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Diego Zussa 

MAMBILLA PLATEAU

Africa 40 years ago as seen through the eyes and experiences of a very young surveyor 

© 2023 – Diego Zussa 

Translated by Simona Casaccia

Original Book was realised by Zeta Edizioni

Translated Book published by Tektime

To my beloved wife Giovanna Corder,

Who will be forever missed

The characters in this novel, as well as their names and personalities, are entirely fictional, and any identity or resemblance to any real or existing person should be attributed to pure coincidence unintended by the Author. 

1

Headlights ripped through the darkness of the night that had just fallen.

The cab, as usual, was speeding along the slip road to Fiumicino airport.

He had just left the city of Rome. Imperial Rome, Rome caput mundi, Rome open city, the Rome of the good life and international worldliness.

    In those 1970s, the city was at the center of          Fellini's dolce vita. An open-air museum that exuded history, splendor and power in every corner. Perhaps power is not the appropriate word, let's just say the remnants of old prestige and ancient civilization. The charm remained still intact and inextricably linked to the palaces and squares of the city.

The cab had arrived in the late evening of a particularly warm day of incipient autumn. The sun was setting, coloring the horizon above the rooftops of the buildings with a fiery blush. A wonder of nature that gave to the city of Rome unforgettable evenings and sunsets.

The west wind whispered its light breath over the city.

"I'm here for Mr. Sandri," the driver had announced over the intercom, after pressing the Pladeco button in the long list of condominium buttons.

"The cab to Fiumicino has arrived, can I get in?" he had continued, waiting for an answer that had immediately come.

"Come on up, your bags are packed and Mr. Sandri is waiting for you," the attractive female voice of the secretary had answered the intercom.

Fairly good-looking, with dark wavy hair and brown eyes, Margaret had justifiably obtained the Society's secretariat. Capable and resourceful, she was recognized as the coordinating soul of the many international activities that awaited the Society's varied structure.

Pladeco, an acronym for Planning Development Company, had gained an international reputation in organizing agribusiness development plans in mainly African and Asian countries, working in close liaison with the FAO and other supranational bodies that, before intervening in large humanitarian operations in underdeveloped countries, financed large campaigns of research and study on the territory. Studies that were aimed at analyzing, monitoring and documenting the peculiarities of areas that deserved to be funded and developed.

And Pladeco had carved out a slice of this giant international business moving billions of dollars and feeding human appetites even in the desolate, sunny lands of Africa.

And it was Africa, Nigeria, that was awaiting the arrival of young Giorgio Sandri.

2

Margaret, once I opened the door, had immediately called me, "Giorgio, the cab for you has arrived."

In one corner of the entrance hall were stacked, one on top of the other, the five suitcases full of documents, mail, projects and personal effects. To these, I had just added my personal suitcase, overflowing with memories and hopes.

The driver had picked them up one by one, transferring them to the elevator to take them to the ground floor. Out there, the cab waited with its four flashing lights on. It was in fact, as usual, double- parked. The first one was always occupied by the chaotic city traffic and often by the cars of the apartment building employees themselves.

I had taken my carry-on luggage and approached the door of the director, Dr. Viviani. I had knocked and waited for an answer.

"Come on in, Mr. Sandri. I hear your cab has arrived. Now you can finally leave. Have a safe trip and give my regards to everyone up there in Gembu."

"Thank you," I had replied softly.

"Be sure to let me know how the work on the Mambilla Plateau is progressing. Take care of you, you are very young, but tenacious and prepared and you will see that you will make it," Dr. Viviani had continued.

I had thanked him again and given him a strong and firm handshake.

I was young, but also determined and confident.

I knew that a lot of trust had been placed in me.

But a veil of fear had clouded my mind for a moment, would I be able to merit it?

I had been immediately called back to reality by Margaret's voice: "Giorgio, the cab is waiting for you." She had kissed me on the cheek and said, "Go! Good luck-and good luck."

"Drop dead," I had replied confidently.

With a lump in my throat and a mixture of recklessness and presumption, I had taken the elevator in my turn, gone down to the ground floor, and got into the cab, loaded to the brim with luggage.

In addition to taking care of myself, I had the big responsibility for the luggage entrusted to me. In fact, each person going to or returning from the Mambilla Plateau construction site had to act as a "carrier pigeon" and carry an incredible amount of luggage and correspondence.

Although reached by normal air flights, Nigeria was still a difficult developing African country where corruption reigned supreme and nothing moved, at any level, unless it was abundantly "oiled."

During the long period when I had stayed at the Pladeco had amply described to me the socio- cultural and environmental conditions of Nigeria, a country to which I was now about to go, to do the work that awaited me at Plateau.

3

Just around the corner from Via Vittorio Veneto, the cab had turned onto a wide avenue. It was Via Bissolati, the street of the airlines. There, almost all of them, had an office with winking storefronts and large corporate acronyms. And it was always there, at Nigeria Airways, that Pladeco bought all its airline tickets to and from the Mambilla shipyard.

The ticket booklets were immediately recognizable by the color green, the same as the flag of Nigeria, and often that color stood out among Margaret's papers on her desk. They stood out like so many flies drowned in a cup of milk. At that moment, I had one of those tickets in my carry-on luggage and guarded it more than jealously, worried about losing it.

I had recently turned twenty-two and was preparing for my first airplane trip. My first plane ticket, my baptism of flight.

Although I had seen so many of those cards in the long months in the office, this one conveyed to me a different anxiety, a deep concern, because the hour of truth had finally arrived: the hour of departure for the unknown lands of Africa, the hour of umbilical detachment from that land where everyone spoke my language. A land I would not see again for a long time.

I knew that the official language in Nigeria was English, although the Mambilla Plateau bordered Cameroon, where French was spoken, a language I knew far better.

Yeah, English. I had only studied French in school, which I had also practiced on my youthful trips to France, where some of my father's relatives lived.

But English I didn't know at all. Just the few simple words of the lyrics of the songs I had heard as a teenager on the radio. It was the music of the 1960s and 1970s that was rampant in the Western world and filled the shelves of boys' bedrooms with 45s. The record players and then the turn of the cassette players into the old black Philips with the center button and its many functions: listening, recording, fast forward and fast reverse.

Passing Via Bissolati, the cab headed toward Piazza dell'Esedra, then in the direction of the Baths of Diocletian and soon after to Termini Station, lapping its square. Termini was like a foreign body creeping into the center of the city with its sprawling network. Far from the splendor and architecture of antiquity, the station stood with its Fascist-era style and was the beating heart of the city. I was familiar with this route because, during my entire waiting period in Rome, I had stayed in a room at the Principe Amedeo boarding house, which was located on the street of the same name and was about a hundred and fifty meters from Termini Station.

It was a road I had taken at least twice a day, round trip from the office, and each time it was a marvel to walk alongside the Baths of Diocletian. It was history, the one you walked past: you brushed against it, touched it with your hands.

The looming high brick walls, lined up and running for over two thousand years, gave me a sense of unease, of smallness. Part of the Exedra was gone, destroyed, and only half of its great dome still stood, a testament to the grandeur of the empire.

In Rome, everything was a wonder to me, a young boy from a remote town in Veneto. There, life was still hooked on agriculture and struggling to revive from the destruction of World War II. In the Veneto, reconstruction and industrialization were slowly taking hold. Like so many small ants, the industrious and hard-working people of Veneto were rebuilding a region and an economy that wanted to break free from the miserable peasant life endured passively for thousands of years. The latifundia, the great lordships and the slavery of sharecropping had subjugated the people of the Veneto and relegated them to the poverty of a miserable and tribulated agriculture. The postwar period and industrialization had been the engine of redemption. Pride and determination had grown in many to raise their heads and react to historic pastoral starvation, and with pride had also emerged the skills of those who had dared to rebel against the endemic oppression of the lordships.

That was the historical period I had experienced as a young man. Born a few years after the end of the war, I had grown up during that ongoing revolution. Living in it, I may not have fully understood what was happening, how the world was changing. Light and water were slowly coming into homes, as were paved roads in small farming towns. A few tiny factories were setting up, bringing paid work. No longer the servile labor of the fields, sharecropping and toil on other people's land, but new work that gave independence and the chance to break free from a miserable life of tribulation and hardship, of large, poor and destitute families.

4

"Which route do you prefer to take, Mr. Sandri?" the taxi driver asked me politely. "Would you like me to show you some of the city, the Garbatella, the Eur, before leaving Rome?" he continued, waiting for an answer.

Evening was falling faintly and the blush of twilight was disappearing to give way to the rampant darkness that would soon engulf the city.

"Please take me to where you said," I replied thoughtlessly, "I don't know those areas and I will be glad to see them to take a good memory with me," I commented.

The cab stopped at a traffic light at an intersection on Christopher Columbus Avenue.

On the right stood a small pyramid covered with travertine marble. The same marble as the Colosseum. It was not very tall, perhaps about ten meters, but it was a staple of exiting the city.

"That's it," said the driver, "now we'll take a right onto Via della Magliana and then we'll continue on the slip road to the airport. It will take at least forty minutes, because as you see the traffic is always very heavy. But you're not in a hurry anyway, are you, your plane will leave at two o'clock tonight," the driver added.

"Yeah, two o'clock tonight," I thought.

