The Camel Bookmobile (6 page)

Here she was, then, caught in a contradiction of her own making. Fingering the beads that hung between her breasts, Jwahir fell silent in mid-argument, rose, and walked away from her quietly puzzled husband. She felt suddenly wearied by the balancing act required to sharply condemn the bookmobile aloud while, with equal fervor, blessing it within.

The Librarian

S
ITI, THE LEADER AND LOAD CAMEL, SEEMED TO GRASP FROM
the beginning that she held the balance of power. First she forced a late start to the journey with her capricious shifts of weight that stunted the men’s effort to pack her with books. Mr. Abasi, grumbling about the wasted time as they set off, thought he spotted victory in her eyes, though he quickly told himself he had imagined it. Then, ninety minutes into the trip, Siti glanced back at him, blinked her long eyelashes, sighed loudly, and plopped to the lunarlike desert floor. She tossed her head jauntily, exhibiting the yellowed teeth that jutted from her lower jaw.

At that moment, Mr. Abasi knew for sure what no one else could: Siti was possessed by the spirit of his own departed mother. When he looked closely, he even saw his mother’s particular mulish expression reflected in the camel’s stubborn gaze. A woman of aggressively colorful dress, his mother had been renowned for her strident refusal to be chained to household chores, as well as for her loud complaints that her husband, responsible for the happiness of three wives, failed to visit her as often as contractually required. She’d been, of course, three times the size of that
husband. Her hugs had, more than once, nearly suffocated her slight only son. “I am a woman who must be embraced in full,” she used to proclaim to anyone who would listen. “My expanses must be traversed like the land itself.”

A full embarrassment, that’s what she was. But frighteningly powerful. He’d never been able to completely accept that a mosquito caused her death. She’d seemed too substantial to be threatened by a
mbu
, even one carrying
onyong-nyong
fever—so it wasn’t a total surprise to find her reincarnated now.

It was disturbing, though, to think that he could never be done with his mother, never leave her behind.

Then Mr. Abasi realized he had a chance to finally hold the upper hand with her, so he knelt and muttered into the camel’s ear. “Listen to me, Mama. You continue to make this trip difficult and I will unload you, dump you with that primitive, nowhere tribe. I swear I will. They will slice your throat to drain your blood for their meal, and then close it up with a bit of your own dung mixed with hair. A month later, they will cut again to drain more blood. They are that hungry.” He paused a moment to let his words sink in before concluding. “So. Get up now, or die a second time in Mididima, Mama. Make your decision. Be quick-quick.”

It was his words, Mr. Abasi knew, and not the driver’s lashing, that prompted Siti to rise at last and resume the lead, trailed by a second camel carrying Mr. Abasi, a third carrying Miss Sweeney, and a fourth carrying supplies. But the delay had been too long. With such a lackadaisical pace and so many distractions, they were lucky they hadn’t en
countered any
shifta
. The bandits, with rows of shiny gold bullets slung around their hips, would surely have killed this willful white American woman. What, then, would be the fate of Mr. Abasi?

Of course, what sort of fate was this, anyway? Since Mr. Abasi’s boyhood, his dream of an ideal job was one he could do in the shade that required as little physical exertion as possible and even less human interaction. What joy when the foreign librarian, Miss Fetegrin, had visited from London looking for a worthwhile scholarship recipient, and he had been chosen, and thus discovered there actually existed work that would meet his requirements. Some shelving was necessary, of course. But the library’s unambiguous rules against talking more than compensated for that light lifting.

Now, though, they’d changed his job requirements. They’d forced him to travel beneath the unforgiving sun four times a week on these exhausting excursions across a terrain naked except for the occasional thornbush or acacia. And why? Because foreigners with fervor in their hearts decided all children must be educated.
Educated
. The misconception buried in the word set his teeth to grinding. These foreigners couldn’t understand that literacy was not the only path to education. In tribal settlements, the tradition was an oral one, bolstered by the evolutionary development of powerful memories, supported by a web of ritual and respect that books would not reinforce—could, in fact, destroy.

