged.' The man gave Thornton a toothy grin, all brown and decaying stumps. Thornton had never seen a face so badly scarred: not lines, just pockmarks.

'So what should I do, stay indoors?'

'Nooo, not necessary to stay indoors in day, but night, yes.'

Thornton couldn't place the accent but it was familiar, a European-based mother language, for sure.

'Also,' the man said, putting up a finger, 'do not pay police in airport. Create trouble for every people. Keep dollars hidden.'

'What do you do?' Thornton thought he was due some curiosity.

'Work as courier for UN.'

'I thought the UN had pulled out?'

'Not yet, only from towns inside. You not go inside?' the man said, knitting brows with concern.

'No, from what I've read I think I'll stay within Luanda. This, er, this plane: maintained in Angola?'

The man laughed, bent double, 'Angola! No Angola, France.'

'Ah,' Thornton relaxed. 'I need to get some sleep now, thanks.'

'OK, good, me also; Obligado.'

Thornton slept through dinner and the film selection. The familiar hum of the throttled-back engines reminded him of a dull news bulletin. He was woken for breakfast; he ate hungrily but skipped the fry: the sausage and omelette looked a little too sorry for themselves. Then followed the filling in of landing cards; his visa, he had been told by his agent Josh, would be waiting for him on arrival.

On landing the first thing that hit him was the heat: late afternoon, mid-July and although dry it was burning. Foreigners were loaded onto a bus and driven to the terminal building. Airport police looked like security-van guards to Thornton: grey shirts, black trousers, only guns marked them out. He noticed the obvious American influence straight away: Marlboro and Camel 'glossies' dominated the pillar hoardings. The airport had the same worn, dog-eared appearance as the plane.

Some haggling with the immigration officials and his passport was stamped and handed back. He looked for the guy, described by the press agency back home, but had no joy; then for a lavatory, saw none and asked. Fingers pointed through an airport lounge at what appeared to be the first class lounge - red-and-white check plastic tables cloths and a plywood bar said all he needed. He was directed through what looked like a kitchen area, only the food was absent; the staff seemed to be rattling empty trays. Finally, in a half-lit corner stood a toilet: no seat and the whole inside of the bowl brown and packed with 'debris'. The whole area stunk, making his stomach prickle: flies and mosquitoes fought for pride of place. He'd hang on - had to. Walking back to the main exit, he saw a sweating, small podgy black-man standing scanning the arriving passengers. Waving his hand he saw the man hesitate then half-run over to him.

'You - Mr. Sam?'

'I'm Sam Thornton, you -?' his held out hand caused consternation - clearly unexpected. The little man picked up his bags and indicating outside and a 'Tambu ... please'; Thornton followed, then stopped on seeing holes in the perspex panels of the door.

'Are they -?'

'Argument - old, sir.'

He nodded slowly and felt the tension as soon as he walked outside. People sat around, staring at anyone leaving with corner-of-the-eye looks. Tambu shuffled to a battered old Bedford minibus, motioning to the sliding door as he threw the bags in. As Thornton climbed inside, he reached for a window slide and was slapped back gently by Tambu with a rapidly shaking head.

'No, all shut Mr Sam.'

'Just Sam,' said Thornton, annoyed.

Tambu drove him at high speed from the terminal building. Rather than take the highway he turned onto a narrower road a few miles on. Everywhere Thornton looked there was reddish soil on the ground and the buildings, once white, were stained the same. He looked boggle-eyed at the dwellings: not one that he saw had windows or a roof, just piles of breeze-blocks. In the roads between houses were what looked like open sewers. Outside one building was a group of women sitting in what looked like colourful sarongs with junk in front of them. He tapped Tambu on the shoulder.

'Just people,' he said ignoring them.

'What's that junk?'

'No junk - only things to sell.'

'But they're just rags and a can of Coke!'

'For some people, many in Angola cannot buy many things. This only way for money.'

'The smell too.'

'What ... smell?' said Tambu looking round, hard-faced.

'Like ... body odour.'

'Normal - drink milk in summer, make sweat smell.'

Tambu raced across junctions and Thornton noticed that he never let the minivan stop, even with traffic build-ups. Nor did he look at anyone in passing.

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