"All right, I thank you. It's very kind of you to keep me company on this short trip" I replied.

And then I plunged into my thoughts, into what was happening to me and what I was about to do. With my eyes lost, I was lulled by the rocking of the speeding cab, watching the darkness of evening fall and the landscape flow out the windows.

A tumult of thoughts crowded my mind. "What am I doing here?"

"Where am I going? Alone then!"

The company had not sent anyone to accompany me on this my first trip, at night, in an intercontinental airport, with a mountain of luggage to guard and ship. What's more, I was inexperienced. Yet they had had confidence in me.

"He'll see that he can do it," the words of my boss, Dr. Viviani, came back to me.

I had made the decision long before, shortly after completing my military service in mountain artillery in Pontebba, Friuli.

Military service had shaped and forged me; now I was ready to make important decisions for my life.

Yeah, the decision! I want to go to Africa. Something more important than friends,

Of the best friend, of the family, had taken possession of me.

The inscrutable attractiveness of adventure and the unknown had me engrossed and circuitous.

 For me, Africa was the destination.

5

Shrouded in darkness and absorbed in my thoughts, I could see my past as a young teenager in the small town of Veneto scrolling before me like a movie.

The period of my youth and studies was spent among the park and trees of a prestigious Venetian villa, owned by Venetian nobles. My parents were its historical custodians.

A sportsman by nature, I was passionate about tennis. It was easy for me to practice because the court was located within the grounds of the villa and was always available to me in my free moments. The game came naturally to me, shaping my already athletic physique.

The farm where I lived was managed, consisting of hundreds of acres of land, divided into several farms scattered throughout the township and cultivated by about 15 sharecroppers. In those days, sharecropping was still a common practice. Subservience to the "master," the owner of the land, was total. The farming families were numerous and at least three generations lived in their large buildings at the same time.

A nice group of friends and "festivities" at the villa filled the festive days and school vacations, while everything flowed in absolute normalcy. The village was small and there were no major reasons or happenings to disturb the quiet flow of time and seasons.

Summers were hot and sunny, winters long and cold. No ease, in the dwellings, to mitigate the peaks of mugginess or frost. Everything was natural and getting used to it was not a burden. Enduring was a duty.

I was looking ahead, however.

Having completed my studies as a surveyor, I had begun sending applications for jobs abroad, through the consulates of South Africa, Australia, and Canada. But the replies were slow in coming. And without a job or an entry visa, it was impossible to emigrate to those countries.

The turning point came when I became an office assistant to my professor of topography, Engineer Tramontini.

Tramontini had been a fighter pilot during World War II. A tall, nice piece of a man with a sweet and jovial disposition, but also serious and gruff when necessary. He had married very late in life and had a still small daughter whom we often held in our arms while working at the drafting machine or desk.

He often spoke emphatically about his experience as a pilot. He was now retired, having long since left actual service. He enjoyed about his aerial fights, the gyrations, the turns, when he had chased British RAF pilots over Italian territory or in the Mediterranean. He always mimicked the plane's evolutions with his hands, remembering the machine gunning with his  brownings.

He never told me, however, how many planes he had shot down. It was a subject that troubled him, causing him pain.

But he was there and had survived.

Engineer Tramontini had a brother who worked for Pladeco in Rome. An older brother who had spent a lifetime on African lands and construction sites.

At that time, an interesting construction site was opening in the Mambilla Plateau, Nigeria, and they needed a young surveyor to perform a major feasibility study for agribusiness development in the Plateau.

The funders were none other than the government of Nigeria itself and the FAO.

At that point everything became clearer and more certain. I had finally found the key to my aspirations. During my surveyor studies, topography had been my favorite subject, and Pladeco was looking for a

young surveyor.

Bingo!

For me, the concrete possibility of going to Africa     was opening up.

6

It seemed at that point the road was downhill. Everything matched perfectly.

It was too good to be true.

Engineer Tramontini was intimately happy to be able to help his protégé, whose technical gifts and moral uprightness he had come to know, both in school and in his engineering practice.

I had on my side an iron recommendation and an incredible astral coincidence. I could not miss this opportunity.

And the call finally came.

"Good morning, Mr. Sandri," said a mature, firm voice on the other end of the phone.

"I am Dr. Viviani, of Pladeco in Rome," the voice continued, "I was told very highly of you by Engineer Tramontini, our valued collaborator. We are looking for a young surveyor to send to our new construction site in the Mambilla Plateau, Nigeria." I couldn't stand it anymore, my heart began to pound, but I tried to conceal the wave of emotion that was sweeping over me.

"Would you be interested in a collaboration with us?" continued Dr. Viviani.

I didn't want to be too hasty and respond impulsively. It didn't seem very professional. So I opted for a more formal response, "Thank you for the phone call, Engineer Tramontini also spoke very highly of you and Pladeco. Thank you again, Dr. Viviani, for your interest in me." And I added: "Tramontini has already given me an outline of the whole operation, but what would be my task specifically?"

"You, as topographer, will be in charge of everything related to the cartography to be produced and the topographic surveys to be carried out on site," Dr. Viviani told me. "It is a difficult and demanding job, but you will have good collaborators. Don't worry. We are a good team," he continued.

"I am willing and well-motivated, I think I can contribute to the work you have exposed me to," I replied.

"Good," Dr. Viviani did. "We will prepare a place for you in our Roman office on Via Vittorio Veneto, waiting for your entry visa to arrive. Because, as you know, without a visa it will not be possible for you to enter Nigeria, at our site."

He had already called it "our" construction site, I thought immediately. I was already part of the team. I couldn't believe it. My future had a firm certainty of staying in Africa. "I expect it?? next Monday. Introduce yourself to the secretary Margaret. You will see that you will be fine. Goodbye," and so saying, Dr. Viviani closed the communication.

The phone call had reached me on a Wednesday afternoon. It was a beautiful day in early April 1976.

"How to tell my parents?" was the first thing I thought.

They knew of my intention to go to work abroad. They knew about the attempts and job applications to the Consulates, but they were quite happy that my expectations, so far, had been unsuccessful and that their son would stay close to them at home.

But I didn't have much time to study strategies. That very evening, I told my parents as we were having dinner. The next day I told Federica, my best xmfriend, and the rest of the company of friends everything.

It was not easy to listen to their almost unambiguous answers.

"But you are crazy! What are you doing? But where do you want to go?"

"We are doing so well here, with no problems." "You know there is civil war in Nigeria and coups are the order of the day!"

"Do you know what risks you are taking? Stay!

Don't leave. Think it through."

I understood the remarks that were being made. And perhaps it was true, I did not fully realize the risks I might be taking. Yet the mine was a painful but unshakable decision. I wasn't sure what pushed me in that direction either. Perhaps recklessness or perhaps that spirit of adventure that is inherent in the DNA of young people.

I immediately bought a new suitcase (the days of cardboard suitcases were behind me). I had only three days to fill it. It was arduous to figure out what to put in it. What I did know was that it was hot there, very hot, and that heavy clothes were not really needed. But I counted that while in Rome I would get more information about what to bring and what I would actually need.

I went to the train station, in the city, and got the Treviso-Rome ticket.

One way only. No return was planned, not anytime soon.

7

I left at nine o'clock on a Sunday evening. It was the middle of April.

Accompanied by friends and Federica, I set off to the dock without a tear. I was serene and not at all worried.

As if I were leaving on a trip, I gave a sincere kiss to Federica and a loving hug to the friends who had come to say goodbye.

Federica cried and came back to say, "Are you really sure? You don't want to reconsider? I'm so sorry you're leaving."

The relationship between Federica and me had always been like that, a simple and straightforward friendship that had matured within the group of friends that made up "Club 70."

That group was formed by me and two other friends, Sergio and Mario, just in 1970. At the time we were still young students with a passion for music, and for many years that club was our center for socializing, partying and attracting a good part of the country's kids.

Those were the days of Pettenati's Bandiera gialla, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Genesis, the Bee Gees, Pink Floyd, Premiata Forneria Marconi, Orme, Pooh, the Rokes, Santana, Jimi Hendrix, Lucio Battisti, Mina, Claudio Baglioni, Morandi and so many other international singers and groups who made the rock music years from 1960 onward great. Those were the days of the flower children and the Woodstock and Isle of Wight rallies.

Upset, I replied, "Federica, you know I am sorry to leave you, but you also know that this passion is stronger than me. I have to go. I will write to you, you know."

"Don't worry, I will write to you," I repeated and gave her another kiss on the cheek.

I boarded the train that would take me to Venice.

From there I would take the connecting train to Rome.

I hinted one last goodbye from the window, and then the train departed.

I had traveled by train several times when visiting relatives in Alsace. I had also been to the home of some cousins north of Paris.

However, I had never experienced the environment and atmosphere of large historic cities.

The train arrived on time at Roma Termini at 7:30 the next morning, after about twelve hours of travel. At night. Alone.

The city was waking up and a captivating aroma of coffee and brioche was coming from the station cafes.

I did not stop because Margaret, the secretary. of Pladeco, had booked me a room at the Abella Principe Amedeo guesthouse, which was just a hundred and fifty meters from the station.

There I could have breakfast and take possession of my room.

Luigi, the owner and porter of the guesthouse, greeted me with a beaming smile. "Good morning, what can I help you with?"