Besides, these simple people were at peace with themselves. Wasn’t that a kind of wisdom? A little rain, a bowl
of maize, and they were happy. They didn’t desire objects outside their reach. This bookmobile project, overseen by the Kenya National Library Service with Miss Sweeney as “visiting consultant,” bred envy of an unobtainable life. Some suitable books were to be found among the donations, of course. But what were a dusty desert people to make of a movie star’s biography? A do-it-yourself book for landscapers? A children’s picture book about medieval castles? Their inclusion highlighted Western idealists’ underbelly of ignorance, and even arrogance.

There were other issues. The tricky concept of borrowing something that must be returned two weeks later in the same condition, for one. No one could convince him that this policy had been sufficiently explained to these tribal warriors or their wives and children. And the requirement that the library-on-a-camel be available only to permanent, non-nomadic settlements. What did that concept mean, here in the bush? Permanent until the seasonal well ran dry. Permanent until the bandits threatened. Permanent until permanence felt like a chore rather than a choice, until the freedom of a new place proved irresistible to the men of the clan.

These lines of reasoning he had outlined many times at many meetings with American and British do-gooders as they barreled ahead, devising a way to transport a library across rugged land devoid of modern infrastructure, lining up foreign funding, collecting books. He’d considered it his responsibility to raise these issues, and had expressed himself in a manner that impressed him, at least, as admirably articulate, though he’d tried to keep his pride from being
too apparent. Then came the afternoon his boss from Nairobi, Mr. Munyes, bent to whisper in his ear.

“No one wants to hear from the mouth of a librarian an argument against reading,” Mr. Munyes said. Though his tone was suitably restrained, Mr. Abasi understood that convincing these people to abandon this foolish project, to use the money for something more practical within the library system, would be as likely as teaching an elephant to sing. To continue the efforts might even cost him his job.

He was not ignorant of the problem of perception that his boss mentioned. On the surface, he knew, his demeanor could seem snappish, his comments peevish. Counter that with Miss Sweeney, who appeared goodhearted and laughed a lot. Mr. Munyes had described her as “charmingly casual.” Mr. Abasi understood this as a reference to the fact that she attended meetings carrying a purple bag and rarely seemed to brush her frizzy hair. She wasn’t like the librarians he’d known in London. She was so much more outspoken and opinionated, and such a strange mix of casual and fervent.

She’d told Mr. Abasi that she dreamed of “putting something together here that will be bigger than you or me, and that will keep on growing long after I’m gone.” By
gone
, she meant not dead, of course, but distant from the foul-tasting local food, the uncomfortable sleeping quarters, the lack of privacy. Back to her swimming pools and low-cut gowns and confusing rounds of love affairs—he’d seen the American television shows. Well, he supposed her motivation in leaving all that temporarily behind was admirable, although some days it simply seemed meddlesome.

But he wouldn’t worry over this further, he decided as
they drew into Mididima after a trip that had stretched to more than three hours. He’d insisted on implementing certain rules, and to that at least, they’d agreed. And he’d gone on record with his position regarding the entire scheme. Surely they wouldn’t hold him responsible when the “non-motorized mobile library”—or the Camel Bookmobile, as they dubbed it, the very words making them smile in appreciation of their own cleverness—began inevitably wilting under the midday sun.

The American

I
T WAS NEARLY NOON WHEN THE CAMEL BRIGADE PULLED UP
under Mididima’s acacia, the tallest tree within a mile, beautiful but severe like an elegant woman who’d become too thin. Each time they traveled this lonely route—and this was their ninth visit—Fi was struck by the moment of impact, when the stillness of the journey collided with the commotion of Mididima. Since Mr. Abasi routinely rebuffed her efforts to initiate conversation during these trips, the only sounds she’d heard for hours had been a wet drone of camels breathing and an occasional bird complaining limply of heat or half celebrating a sliver of shade. She’d imagined herself an ancient, isolated nomad, tossed back in time, traveling in a bubble of dust.

