the sense of humor thing. “We don’t even have a Sister Leah and . . . Never mind. Third tent on the left. It’s the one with a tin of tea out on the table, along with the sign that says, ‘Welcome, Ms. Pollard.’ Please make yourself at home.”
And with that, she squished off to find some water.
Leslie Pollard stood with all his gear just inside the door of the tent.
There, on the table was the tin of tea—Earl Grey—that what’s-her-name—Gina—had mentioned. It was next to a kettle, a can of sterno, and an obviously coveted Tupperware container of Fig Newtons. His stomach rumbled just at the sight of them. Of course, his stomach rumbled pretty damn constantly these days as he tried to keep his weight down.
The sign she’d described was there, too. “Welcome to our home, Ms. Pollard.”
As far as homes went, from the outside this was one of the shabbiest tents he’d ever seen in his life. The canvas had been repaired so many times it was more patch than original fabric. And the frame reminded him of a swayback mule. Old and ugly, and probably unreliable in a storm, but able to get the job done on an average day.
As if there were any average days here in this camp—this holier-than-thou den of do-gooders on a mission to save this extra-crappy section of an all-but-irredeemable world.
No doubt about it, though, this part of Africa had more priests and nuns per square mile than just about anywhere he’d ever traveled. If someone needed saving, this was the place to come.
And yet Gina, of the dark brown hair and killer bod, actually thought no one would . . . what? Care? Or maybe not notice that the volunteers were suddenly having co-ed sleepovers?
According to the rules and regulations of AAI—he’d been given an entire booklet from the office in Nairobi—unmarried men and women were not allowed to “fraternize individually.” This included any travel outside of the camp. Relief workers were encouraged to travel and socialize in groups, three being the magic number.
The booklet claimed these rules were created both to provide protection for the relief workers, and to be an obvious example of AAI’s utmost respect of all of the varying customs and cultures in Kenya.
So . . . share a tent in an AAI camp with two very attractive women?
Not bloody likely.
He had gone, brimming with disbelief, to talk to the stern-faced Nazi nun. He figured he’d go straight to the source to find out where he really would bunk down tonight.
But apparently the camp had some kind of pamper-the-new-guy policy, and Sister Brunhilda also agreed that having him stay temporarily in this tent while the two women slept in the hospital—where, on the floor?—was the best solution to their overcrowding problem. She did let him know that it would all be under her watchful eyes. And he could tell just from looking that she was the type who slept with one eye open.
When she bothered to sleep at all.
So here he was.
He set his cane and his bag down on the bed nearest the door—the one with the empty trunk chained to its metal frame.
The two women had sewn brightly patterned fabric to the inside top panels of the tent, and it drooped down in places—somehow managing to make the space look exotic instead of pathetic. There were richly dyed spreads on their cots, a cozy homemade table and chairs, bookshelves crafted from old crates that were stuffed to overflowing.
Every available surface was covered with candles and carvings and all of the little knickknacks and photographs and drawings and collectibles, each with its own story, that made this faded tent in a godforsaken corner of the world into more of a home than any place he had stayed for more years than he could remember.
But there was another sign on the table, too: “Only drink bottled water,” with about six exclamation points, underlined three times.
It reminded him of the puking priests. Going out there and offering to help would win him salvation
And with that, she squished off to find some water.
Leslie Pollard stood with all his gear just inside the door of the tent.
There, on the table was the tin of tea—Earl Grey—that what’s-her-name—Gina—had mentioned. It was next to a kettle, a can of sterno, and an obviously coveted Tupperware container of Fig Newtons. His stomach rumbled just at the sight of them. Of course, his stomach rumbled pretty damn constantly these days as he tried to keep his weight down.
The sign she’d described was there, too. “Welcome to our home, Ms. Pollard.”
As far as homes went, from the outside this was one of the shabbiest tents he’d ever seen in his life. The canvas had been repaired so many times it was more patch than original fabric. And the frame reminded him of a swayback mule. Old and ugly, and probably unreliable in a storm, but able to get the job done on an average day.
As if there were any average days here in this camp—this holier-than-thou den of do-gooders on a mission to save this extra-crappy section of an all-but-irredeemable world.
No doubt about it, though, this part of Africa had more priests and nuns per square mile than just about anywhere he’d ever traveled. If someone needed saving, this was the place to come.
And yet Gina, of the dark brown hair and killer bod, actually thought no one would . . . what? Care? Or maybe not notice that the volunteers were suddenly having co-ed sleepovers?
According to the rules and regulations of AAI—he’d been given an entire booklet from the office in Nairobi—unmarried men and women were not allowed to “fraternize individually.” This included any travel outside of the camp. Relief workers were encouraged to travel and socialize in groups, three being the magic number.
The booklet claimed these rules were created both to provide protection for the relief workers, and to be an obvious example of AAI’s utmost respect of all of the varying customs and cultures in Kenya.
So . . . share a tent in an AAI camp with two very attractive women?
Not bloody likely.
He had gone, brimming with disbelief, to talk to the stern-faced Nazi nun. He figured he’d go straight to the source to find out where he really would bunk down tonight.
But apparently the camp had some kind of pamper-the-new-guy policy, and Sister Brunhilda also agreed that having him stay temporarily in this tent while the two women slept in the hospital—where, on the floor?—was the best solution to their overcrowding problem. She did let him know that it would all be under her watchful eyes. And he could tell just from looking that she was the type who slept with one eye open.
When she bothered to sleep at all.
So here he was.
He set his cane and his bag down on the bed nearest the door—the one with the empty trunk chained to its metal frame.
The two women had sewn brightly patterned fabric to the inside top panels of the tent, and it drooped down in places—somehow managing to make the space look exotic instead of pathetic. There were richly dyed spreads on their cots, a cozy homemade table and chairs, bookshelves crafted from old crates that were stuffed to overflowing.
Every available surface was covered with candles and carvings and all of the little knickknacks and photographs and drawings and collectibles, each with its own story, that made this faded tent in a godforsaken corner of the world into more of a home than any place he had stayed for more years than he could remember.
But there was another sign on the table, too: “Only drink bottled water,” with about six exclamation points, underlined three times.
It reminded him of the puking priests. Going out there and offering to help would win him salvation
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