"I am Giorgio Sandri, and Pladeco should have booked a room in my name," I replied.

"Ah yes, here it is, it's 214, second floor," he said, confirming what Margaret had already anticipated to me on the phone. "Here is your key Mr. Sandri.

Go ahead and freshen up, we are waiting for you in the ground floor room for breakfast," Luigi added very cordially.

Luigi was a lover of opera, and the entire lobby was plastered with photos of him in the company of opera singers in vogue at the time or posters of famous operas.

The boarding house was a few hundred meters from Vittorio Veneto Street, where the company's offices were located.

I was very close to the station, the office and the city center.

"All good, all easy," I thought to myself, "but where's the catch?"

The Naja had taught me that there was never anything too easy. Something had to go wrong. Snags and headaches are the inevitable companion of every activity. That's the way of the world. There is nothing to be done about it.

What awaited me that was so inescapable?

8

Nature had been kind to me.

I was considered a good-looking, well-built, athletic, and nice guy. I had dark hair, brown eyes, and a natural tan that came with my dowry: my mother was of Spanish descent. I was aware of my good looks, but I had always acted naturally, as if it did not concern me. I came from a small town, where people had no hang-ups. They were unnecessary.

Everything I did came naturally to me; I didn't have to struggle to stand out. Intelligence and a distinct but affable manner were in my DNA. That was why friends had nicknamed me "the Count."

Wearing a Lacoste, a pair of jeans and a jacket, I went down to the lobby of the guesthouse and asked Luigi the way to Via Vittorio Veneto.

Pladeco's headquarters was a ten-minute walk away, along major roads branching off from the Termini Station square.

Arriving at No. 5 Via Vittorio Veneto, I looked at the apartment building's control panel and immediately located the office I was interested in.

I rang and said, "I'm Giorgio Sandri. Can I come up?"

"Come on in, Mr. Sandri," replied a polite female voice. "Third floor."

The company's offices had been carved out on the third and fourth floors of the apartment building, from two large apartments already used as residences.

Affixed to the front door was a large brass plate, perfectly polished, engraved with the words "PLADECO - Planning Development Company."

Margaret, the secretary, greeted me with a broad smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Sandri. We have been waiting for you. Did you have a good trip? Come I'll take you to the director, Dr. Viviani is waiting for you." The voice was warm, the tone affable and friendly.

Without getting up from his desk, Dr. Viviani greeted me by extending his hand for a powerful and confident shake. He was the boss. I could tell already from that gesture.

Although smaller in build, Dr. Viviani resembled Bettino Craxi, a politician then in vogue. Same smile, same receding hairline, same way of presenting himself.

"At last, we meet, Mr. Sandri. Welcome to our society," he said, continuing soon after, "I hope to get your entry visa for Nigeria in a few days, so you can leave as soon as possible for the Mambilla Plateau. There have already been informed of her arrival and are waiting for her. In the meantime, she will remain in our offices and prepare with Dr. Luciani the necessary cartography. Margherita. Accompany him to Dr. Luciani and have him sit down." 

Then he reiterated, closing tightly, "Go, Mr.

Sandri, and good work."

With these few words he dismissed me and returned to bowing his head over the piles of papers and documents that filled his table.

Never had the idea crossed my mind to know or ask about the fee. It was something I was not interested in. All I wanted was to be there, right where I was at that moment, looking forward to my adventure in Africa.

But where was the problem? It wasn't normal that everything was so easy, I kept thinking.

9

As the days passed eventually the problem became apparent. There had to be something going wrong, of course.

The entry visa was not coming.

They were waiting for him from the government of Nigeria. In that state, at that time, without an entry visa it was not possible to enter. No permissible waiver, no certification or statement of responsibility that the company could issue to guarantee the presence of a foreign worker on Nigerian soil.

A visa was needed. Period.

And that, for a long time, delayed coming.

As the days, and then weeks, passed, the wait grew heavier and heavier.

My stay in the Pladeco offices became a daily occurrence. It waned, little by little, the youthful impetuosity that had led me to that choice. Eventually I was able to come to terms with the delay and I soon became good friends with the employees and management staff.

Days passed in the production of maps preparatory to the campaign work that awaited me at Mambilla. What I was supposed to do there, I was now doing in the office in Rome. A kind of anticipated technical preparation.

The tables were always filled with aerial photos of the Mambilla Plateau territory, reproduced on large format, which were punctually analyzed with the help of a stereoscope.

It was a wonder to see the roads, the huts, the trees, the mountains in three-dimensional form. It was like being in it already with your whole body.

Those images were so beautiful and sharp that I felt like I was touching things with my hands. It was like taking a bird's eye view over the wastelands of the Plateau.

If you reversed the order of the two photos being viewed, the images immediately changed: those that were rivers became ridges of mountains and those that were mountains sunken riverbeds. It was a distortion of reality that only the stereoscope could create.

One day Dr. Viviani's daughter arrived at the office. "Good morning, Miss Anna," Margaret greeted

her cordially in her usual thoughtful and kind tone. "Where is my father?" asked Anna immediately,

with the confident air of someone who knows she is the leader's daughter.

"He's in his office, as always, and he's talking. with Dr. Luciani and Surveyor Sandri," Margherita replied. "Come on in, I don't think your father will scold you."

I, intent on analyzing cartographies with the principal and Luciani, had listened to the dialogue and saw her enter the ajar door.

And it was immediately, for both of them, love at first sight.

Radiantly beautiful, brunette with curly hair and dark green eyes, Anna appeared in the doorway in all her glory. She was not very tall, but she had curvaceous, graceful lines.

From the first glance, one could sense her position as a young girl from a wealthy family. She was probably two or three years younger than me and perhaps still studying in high school.

His charm was captivating and immediately struck a chord with people, while his friendly and sincere manner put everyone at ease.

This was the idea I immediately had of her. It could only be so.

"Good morning, Miss Anna," promptly greeted Dr. Luciani, almost hinting at a bow of reverence. He had known the girl for a long time, but she was still the chief's daughter and courtesy was in order.

Anna returned the greeting with a cordial nod and then turned to the young stranger, "Good morning surveyor ... Sandri, so Margaret told me."

"Nice to meet you," I replied, shaking her hand.

In five seconds, Anna, too, had formed an impression of me. It had not taken her long to notice my graceful gestures and confident bearing. Having exchanged superfluous pleasantries with her father, Anna shortly afterwards went out waving goodbye. But, before disappearing beyond the door, she cast a furtive glance at me, unnoticed by her parent, as if wanting to assure herself that what she had seen was true.

Over the next few days Anna showed up much more often at the company's offices. The excuse was always the same, to look for her father, but after all it was me, she hoped to cross paths with.

And the offices were not so big as to prevent that meeting.

10

I would return home to my village only every fortnight to spend a short weekend there and then leave for Rome on the usual night train. At 7:30 I would arrive on time at Termini Station and an hour later I was already at the office.

Months passed and I was always waiting for my entry visa to Nigeria. But they were not difficult months, on the contrary, so much so that at one point I would not have wanted to leave.

Anna had forcefully entered my life and filled Roman evenings and weekends.

We would often meet up for pizza or sightseeing.

On every street, at every corner, we would come across an open-air monument. It was history and mundanity that was in the air, and Anna was happy to be my Cicerone.

He took me to the Imperial Forum, the Colosseum, the Altar of the Fatherland, Piazza Navona, Via Condotti, Via Veneto, moreover very close to the offices.

The whole historic center was within our reach. The bond between us soon became very strong.

From holding hands, we naturally moved on to hot and intriguing kisses.

I gave the first one to him one evening while we were sitting on the brick embankment wall of the Tiber, at the height of Ponte Fabricio, opposite Tiber Island.

It was a beautiful spring evening, and the sun was dappling the sky. The clouds were affected by the last rays of the evening and in the west were glowing fiery red.

Those sunsets were a regular occurrence in Rome, and to our eyes in love they became a pleasant side dish to the first kiss.

It was all very natural and at the same time passionate.

I felt his tender, fleshy mouth clinging to my lips and never wanting to leave them again. The involvement was total, so much so that we did not detach for several minutes, not even to breathe.

Anna, still hot, said, "I really like you you know, Giorgio. You are really a good guy. Why do you want to leave? Stay here in Rome."

I realized then those things were taking an unexpected turn, going beyond my schematic predictions.

"Damn," I said to myself. "I'm here with the director's daughter. If he finds out, he'll fire me on the spot. It's too dangerous what's going on." I regained control of my thoughts and said: "Anna, I am here to go to Africa. You know that's what I want. I feel very good with you, too. You are filling my heart and life. You are the most beautiful thing I have met, but understand, the Mambilla Plateau is waiting for me. Everyone here is working to make that possible."

"Your father must not know about the two of us and our involvement or he will send me home in a hurry," I continued, "I am the young surveyor who has to go to Nigeria and not the one who takes his daughter away from him."

Anna lowered her eyes and a little confused said: "We'll talk about it, okay?"

And then she gave me another long kiss, perhaps to stop what she realized was already slipping away from her.

11

And summer passed as well, a hot and sunny summer that melted the tar on the paved roads and among the sampietrini of Rome.

Despite insistence and urging, the visa was slow to arrive.

He could thus secretly continue the love affair between Anna and me.