Compare that with the motion and music that ran like a swell through the air as soon as they first caught sight of the acacia looming in the distance, and then a moment later, the settlement itself. Conical huts with thatched roofs sprouted like a cluster of mushrooms atop a table of green and a natural shallow water reservoir, a gift to the eyes after the desert hues of dried blood and wheat. Lemon-colored plastic containers that she knew held extra water stood
lined up beneath a ramada. The people of Those Rooted in Dust were already gathering, pulled toward the acacia as if by an unseen puppeteer, followed by their animals—dozens of animals, more goats and camels, it seemed, than people. And cattle too, though most of the cows were raised in the higher lands.

Once at Mididima, Fi could not even dismount for the first few minutes. The ripple of excitement gave way to a flood that surrounded them and spiraled them into its center. This, she imagined, was what an athlete must feel on the shoulders of his teammates after the winning goal. The exhilaration, the thrill, the certainty that one would be young and strong forever.

“Jambo
,” she said in greeting to one after another as the men set up the three-walled tent, spread grass mats, and laid out the books. “How are you, how are you?” the four- and five-year-olds called in singsong voices, running up to take her hand. Their local dialect was an obscure language she’d never heard of before, but they practiced their English and she practiced her Swahili, which most of them knew.

So thin, they were all so thin, and she noticed it still, but it didn’t scare her as it did at first. She used to think their hold on life must be as threadlike as their bodies, but she’d lost that sense, perhaps because they seemed so alive and because, here in Mididima at least, they never gave a sign of thirst or hunger, and they laughed more often than not.

Kanika, the girl, was among the first to push close. Her smile claimed much of her narrow face. She braided her hair against her scalp and three necklaces corded her neck.
Not far behind stood the girl’s grandmother, Neema, wearing a brilliant orange scarf, a sky-blue dress, and beaded earrings the size of a boxer’s fist. Fi didn’t immediately see the scarred young man who spoke with his eyes and long fingers. Of course, he was never among the first press of people.

Mr. Abasi unloaded the lead camel, who seemed to glare at him from under her fringed lashes. The teacher, Matani, helped.

“Matani!
Jambo
,” Fi said, and brushed the tips of his fingers with her own. It had become their form of greeting since they’d first met, when she’d reached to shake his hand and missed, touching his fingertips instead as he stretched to lift a box of books. He must have thought the gesture intentional, a strange custom particular to her region of America, because the next time he’d brushed her fingers first. The flare of his nostrils and the thickness of his lips gave Matani a firm and authoritative face. His eyes, in contrast, reminded her of warm cocoa. When he got close, she smelled something pleasantly spicy, something akin to pepper mixed with cinnamon. Now, he wore dark pants, a light shirt, and a metal bracelet around his left wrist.

“How are you?” she asked.

“We’ve made good use of the books, Miss Sweeney,” Matani said.

“Call me Fi,” she said, as she always did. “I’ve brought another stack of magazines, and a few more pens and pencils. Plus six books for you. How are they learning, your students?”

Matani reached out to grab a boy by the arm and spoke
to him rapidly before turning to Fi. “Let Nadif show you,” he said.

Nadif, who looked eight but was probably twelve, held out a hand on which he’d written some numbers in ink. He spoke and Matani translated. “Eight cows,” he said. “Two die from drought. Then four calves come in spring. Next year, half of the remaining cows become mothers, so then you begin all over with fifteen cows.”

“And, hopefully, lots of milk,” Fi added.

“That is thanks to the mathematical primer,” Matani said.

“Yes, thank you too much,” Nadif said.

“Very much,” Matani corrected. “Too much is in excess, Nadif.” Then he growled playfully at the boy, drawing laughter from both Fi and Nadif.

“And how is his reading?” Fi asked.

“His English is coming along. Last time, he got a book about the Ivory Coast,” Matani said, gesturing to the boy’s arms, where he held the book.

“Can you read it?” Fi asked, leaning toward the boy. After a pause, Matani translated.

“Many large words,” Nadif answered in slow English.

“But we enjoyed the pictures,” Matani said quickly. “And we’re learning the words.”

Fi shook her head. Most of the books had been donated, and they were not always appropriate. “We need simpler books, don’t we, Matani? And more in Swahili instead of English.”