Risking All for Love (Wattpadprize14)

Chapter Eight

At the Peace Corps Hostel, Gary met with his friends David and Harold, both guys from upcountry near the border of Guinea and Sierra Leone.

"Where are you located exactly, David?" Gary said.

"I'm teaching at a small school near Foyah Market.  It's not far from Sierra Leone. Last week I went with Lisa Doubek, David Rasmussen, and a nurse called Mother Minita to Koindu Market in Sierra Leone."

"How was it?" Gary said.

"There were five government soldiers with old Enfield bolt-action rifles harassed by a dozen kids. Would you believe it? Kids with Kalashnikov automatic rifles?"

"Yeah, but weren't the soldiers disciplined enough to take them on and not be intimidated by them?" Harold said.

"Look, just one kid with a Kalashnikov has the fire power of all those soldiers put together, add eleven more armed kids like that, and the soldiers had no chance in a fight. Instead the kids merely called them names and brandished their weapons," David said.

"I've been in combat," Gary said, "there's not much those government soldiers could have done in the open. At best they could have surprised them in an ambush."

"Aren't we going out in tonight, guys?" David said.

"They have a smorgasbord at the Ducor Palace tonight, but I never eaten there," Gary said. "Let's try it. I hear it's almost as good as American food. I been eating a lot of country chop that a Margaux fixes for me lately."

"She's a good cook?"

"Oh, yes, she is."

"What are we waiting for?" Harold said.  "Let's get to that chow that's waiting for us."

Two minutes later the three friends left the Peace Corps Hostel and were walking down Tubman Boulevard. Just after one of them had but to hold up his hand, a taxi came to a screeching halt. It backed up fast to meet them.

"Wha pla you go?" the driver said.

"Ducor Palace,"Gary said. "One time!"

"Why did you say that?" Harold said.

"My friend Margaux Dubonnet taught me some Liberian English," Gary said. "It means to drive fast."

"Who is this Margaux Dubonnet?"

"A beautiful girl that I am falling for."

"Oh, your cook. Where's she from?"

"Here in Liberia actually," Gary said with a grin.

"What tribe is she?" Harold said.

"She was born here, but it's hard to say how much of her is African." Gary paused. "She was raised by Americans, which explains her American accent."

"Sounds like you got it bad, guy," David said.

The taxi turned onto Broad Street and uphill toward the Ducor Palace Hotel, a plush hotel. It was a favorite hot spot of foreigners and Americo-Liberians, descendants of free black men from the United States but resettled in Africa. It was once a haunt of William Tolbert, past President of Liberia. They swept past sidewalk vendors still open late, hoping to make a few more dollars. Then they would be off to home and a pot of country chop and rice.

The taxi sped past women in two-piece outfits called Lapas. The term was a corruption of the British term for Wrapper, or a wrap-around skirt. A well-made lapa also had a matching top and a matching piece of cloth for a woman to tie around her head. Each tribe had its own special way its women tied them.