"Anna," I often told her fearfully, "if your father finds out, he will send me home instantly. And you know that none of us want that."

We often returned to our place, there on the Tiber embankment, under the shade of the trees, exchanging kisses and tenderness, complicit also in the summer vacations.

In September, Anna would resume school at the classical high school. It was her senior year, her high school graduation year.

One morning in late October, on an as usual beautiful and sunny day, the boss sent for me. By now, after that long stay, everyone was calling me by my first name in the office. We were really a good team working in harmony and synergy of purpose.

Only with the boss was lei obligatory. Respect for his position required proper detachment in role- playing.

"Giorgio," Margaret called me on the internal phone line, "the boss is waiting for you in his office. Come down right away."

My heart began to beat fast.

"Oh God, what does he want to call me so urgently? Has he heard about Anna and me?" I thought at first, my pulse racing.

"And if so, that's big trouble coming." With my heart in my throat, aware that I had something to hide, I interrupted the work I was doing

And quickly descended the stairs.

I had not been heartened by the words of Dr. Luciani who was my desk neighbor and who had

said, "Let's hope this is it. Go!"

I had to make a great effort of concentration and self- control not to let my anxiety show.

Knock.

"Come on in, Sandri," replied beyond the door Dr.

Viviani's voice.

Once in the room, I tried to look at the chief's face first, just to get a sense of what the air was like. But as always, Dr. Viviani kept his head bowed to the mountain of papers that filled his desk.

I waited for the sentence with my heart in my throat.

Suddenly he raised his head and gave me a bright smile, showing well-groomed and aligned teeth. That smile instantly heartened me, and I could finally relax. There were no clouds in sight, otherwise his face would have been gruff and sullen, as it often was.

"He doesn't know about Anna and me yet," I thought immediately, and that reassured me.

"Sandri," he told me, "this is it at last. This morning a package arrived from the Nigerian government, and inside I found his entry visa. What can you tell me? Is he happy?"

"Dr. Viviani, you know how long we have been waiting for him. I am not happy. I am twice happy!" I replied with my heart pounding, and this time out of joy.

"Good! Within a few days we will prepare the documents to be sent and your plane ticket. The site manager, Surveyor Breda, has been urging your arrival for a long time and is eagerly awaiting you. Now go and get ready," he said, thus ending the brief interview, and returned to bow his head on his desk.

My first thought was to talk to Anna.

I was going to tell her that very night. The agreement was that she would be the one to call me, on the phone in the guesthouse room. I would not have ventured to call her at her home, of course.

And then I would tell my parents, my mother, with whom I was always in contact.

That night he began to cry. It was the news she had hoped never to receive. She had expected her son to stay at least in Rome, which, though far from home and family affections, At least stay in Italy.

I had never heard my mother cry before, and a pang of remorse gripped my heart, but the decision was made and I couldn't go back, and in the end, I didn't even want to.

I was adamant. I just wanted to go and work in Africa.

That night Anna also cried.

We had met at the Savini Café in Piazza Colonna. It was a café that had, in addition to the central room that was always crowded, small rooms where we could be quiet.

Anna kept holding my hands and repeating: "Giorgio, but why do you want to leave?"

"I am very sorry too, because I love you, but the decision is made and I cannot do otherwise," I replied.

I was not crying, but I had a knot in my throat that almost prevented me from speaking.

We looked into each other's eyes for a long time, without adding anything else.

Anna understood my reasons, but she seemed unwilling to give up.

"Maybe if you talk to Dr. Luciani about it, secretly, without Dad knowing, you can at least write to me. I know that he sometimes comes and goes from the Mambilla Plateau."

We left each other that it was almost midnight. Our lips were still moist from one last passionate kiss.

12

"Mr. Sandri--Mr. Sandri, we have arrived," the driver's voice aroused me.

Absorbed in my thoughts, going over in my mind the events of those last months, I had not realized the length of the journey and the arrival at the large airport in Fiumicino.

The cab had stopped at the international departures entrance.

Although it was 9:30 in the evening, the airport was swarming with people with their bulky luggage moving from one side to the other.

The taxi driver helped me unload the six heavy suitcases and look for a cart to carry them. Then, in a hurry, he got back into the car, started the engine and from the window greeted me, saying, "Have a safe trip, Mr. Sandri."

Nothing else.

The lights, once inside, seemed even more shining than seen from outside, where night had already fallen. All the seats were filled, and at check-in there were long lines of people leaving.

I had arrived more than four hours ahead of schedule.

I was alone. Alone and anxious as ever.

It was my first time seeing an airport. Had it been a small one, like the one in Venice for example, more handy, more human, I might have been less afraid.

But that was one of the major intercontinental airports, the largest in Italy. And there I was, young and inexperienced, sent to the brink.

I knew, however, that the company had confidence in me and that I would succeed. Not for nothing had they entrusted me with that mountain of luggage.

The imperative was to make do and survive.

And then there I was still in Italy, where they spoke my language, but I was already thinking about what would happen when I got to Nigeria.

"Over there they speak English, a language I don't know," I thought, "how will I do it?"

It was early and all I had to do was find a seat and wait for the Nigeria Airways check-in call.

My destination was Kano.

The wait was long and nerve-wracking. I couldn't move except by dragging the trolley loaded to the brim with luggage behind me. I could not let it out of my sight for even a second; it was too important what I had been entrusted with.

The bustle of people inside the lobby was impressive. So many people of different colors, different clothing, and speaking different languages. Everything to me was wonder and concern. I felt like I was in the historic Tower of Babel.

I noticed that, like in a big puzzle, everyone ended up taking their seats, unloaded their luggage at the check-in desk, and headed for their boarding area. As time passed, the hall became more and more empty.

Shortly after midnight there were not many of us left. Mostly Africans wrapped in their long gaudy tunics. Some women had children in tow.

"Surely they will take my flight," I said to myself. I was restless and worried. There were no more

Italians around me to ask for information from or at least feel the closeness of.

I could only hear speaking in an unknown language, which was not English, although I wouldn't have understood that either.

At 12:30 a.m., a female voice from the loudspeakers scattered around the hall finally announced t h e boarding for Kano. 

"Report to check-in number 7, Nigeria Airways." The wait was over. Now the adventure was beginning. I took the trolley, which I had never abandoned,

And unhurriedly I headed toward the line that was getting bigger.

There must have been about 50 people, all foreigners. A lot, for me who was alone.

I rummaged in my pocket once more to make sure the airline ticket was still there, just in case, I I also pulled out a little and made sure it was indeed the green carnet I knew well. I rested it heartened.

Everything was cause for anxiety and fear.

Arriving in front of the location, I placed the trolley on the treadmill and began unloading the bags.

"Gee, Mr. Sandri, you've got some luggage," said the young hostess at the counter.

He checked everyone's weight and saw that the airline ticket accounted for overweight. Twenty pounds per person was allowed.

Pladeco's office had been efficient. They knew what to do, given their long experience with their carrier pigeons.

Heartened by the fact that this first hurdle had been overcome, I saw the luggage leave on the treadmill only to disappear inside a black hole at the bottom of the wall.

I would see them again, at least I hoped, when I arrived in Kano.

"Go to Room 5 for boarding," continued the stewardess politely, "and have a safe trip."

"Thank you. Very kind," I replied with the green card in my hand.

"And that's done, too!" I heartened myself and slowly, with my carry-on luggage, headed for the indicated boarding room.

In the lounge, I had to wait another hour or so and had a chance to look around and see the world of the men, women, and children who would be boarding the Nigeria Airways flight with me. At 1:30 a.m., when fatigue had begun to make my eyelids droop and a slight numbness was taking hold of me, I heard from the room's microphones the usual female voice announcing, "Approaching gate 5 for boarding of Kano-bound Nigeria Airways flight WT573."

Like a flood, everyone stood up to head for the narrow tunnel entrance.

There was no reservation of seats, so everyone rushed to choose the best ones.

I had positioned myself near the entrance and was among the first to enter.

The plane that was waiting for us was a Boeing 727, with three rows of seats on one side and two on the other.

I didn't think too much about it; I immediately looked for a free window-side seat just beyond the wing. So I had been advised by my colleagues in the office, "...you'll feel the takeoff less and have a chance to enjoy the scenery."

And so I did. Taking my seat on the right side of the plane, I inserted my carry-on luggage into the overhead compartment and once seated, I looked, again, at the variety of the crowd that was entering.

There was no order in their movement, everything was chaotic, and as a background an unintelligible hubbub persisted. Everyone looked around and searched for the place that suited them best.

Women with children would take rows with three seats so that their children could lie down and rest.

It was chaos, a shambles, but when everyone eventually found their place, everything calmed down.

In those ten minutes or so I had time to reflect relatively calmly.

"Congratulations Giorgio! What a great start!

Could this be Nigeria?" and I stood and watched.

The only white person in the midst of a multitude of black and unfamiliar faces, I felt uncomfortable and a little intimidated.

"Not bad for a baptism of fire," I thought.

A stewardess came by to check that the belts were securely fastened, and soon the plane was moving toward the runway.

It was almost 2 a.m.

At least Nigeria Airways was on time, I had to admit, and I watched from the window as the boarding room premises moved inexorably away.

Hello Rome. Bye Italy. See you again soon.

At least I hope so!

