The Foreign Service Journal, November 2007

Cole pulled on his beer and smiled. He produced a cigarette and left it poised briefly on his lips. When the woman made no display of fur- nishing a light, he fumbled for match- es and did it himself, exhaling impa- tience in a torrent of smoke. “Your vehicle is being repaired, no?” she said. Cole decided not to be aghast that she already knew of the limping Land Cruiser. The smaller the village, the faster everyone seemed to have the news. His reporting instincts stirred. “Yes, we’re hoping to have repairs done so we can get back to the city by sunset. I’m from the American em- bassy, visiting a few of the Lutheran missions.” Cole didn’t mention the other rea- son for his desert foray. The local rid- wan, or clan chieftain, had been ter- rorizing the region for weeks. Shedding even the pretense of oper- ating under central government con- trol, his forces were commandeering commercial convoys, raiding private houses and, reportedly, even detain- ing villagers in private jails. Although none of the area’s smattering of Americans had been affected, the embassy was worried by the implica- tions of eroding government control. Eager to break the routine of a JO political tour in a West African back- water, Cole had volunteered to inves- tigate. After three days of notary ser- vices, tedious meetings with local officials and diarrhea, however, he was chafing to go home. No one seemed to know anything about the ridwan. Or, more likely, no one was foolhardy enough to talk. Even the missionaries changed the subject when he broached the issue. “Are there any security problems I should worry about when we drive back to the city?” he asked. “Everything is good here.” The woman grinned in a way Cole found almost foolish. “How long have you lived in the area?” Cole opted for an indirect tack. “My husband brought me here three years ago, when we married. I am from Korea.” A readiness for con- versation seemed stymied by the woman’s meager French. She stared at Cole earnestly. He considered a barrage of ques- tions: Why did you leave Korea for this mud-brick purgatory? How can you possibly be happy here? Can you tell me where to find some informa- tion about the ridwan so I can finish my work and get back to the capital? He snuffed out his cigarette. He could hear the dull hum of the clock behind the bar. “Do you have any children?” he asked. “I have no children. My husband found me this place. This is my work.” Cole tried to imagine local shep- herds and shopkeepers at the empty tables, nursing Abatis beneath the Korean’s benign gaze. He attempted to conjure a vision of her husband, and came up blank. Perhaps they met online, he mused, barely sup- pressing a smirk. “Do you ever get homesick? Can you cook Korean food here?” His questions made her smile even brighter. The woman touched her forehead. “My home is here. I know how to make Korean food. I do not need to eat it.” Cole tried to steer the dis- cussion toward the ridwan. He thought he remembered that Christ- ianity is common in Korea. “Have you met any of the Americans at the Lutheran missions? They tell me the ridwan’s men have been very active lately. Do the for- eigners have a way of contacting each other if there’s a problem?” Only yesterday, the ridwan’s forces had stopped and briefly detained a Scandinavian missionary convoy, and Cole was trying to track rumors that some of the missionaries had been physically attacked. He had a hard time picturing his new friend chatting with the doughty Minnesotans at the Lutheran mission, tucking into a casserole and borrowing tattered copies of Ladies’ Home Journal. “My husband is from this region. I see his family. There are few foreign- ers here. I do not know them.” The hands on the Abati clock approached 4:00. As if responding to his gaze, the woman produced anoth- er brown bottle. Cole welcomed the fresh beer, even as he grew increas- ingly anxious about getting back to the provincial capital before dark. Where was Oumaru? Were there no other patrons? Perhaps the woman was a lousy cook. He laughed under his breath, and decided on a direct approach. “You must have heard about all the attacks by the ridwan’s forces. Some Scandinavian missionaries were stop- ped yesterday. It is becoming dan- gerous here.” He lit another ciga- rette and waited for the woman to speak. “I am safe here. The ridwan pro- tects us.” After a pause, she added: “The American embassy is concerned about our security.” Cole could not tell if the sentence was a question or an observation. Beer, heat and dehydration were con- spiring to make him feel lightheaded. The clock seemed to glow. His mind drifted to the Abati billboards in the 42 F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L / N O V E M B E R 2 0 0 7 Cole decided not to be aghast that she already knew of the limping Land Cruiser.