Our Last Echo

13

Nairomi

The hotel room had a balcony, but there wasn't much of a view. All Diana could see was the shanty town that had grown up in the wreck of the city: tin and steel shelters among the bombed-out ruins. Beyond that, there was only sand. She adjusted the neckline of her blouse and wished Amajagh's people had chosen a hotel that had air conditioning. She was wearing her lightest clothing: cotton slacks and a loose-fitting blouse, and it was still too hot. She ran her fingers through her auburn hair, combing it into a rough ponytail and pulled a band from her pocket to tie it. That would help a little, but she had to get out of the sun. Her fair skin couldn't handle it for too long even with her best sunscreen.

Mark was sitting on the other bed, unloading his camera bag. He had packed all his usual gear, including the digital Nikon he was banned from taking to General Amajagh's compound, but he also had an old manual camera. He took it out and screwed in a telephoto lens.

Mark pointed the camera at the wall. "My dad gave this camera to me for my eighteenth birthday. My first real SLR." He pressed the shutter. The click was very loud.

"It's a very photogenic wall," Diana commented.

He grinned. "I haven't loaded the film yet. Just checking the mechanics. It's been a while since I've worked with film and longer since I used this baby, but you don't forget your first." He patted the lens and removed it from the camera body. He packed everything, including several rolls of film, into a padded bag.

Diana sat down on her bed. "I hate this waiting." She reached for her wallet and extracted some cash and travellers' cheques. "I'm going down to that little cafe." She was dying for a cold drink.

"Just a moment. I'll come with you," Mark offered.

"It's okay."

Mark slung the camera bag over his shoulder and placed himself between Diana and the door. "Diana, you're an amazing woman, but in this country if you go out there alone, dressed like that, you're fair game. How about you wait until after the interview to piss on their rules?"

Diana knew he was right, but as much as she understood the need to respect the culture of the country she was in, it was hard to give in to rules she considered idiotic at best. She had reported from Iraq. She had been embedded with a battalion in Afghanistan. She did it all without pretending to be something she wasn't.

But Mark was right. Diana picked up a headscarf and covered her hair, though in a style that owed more to 1950's Vogue than to Islam. "Good enough?"

Mark shrugged. "Better button your blouse, too."

In Metropolis, she would have punched him for that. Reluctantly, she buttoned the blouse to the neck and walked around him to the door.

The cafe was on the ground floor of the hotel, and had clearly once been a bar. No alcohol was served any more, of course, but they did have a range of cold drinks and ice. They ordered drinks and chose a table in the shade. Diana got out her notebook and began making some notes about her impressions of Nairomi.

In the capital, the presence of the military had been very obvious. There were armed men on every street, the blue berets of the UN forces mingling with the black of the new army that served the recently elected regime. That election was disputed, but the streets of the capital were peaceful, even if it was an armed peace. In the brief time they were there, Diana had seen women in bright dresses and headscarves carrying baskets and children on their hips as they walked the streets. She saw men in white jubbas and kufis driving to offices and boys playing games on street corners. It was no idyll, but the city showed a country bouncing back from Nairomi's devastating civil war.