The airplane's front beacon ripped through the darkness of the airport, and small side lights signaled the path to the ground.

With a sharp ninety-degree turn, the plane entered the runway and stopped.

I immediately wondered fearfully why that stop sign, what was going on? But the next thing I knew, I heard the roar of the boeing's four engines screaming at full throttle. And then away.

I felt my back press against the seat as the plane began its long taxi.

The side lights of the track flowed away faster and faster until I felt a strange sensation, almost

a knot in his throat as the plane lifted off the ground. I imagined the boeing diving into the vast dark womb of night and disappearing from view in

seconds.

I was in the air, my first flight, and I still didn't know whether it was excitement or worry that prevailed.

I just knew I was there and that there was no going back.

I was officially becoming a young worker abroad.

13

Sitting in my seat, I kept thinking. I couldn't sleep so anxious and worried.

Everything was foreign to me; everything was new to me. I had often heard about emigration.

Although I didn't feel like an emigrant yet, soon in the land of Africa I would become one.

I had recently read in a magazine a lengthy article on the subject that made the following points.

Like all emigrations, that of the Italians had experienced various "epochs" that had followed one another over time and had been accompanied by fears, hopes, many times dashed, for a better life for themselves and their families.

Often it was precisely hope that animated and instilled courage and daring in all those who had embarked on journeys, suffering unspeakable tribulations, with t h e one purpose, the one aim, the one hope of being able to send home some money to feed the poor family sometimes left on the other side of the world. That family that was sacred and undisputed hearth that shaped the spirit and deep Christian roots of Veneto.

What drove the emigrants was the desire to create a position for themselves and an economic availability, hoping to be reunited with their wives, with their children in these new faraway places, where even what little they got was always something more than what they left behind in their native country.

Only one thing they could not take with them: the heart. The heart that bound and inextricably binds men to the place where they were born.

There is no logic, no boundaries that can restrain this innate bond, written in each person's DNA.

The spirit of enterprise, courage, intelligence and extraordinary human strength had enabled so many emigrants to achieve great goals and important economic empires, affirming internationally the instinctive and innate abilities of the Italian people.

Genius, imagination and resourcefulness were the winning cocktail of those who had nothing to lose but everything to gain and conquer.

Toward the first half of the 20th century and especially after World War II, emigrants were moved by quite a different spirit: hunger.

After the disastrous disruptions of the war, the countryside found itself besieged by unspeakable poverty and misery. Large families, mostly of peasant origin, who worked the meager land still under the miserable condition of sharecropping, without any property or hope of seeing their families grow. A good half of the fruit of their labor ended up in the greedy and greedy jaws of the big landowners, who exploited the settlers and their families without giving anything in return, in total disregard for the living conditions of their serfs.

This situation of severe destitution, combined with the lack of any hope for the future, moved multitudes of emigrants to other shores, other lands, other continents.

That exodus took emigrants, on foot, by train or by ship, to Northern Europe, America, Canada, Argentina, South America, South Africa, Australia.

Departures were often dictated by "spikelets." These were normally made from the wheat stalks and were cut into various lengths and kept hidden in the hand: whoever pulled out the longest ear would leave. This was because everyone wanted to leave, but someone had to sacrifice and stay with the family.

So it was that emigrants were able to find work, often decent, sometimes important and rewarding, which enabled many of them to call their families to them and settle permanently abroad. And there were so many of them that t h e y formed a great new Italy scattered in all the nations of the earth.

Between the 1960s and 1970s, that flow of migration came to an almost complete halt, while the returns home of many families, especially from Central and Northern Europe, began. Rarely of those overseas.

A different kind of emigration then began, made up no longer of pioneers, the desperate and hungry, the unsuspecting and hopeful, but of people driven by a desire for adventure and personal affirmation.

In those years, Italy had restarted. Reconstruction of real estate and infrastructure, as well as new industrialization, were bearing fruit, and a small amount of wealth was spreading among families who, no longer as numerous as they had once been, were able to enjoy the benefits of independence and personal property.

The future was no longer so black, no longer serfs, but free and self-sufficient citizens who built wealth for themselves and their families with their own hands.

No more misery and despair, but happiness and hopeful future.

Since then, Italian emigrants have participated in or been promoters of the construction of great works all over the world, thus affirming their congenital ability, intelligence and resourcefulness. They have contributed to the construction of dams, bridges, tunnels, roads and great engineering works that have brought prestige to their daring and to Italy.

That was no longer a permanent, settled emigration, but one that aimed rather at the realization of great works. Often moving from one construction site to another, from one continent to another, emigrants were reaching heights of excellence in technical preparation and in their ability to carry out often pharaonic works. At that moment I was joining that large group of migrants who, driven by a spirit of adventure and a desire for personal fulfillment, were leaving their country for the unknown. A mysterious destination, which in my case was Nigeria on the African continent.

"What would be waiting for me there?" was the woodworm that continually gnawed at my head.

14

A large red sun, not yet fully off the horizon, camped in front of the Land Rover heading from Kano to Maiduguri.

That fireball was not only big, it was immense, covering the entire view of the surrounding savannah.

There was mist hovering in the air all around. It was smoke from the fires coming out of the thatched roofs of the meager huts scattered across the land or scattered along the main road.

Despite the scorching heat already in the early morning, the smoke stagnated on the ground, almost held back by the low pressure, giving the horizon, dotted with thatched huts and a few savannah trees, a typically African mystical appearance. A postcard image. A snapshot that I already knew would remain etched in my mind and heart. Forever.

From the first moments of that sunrise trip, I had already fallen in love with Africa, with that sunshine immense, of that light, of those groups of huts made of earth and thatch, of the few trees characteristic of the savannah, of the cloud of dust that the Land Rover left behind it, trudging along that only partially paved road.

From time to time, we would pass women, with calabashes or bundles of wood held admirably balanced on their heads, a few hunters walking along the roadside with bow and spear, returning from their morning hunting trip, boys who were guarding small groups of goats, or snarling, balding dogs who barked as we passed, coming out of their huts.

And then the savannah desert.

All around and on the entire horizon reigned unchallenged the sun and the savannah. Nothingness and desolation as far as the eye could see. No sign of civilization. Almost no human presence. No working activity.

Just sunshine and savannah. Two elements that, I could already foresee, would be my side dish and bleak companion on the long journey ahead to southern Nigeria.

I had arrived the day before in Kano, a city located in the Presaharan zone on the northern border of Nigeria. Kano was the anteroom to a dry, boiling hell. The humidity was zero, the temperature similar to that of an oven.

The Nigeria Airways plane, which left Rome Fiumicino at about 2 a.m., after a five-hour crossing- first of the Mediterranean, then of North Africa and finally of the entire Sahara-had arrived 7:30 a.m. that same morning at Kano Airport.

I had not slept that night.

The anxiety of the first flight and the adventure I was embarking on had not let up on me for a second. On the plane, my fellow passengers, I think all Nigerians, were resting peacefully. They knew where they were going and what awaited them. They knew the plane, the journey and the country they were returning to.

For me it was not so simple.

The office colleagues with whom I had talked about Africa and Nigeria probably hadn't told me everything, not wanting to put more anxiety on me than I already had, even in my tender unconsciousness. They thought it would do no good to alarm me. By doing so, I might perhaps have reconsidered. Instead, I was thus going unsuspectingly to my dark fate in the land of Africa.

Everything would be left to the coping skills, courage, and abilities of a true man of adventure.

Throughout the night I had kept looking out the window. Even though darkness covered everything, I tried to catch a glimpse of the outline of the illuminated coasts and cities, imagining the plane's route and the outlines of the territories it would fly over. But, already after the coasts of Latium, total darkness had taken over my eyes, as I continued to mull over the strangest thoughts, jumping from pole to pole.

The certainties I had left behind still came back to my mind. My country, family, friends, the best friend, and Anna, to whom I had become really attached during those months in Rome.

Now everything vanished in a bubble, as if it had never been there, while everything in front of me was an unknown.

Try telling a 22-year-old boy: Go to Africa and work!

I certainly did not start from a condition of poverty; I did not have a large family to support, as had happened to many Italian emigrants. Coming out of two wars and beset by hunger and lack of paid work, they had left the poor countryside in search of fortune and better living conditions. So many had been enticed to leave everything by those who had already left long ago and called on family or friends, sometimes singing the praises of the places they had encountered and the job opportunities.

For me, it was different: no one had clearly explained what awaited me. There was only the reassuring idea that I was going to settle in an Italian camp, deep in southeastern Nigeria, on a plateau on the border with Cameroon, and that was enough to reassure me and to decide to embark on that adventure.

After hours of reflection, the first glimmer of the dawn that was rising had finally dispelled the darkness of night, with its endless palette of blue and crimson tones.

I had thus begun to catch a glimpse, albeit at the plane's respectable altitude, of the last offshoots of the desert we were crossing. A sea of sand loomed over the surface below, punctuated by sporadic rock massifs. No hint of greenery or human life.

Shortly thereafter I had seen the two rows of runway lights on which the plane had been lining up for some time.

The landing had been less traumatic than the takeoff. The pilot had been good, and I had mentally thanked the Lord for getting through my first flight safely.

Exiting the plane had been a thud to the heart. As early as 7:30 a.m., the heat was unbearable and stifling.

The Kano airport consisted solely of a single long runway and a series of miserable shacks that served as arrivals and departures halls. Far from the splendors of Rome's, Kano was an airport in the most classic African style. And although it did not look it, it was in fact an intercontinental stopover capable of receiving planes from all over the world.

Kano was Nigeria's first northern border for arrivals from Europe, America, and Asia. It was often just a stopover before continuing on to the capital city of Lagos.

It was like an oasis, the landing point for those crossing the great Sahara Desert. It was also on the edge of the camel caravan lines that normally followed a trail much farther north in the center of the desert toward Timbuktu, Mali.

I had stepped off the airplane's ladder shuffling. to fellow passengers, and I had headed to the baggage claim and baggage release barracks.

Africa's first greeting, first kiss, first welcoming hug were all condensed into that sweltering heat that already made people sweat early in the morning.

There was no vehicle to greet the disembarking passengers and lead them to the gates of the airport buildings.

On foot and in the sun, this was the Spartan way Africa welcomed me.

"When you arrive you will find Thomas, he will help you with customs clearance," Margaret warned me.

And it had not been difficult for Thomas to spot the young white man who had just landed from Rome.

"Master" he had shouted, approaching. "I will help you for the luggage" he had continued in his Africanized English. 

I had vigorously clutched that saving hand pulling me out of the water as I was drowning and was already thinking, "What do I do now?"

My interlocutor spoke his slurred English while I understood almost nothing. But I had no other option but to rely on the hands of my savior.

"The passport, please," he had asked. 

At least I understood that. Several times, still on the airplane, I had made sure I had it handy, fearful of losing it and losing my lifeline with it. "Take care, Giorgio," Margaret used to tell me. "Be careful not to lose your passport. It is your salvation. In the land of Africa an Italian passport is still worth something."

The hall was not very large. There was only a long counter in the center, with officials on one side and passengers on the other. It was very hot there, too, barely mitigated by a few fans attached to the ceiling that whirled around and granted their mild effects only to those who passed underneath. No embellishments, no furniture in the room, no green plants. Everything was spartan and desultorily miserable. On a bulletin board on the wall were attached some notices in English, incomprehensible to me.

With passport in hand, Thomas had approached the customs counter and, after long negotiations, a ten-naira bill had slipped inside the passport e this had made immediately vanished any formality and obstructionism. After about ten minutes, Thomas was back there where he had kept me waiting and said: "Well. All is okay. We go to take the luggage."

In the land of Nigeria, the ten naira was the most valid and recognized passport there could be. With ten naira one could open all doors. A general passport.

It had not been easy to retrieve the six suitcases I had in tow. It was already a grace from the Lord that they had arrived, and all intact.

One was not always so lucky, and the unfortunate people were left with no choice but to dabble in negotiations with the airport officials and grant lavish gratuities to miraculously make the luggage reappear. And, as icing on the cake, Nigerian officials also often had the nerve to say, "Master, you are very lucky, it was not so easy to find them," flashing their white teeth with a wide grin. 

This was the second negative aspect of Africa: rampant corruption.

Thomas had loaded the six suitcases into the Peugeot 504 that waited outside the building. There were no large parking lots and access to the airport facilities was somewhat spartan.

Order and security were not covered in the airport organization. They were options that were almost never observed. Thus, the most absolute anarchy of behavior and management prevailed.

For me, a young and inexperienced traveler in the land of Africa, the impact was traumatic.

Turning back had been the first inevitable impulse, but iron determination had gotten the better of me, and I was left with no choice but to let emotions and events take over.

"I will take you to the hotel for breakfast," Thomas had told me, heading for the Sun Down Hotel in Kano, which was a few kilometers from the airport. 

Once we arrived, he had made it clear that while I could have breakfast and freshen up at the hotel, he would go home, to have breakfast in turn. It was still 8:30 in the morning.

I had agreed by telling him, "I will wait here," and pointing to the hotel floor with my finger. "See you later," Thomas had told me as he left with the car full of luggage.

As soon as the car had turned the corner at the end of the dusty street, I almost had a cuddle.

"Damn," I had thought. "That one left with all my luggage. What if he doesn't come back?"

I could feel anxiety beginning to mount.

The next two hours, during which I had eaten breakfast and gone up to my room to freshen up, had not been easy at all.

Landed in a foreign land, immediately abandoned and with a fixed thought gripping my brain.

What if Thomas had not returned? What would I have done on my own?

In Rome, I had been given the address of the base office in Kano, but how to get there without knowing the language and in such an inhospitable place, with head pounding heat and no money to boot?

I had gotten my things done very quickly and sat in the hotel lobby, which was cooler, waiting spasmodically for Thomas to return.

Fear and anxiety cannot be mastered, only endured, and I was almost panicked.

The fear dissolved only when, after a while, I saw Thomas arrive driving his Peugeot 504.

A sigh of relief had escaped my lips, a shy hint of a smile had lit up my face, and anxiety had dissolved like mist in the sun.

I had spent the rest of the day in Kano's office, where they had delivered my mail and other supplies to be brought to the Mambilla Plateau. That office was merely a waypoint, a simple reference for all those arriving or returning to Italy.

I would not see him again until quite some time later, upon my return after a year of work.

For the night I had returned to the Sun Down Hotel.

Thomas would pick me up early the next day to head east to Maiduguri, an intermediate stop on my long journey to Mambilla.

15

That big red morning sun had meanwhile risen and its dazzling yellow spread across the savannah.

The heat was advancing and there was no air conditioning in the Land Rover. Only the wide-open window on the passenger side, which let in the warm air that enveloped everything.

Every now and then, in that nothingness of fiery desert territory, small groups of miserable thatched- roof mud huts would appear almost miraculously. Beside the doorway, in the shade, sitting on their heels, stood the men, while the women rhythmically beat a long stick, with a rounded tip, inside a wooden mortar to make flour from wheat or cassava roots for African polenta.

Desolation, parchedness and savannah reigned supreme in those sub-Saharan lands as the Land Rover grinded out miles on an only partially paved road. Between Kano and Maiduguri there were no fueling stations. Thomas, aware of this and accustomed to the long drive, had stocked ample supplies of gasoline and water in jerry cans that, like luggage, were tied and secured in the large rear compartment of the car so that jolts or jerks would not cause them to fall out.

Gasoline and water were treasures that could not be abandoned in Africa on pain of death.

Yeah, life penalty!

There is not much to joke about when you go hundreds of miles into the savannah and your life depends on those two resources.

The desert and the savannah give nothing to the unprepared, and it is necessary not to be found unprepared. Death is always ready to seize the clueless or inept.

We reached Maiduguri toward evening, when the big red sun was now descending in the west.

Maiduguri's office was larger than Kano's and could also rely on rooms to accommodate the sporadic wayfarers who, like carrier pigeons, went to or from Mambilla.

The rooms were equipped with Carrier air conditioners that at least allowed people to sleep.

Outside, the temperature was still unbearable and the sheets of cars, under the scorching sun, were blazing.

To reach the Mambilla Plateau from Kano required three days of travel by Land Rover, through a scorching savanna, on mostly unpaved roads. Maiduguri was the first of two intermediate stops. The city is located in the far northeast of Nigeria,

just a few kilometers from the border with Chad and the lake of the same name.

Despite its remote location, Maiduguri is one of the largest cities in the Nigerian state. What they lived on at that time was unclear, given its status as a desert or predesert location.

The Nigerian government had started experimental crops in the area, all of which apparently foundered miserably when the whites turned them over to the local authorities and people.

The Nigerian people lacked the ability to organize and manage the experimental projects funded by oil revenues and initiated by whites, so any initiative, the moment it came under the control of locals, was doomed to failure or oblivion.

After spending the night in Maiduguri, early in the morning, having stocked up and resupplied, Thomas and I resumed the journey.

Unlike the route between Kano and Maiduguri, with the road partially paved, on the second leg to Yola, and then on the third leg to Gembu on the Plateau, we would be moving on a dirt track.

Leaving the city, we headed south, then south again, further and further south toward the equator.

Along the way, for long stretches, we encountered signs of road construction sites, testifying that that road would be paved sooner or later.

We often ran into trucks, pickup trucks, uncovered jeeps, which, filled with menacing soldiers with their rifles in full view, raised long columns of dust, such that the path was almost impassable.

Sometime earlier in fact, in 1975, a bloodless coup had brought to power Murtala Ramat Mohammed, who had promised the country a quick return to civilian rule. Killed during a failed coup attempt, he had been succeeded by his chief of staff, Olusegun Obasanjo. A new constitution would be promulgated in Nigeria in 1977, and new, essentially democratic elections would be held in 1979, won by Shehu Shagari.

Political and military tension was very high.

That massive troop movement was symptomatic of the absolute lack of social peace in Nigeria, where everything was controlled by the overwhelming power of the military regime.

Perhaps this had been the reason why my entry visa had taken so long to arrive.

The outward journey to Mambilla continued and the Land Rover trudged forward along the dusty dirt track in the middle of the sun-baked savannah.

The temperature inside the car was mitigated by the air, however hot, coming from the open windows. On the other hand, when we encountered other vehicles, with their annoying trail of dust, we were forced to close them, making the passenger compartment a real hell of heat and sweat and ending up gasping like fish. In the early afternoon the Land Rover reached Yola.

If Maiduguri was an oven of hot air, Yola was an inferno where unbearable heat was compounded by high humidity.

Yola is in fact lapped by the waters of the Benue River.

Crossings of the river at that time still took place on large wooden rafts, attached to an anchor rope and pushed by personnel who, on the edge, fiddled with long poles, up to

To touch bottom, not that deep.

Toward evening, past the town of Serti, we reached the second stop: Katsina Ala, past the Bali confluence for Jos.

In the larger centers the huts, which normally consisted of mud masonry and thatch roofing, the so-called elephant grass (the very tall and hardy savannah grass that is the basis of elephant feeding), were replaced by houses.

These were regular brick buildings, mixed with clay and thatch, and with a wooden roof or wooden posts covered with galvanized sheets. These houses stood out like white flies among the thatched huts. While the galvanized sheets gave the houses a more modern and Western look, making them more impervious to the torrential downpours of the rainy season, on the other hand they were less insulating, turning the interior of the houses into a real oven.

Fortunately, as the sun sets, the temperature will mitigated slightly, making the air more breathable.

At one of these houses, in Katsina Ala, the second intermediate stop on the long journey to the Plateau was planned.

Only furniture available, a bed in which to lie down. Nothing else. No opportunity to take a shower or freshen up.

Dinner consisted of "survival" K supplies (because that was the only way they could be called) provided by the base in Maiduguri.

Early in the morning the next day, again with Thomas driving, we resumed our journey to our final destination on the Mambilla Plateau.

There was still a third of the way to go, but at least what now awaited us was Gembu Base Camp, the end of the long journey.

"Master, long day again today, but then we get there," Thomas comforted me, before starting the engine and driving off.

16

Late in the afternoon of that same day, the Land Rover arrived at Gembu base camp, located on a hilltop about three kilometers east of the same town.

Gembu was the largest and most populated center on the entire Plateau, but it cost trouble to call it a town. The Mambilla Plateau is a plateau a t a n elevation of 1,200 meters above sea level, located on the border with Cameroon. It is a set of low, seamless hills crossed by the Donga River (Wukari, in the local language), downstream of which lie the

only, small e sporadic areas 

cultivated flatlands.

Having departed from the base at Katsina Ala, we had traveled with Thomas through one more long stretch of torrid savannah until we had arrived at the slopes of the mountainous acrocorus rising to the plateau.

The escarpment was that long stretch of stony dirt road that climbed, almost climbing, from the hot plains to the cooler destinations on the Plateau.

The Land Rover trudged up the steep mountain slopes, slowing or stopping when it passed another vehicle coming down.

The escarpment road, carved out over time by few means, could almost be compared to a narrow rocky mule track. The curves were often sharp and the crossing with other vehicles particularly dangerous. Almost always the vehicle that ran alongside the mountain slope had to skim its edge and often fall with its wheels inside the side gully to allow the rising vehicle to pass.

It was not uncommon to see cars run off the road or slide for long stretches into side ravines. Those twisted, crushed and rusted by time sheets, now abandoned, were a reminder to those who traveled the escarpment to use extreme caution, especially during the rainy season.

"I wonder how many will have lost their skin," I thought as I looked outside with obvious apprehension.

Even for the Pladeco drivers themselves, traveling that road was tantamount to a test to overcome, only to breathe a long sigh of relief when the slopes began to soften and the first hills of the Plateau came into view.

Already at that altitude the air had become much more bearable. We had left the heat of the savannah behind and the road was much less dusty.

It was November and the dry season had recently begun. The monsoon rains were ended, obeying the centuries-old natural cycle that regulated the climate of those equatorial areas.

"Master, we have arrived at Nguroje in the Mambilla, two more hours and we get home," Thomas told me, as I looked around in amazement.

I remembered how many times in the office, in Rome, I had looked at that landscape in aerophotogrammetric mapping, perhaps with a stereoscope. Now it was in front of my eyes, and I still could not believe that I had gotten there after such a long and grueling journey.

The rolling green hills, still covered with grass or elephant grass grown during the rainy season, were there before me.

A wide smile lit up my face when I saw written in red paint on a large boulder at the side of the road, "W the pussy."

It wasn't just me. Evidently many other Italians had passed through, and that writing was proof of that.

After the three long, grueling days of traveling alone with driver Thomas, who did not speak Italian, that writing was the reason for my first smile on African soil.

Sometime later I would find out that that rock (with that inscription) was located on the border between the hills of the Plateau and the descent to the torrid savanna of the Nigerian plains.

It was the "welcome" to the Italians.

The locals surely ignored its meaning, and so the good name the Italians had made for themselves in those wastelands remained intact.

Nguroje was the first settlement that was encountered on the way up, then followed Kusuku, Kakara, Barup, Mbu until arriving at Gembu, in the geographical, almost barycentric center of Mambilla.

If Rome was built on seven hills, Gembu covered, even if partially, at least four.

Its character as a more modern settlement was manifested by the number of "houses," built, as mentioned, from regular bricks of brick earth and galvanized sheet metal roofs. All buildings were single-story, the difference being in the sheet metal. The roads were red lateritic dirt, characteristic of the entire Plateau.

Seen from a distance, Gembu's skyline was eye- catching, though not very African.

The Mambilla Plateau was to Nigeria what Switzerland was to Europe. A happy oasis of peace and tranquility, with a climate that, though dominated by alternating dry and rainy seasons, was characterized by acceptable heat, without the mugginess that oppressed the lowland savannah.

Its high altitude mitigated the boils of the dry season, corresponding to the European winter. In those long months, the days were all the same: sunshine from morning to evening, no clouds to filter in and appease its rays that beat relentlessly on the head. But at the end of the day, a good hat was sufficient to quietly endure its lash.

In the rainy season, corresponding to the European summer, the climate became milder and more bearable. Water brought by the monsoons fell regularly almost every day, transforming the Plateau in an endless expanse of lush green hills.

In the center of the plateau lay Gembu, and in the center of the town, near the shack that served as the post office, on the summit of the highest hill, stood the local police station.

Throughout the drive along the Plateau our car had kept passing rickety pickup trucks loaded with uniformed soldiers holding rifles. Even in the Plateau, the situation was not entirely quiet.

I knew, however, that the Pladeco camp was still guarded by a jeep with four soldiers who, on a rotating basis, were in charge of ensuring the safety of the foreign personnel and the tranquility of the construction sites.

The base camp was a special watchdog by the Nigerian government, which funded its operation under the international contract for the "Mambilla Plateau Development Plan," MPDP.

After skimming past the town of Gembu, at a fork in the road, the Land Rover turned left, heading east. After about three kilometers of track winding, almost swinging, between one hill and another, I caught a glimpse from afar, up there at the top, of the base camp buildings.

Heavenly vision. It was the end of that long journey.

The camp was not fenced off, but there was an entrance bar at the side of which a pickup truck and soldiers were stationed.

"Good morning, master," said a soldier raising his hand to stop the vehicle. Thomas, whom the soldiers already knew, hastened to return the salute and tell them in his pidgin English that he was transporting a new arrival from Italy.

One of the military men, with a manner not at all polite, asked me, "Passport, please."

This I understood immediately and, somewhat puzzled and perhaps even intimidated by the reception, I looked for the document in my travel bag and handed it to him.

"What's your name?" the soldier asked. 

"Giorgio Sandri," I replied with a tone of apprehension.

The military man checked the validity of my passport, photograph, visa and entry stamps that had been printed for me at the airport in Kano.

"All ok, master," and then continued with a wide smile, "you are welcome." 

The new conciliatory tone heartened me, and my heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm. Not having a languagecommon in in

which to communicate, Thomas, during the trip, had not been able to educate me about the Nigerian political situation, so everything was new to me to

which I

I had to get used to it.

The entrance to the camp was a long driveway lined on both sides with tall eucalyptus trees. At the end were the buildings.

Other eucalyptus trees also surrounded the entire field, giving it the appearance of a clearing in the forest. That area had been chosen on purpose, standing out as a resplendent oasis of green amid the more barren surrounding hills.

A placement of regard that gave even more

relief to the buildings that had been erected in pure Italian style.

Our base camp was a precious jewel compared to the buildings and villages I had seen on my way to Nigeria.

It stood there, gorgeous over the hill, its rusticated aluminum sheet metal roofs reflecting the sun's rays like the multicolored refractive spectrum of a diamond.

The construction of the base camp had been the first phase of the MPDP. Designed and built by surveyor and camp leader Luciano Breda, a Tuscan from Florence, Italy, it was intended to remain, at the end of the project, as a royal residence, available to the Nigerian rulers.

Consisting of three twin houses set in a horseshoe shape, with a total of six families, it included an office building, a kitchen-living building, and a bunkhouse called bachelors' quarter, which housed six rooms for bachelors like me.

In total, the camp was able to accommodate about 20 people, a more than sufficient number for the project activities.

The family dwellings, similar to mountain chalets, were clad externally with exposed rock. An architectural wooden structure supported the aluminum sheet metal roof. Pathways bordered by stone curbs led to individual entrances.

Overall, the entire camp seemed to shine in beauty and functionality. Nothing like the local constructions. Surveyor Luciano Breda had done an excellent job and would be my great teacher in the many activities that would engage me from then on.

17

"Welcome, Giorgio," was the first affable and friendly greeting addressed to me by site surveyor Luciano Breda.

"We've been waiting for you for a long time," he continued, calling me "tu," as if to make me feel immediately at home.

I got out of the Land Rover thanking and reciprocating the greeting and, setting foot on the ground, stretched my hands on my hips and arched my back.

A vigorous handshake sealed that long-awaited welcome.

"It was hard," I said and added immediately afterward, to condense my impressions, "A hell of a trip."

"What's going on here?" I then asked alarmed. "I was stopped by soldiers outside the camp..."

"Ah! Don't worry," Luciano replied.

"Normal administration. We are under the protection of local military forces, but it's just a scene. No real danger," he reassured me. The site manager's answer did not convince me completely, but it was enough to reassure me.

Around the jeep, meanwhile, a huddle of people had, predictably, been gathering. A new carrier pigeon had arrived and, with it, the mail and belongings that all the camp guests were eagerly awaiting.

This was the only connection to the civilized world they had left behind in Italy, and each new arrival was still an occasion that enlivened the quiet camp life.

"Come," Luciano told me, "I'll start by introducing you to some people."

"This is my wife Luciana, deputy site manager," Luciano made, opening the introductions, "and these are Gianni and Enza Ricci, sociologists and ethnologists. These, on the other hand," Luciano continued, "are Giorgio and Edda Campanaro, Giorgio is in charge of field maintenance and Edda is in charge of accounting and payroll. Then there is Vinicio Vuerich, hydrogeologist. And this mustachioed piece of marcantonio is Carlo De Filippi, agronomist and photographer."

It was an enthusiastic intertwining of greetings and handshakes, with everyone marveling at my young age.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine here with us," Luciano added. "Come, now I'll take you to your room, in the bachelors' quarter, there you can take a shower," he continued as he set off, followed by me and Thomas carrying my luggage.

Shower. Magic word after three days of hellish travel through heat, sweat and dust. That shower, the first thing I did once I got to my room, was the best feeling I had ever experienced.

With the large towel still wrapped around my hips and my hair wet, I became familiar with my new room.

The walls were plastered and painted white. The bed and closet, strictly constructed from local wood, were adorned with a weave of reed bark that gave a Western touch to the furnishings.

A doorway connected the room to an adjoining small room where there was a desk, chair, and shelves. The floor was smooth, red concrete.

All very spartan, but comfortable.

I stretched out on the bed to try its texture. It was full-size, comfortable and restful.

As much as I could have wished for. There I would spend my bachelor nights in African soil.

The sheets were white, immaculate, covered with a coverlet of coarse wool in red and white bands.

A real luxury compared to the bed in Katsina Ala where I had rested the night before.

I unpacked, taking out what I needed at the moment. I would not rearrange everything in my new closet until later.

First, I took from the suitcase two photos kept in Plexiglas plates. The first was of Federica, the other of Anna. She had given it to me the night before I left Rome, saying, "Keep it."

"Remember me," "Come back soon," "I will wait for you!"

Words indelibly etched in my mind that had gripped and warmed my heart during the Long journey to the Plateau.

Here began my new life, with the hope and expectation of something different.

But I didn't mull it over too much.

I dried off quickly and put on something simple to go out. The usual jeans, a T-shirt and a pair of sneakers were more than enough for that warm evening, with the sun beginning to hide behind the eucalyptus tree tops.

Vinicio Vuerich, the hydrogeologist, was sitting on one of the wooden armchairs and locally made cushions that sat on the veranda of the bachelor's kitchen, intent on smoking an English cigar.

When he saw me, he called me in a kind and friendly voice, "Giorgio, come. Sit here with me and tell me everything."

Vinicio, originally from Trieste, was already a veteran of Africa. He must have been in his mid- thirties, early forties, and appeared to my young eyes as much older than me.

Skinny, with blond, slightly wavy hair, he had a neatly trimmed mustache on top of a sly smile.

His work consisted of the hydrogeological investigation of the Plateau's rivers, especially the central one, the Donga, whose water flow and sediment nature he was to verify in the two different seasons, with the ultimate goal of studying the feasibility of a power generation dam for the Mambilla Plateau.

His work was of utmost importance to the whole area and was one of the cornerstones of the project. In his hands, society and the Nigerian government had placed high expectations for the development of both the Plateau and downstream areas. His accumulated experience had already led him to work in other parts of Africa such as Rwanda, Burundi and Kenya.

He was a capable fellow who had no fear for the purely important tasks he held: the African experience had been a great teacher of life for him.

"You are Vinicio-I seem to remember," I told him promptly.

"Come on! Sit down and tell me about it."

We thus spent long minutes talking, me describing my journey and lack of experience in the land of Africa, him his long history as a bachelor, wandering man in the African moors.

I listened to him almost with my mouth open, eager to hear him tell stories about the land that had now become mine as well.

Time flew by, and by the time we were joined by Charles, the agronomist, it was almost dinner time.

Charles, in his mid-30s, was also like me on his first experience in Africa. He had a firm manner, a confident character with which he concealed his inexperience.

"Philip!" called Vinicio as he turned toward the inner dining room. "He is the waiter, he is in charge of our rooms," he explained.

Philip arrived within seconds.

"Philip, meet the newcomer, Giorgio Sandri," Vinicio said, speaking to him in French.

"Welcome, master bwana," Philip replied, shaking my hand cordially. "Bring us three drinks, Philip. Merci."

The bachelor's kitchen was controlled by the wives of the married men present at the camp, especially Luciana and Edda.

Julien, the cook of Cameroonian origin, had been taught the first rudiments of Italian cooking by the ladies so that we bachelors would also eat as if we were at home. And I could later confirm that Julien had learned properly. Incidentally, before long, I would be enlisted as Julien's official food taster as well as fruit and vegetable supply officer, a vital role.

Dinner, in perfect Italian style, was not long in coming.

Next to the central dining room was the lounging area, with a ping-pong table, darts game, and a sofa, again in sober African style. No radio, no music, no television or newspapers. Just a shelf containing a

few books Arrived in the wake of travelers. Nothing more.

The long evenings passed between chats, cards and bottles of whiskey.

In Africa, whiskey was a must for whites, especially the British who had made it the international alcoholic beverage.

But if for white people a bottle of whiskey was expensive, for locals its value corresponded to a week's pay for hard work. It was therefore easy to understand what status symbol a single bottle of whiskey represented.

This was also Africa.

Sorbed with soda and ice cubes, it flowed to rivers during the long African evenings.

But rarely did anyone get drunk, as whiskey was usually assimilated in long late-night chats, aided by the all-Anglo-Saxon climate and style that also pervaded Nigeria, a former British colony.

Ballantine's, Johnnie Walker, and Chivas Regal were the ones that went around most frequently. But many other brands were coming to the camp, despite the difficulties of supply.

Wine was not covered. From time-to-time bottles of Madeira arrived and were drunk on special occasions.

Always strictly English in style, beer was also flowing by the bushel, sourced from the most diverse parts of the world.

Dinner on that first night at base camp lived up to expectations. Gone in a flash were the doubts and uncertainties that had nagged me before I left.

"I wonder what I will eat there?" was the question that had repeatedly assailed me.

That dinner was enough to reassure me. I was certainly not going to starve to death.

The evening continued in the relaxation corner. Shortly thereafter we were joined by site manager

Luciano Breda who, in between chatting, helped us see the bottom of a bottle of Johnnie Walker.

As if it were the most natural of things, I instantly became part of their large "family," immediately forging a relationship of instant esteem and friendship with each one.

Because that's the way it had to be. No compulsion, no obligation.

Everything was happening in the most natural way. The fellowship of us whites in the land of Africa was something that crossed borders of status or religion. A communicative symbiosis was immediately triggered that bound us together at first

sight.

Migrant workers in foreign lands, Europeans were white flies among African populations, and it was perfectly normal for them to gather or for strong emotional bonds to be born among them, to live together in unknown, dangerous and hostile environments.

It was already past 1 a.m. when Luciano said, "Let Giorgio go to sleep, he will be tired from the journey."

Vinicio, Carlo and I retired to our bunkhouse.

Tired like few times in my life, I undressed and threw myself on my new bed.

Despite the exhaustion, the long and heavy day, the meetings, the new environment, I was slow to fall asleep.

A swarm of thoughts and feelings crowded my mind.

How could what had happened in those first three days in Africa be normal?

A sense of discouragement took hold of me.

I was so young and yet I had already faced experiences that I would never have tried in Italy.

I was reminded of my parents, my poor mother, Federica and other friends, my affections, native places, Anna crying and more. And who knows how long I would not see them again. "Ah, there!" I said to myself. "I, however, have the hope of

come back. It will be hard, it will be long, but I will come back!"

Withoutnoticing it closed the eyes e I abandoned myself to a restful sleep.

Tomorrow would be a different day.

18

When I woke up, light was already streaming through my bedroom window.

It was a new day, a new life, a new era.

The rainy season was over and the dry season was about to begin, with the sun reigning supreme in the sky, while no clouds would show up for months thanks to the hot desert wind, the harmattan.

Having taken a quick shower and shave, I got dressed, ready for the day ahead.

I found my new traveling companions already eating breakfast.

A hearty breakfast, with coffee, corn flakes and fresh fruit galore. Mangoes, avocados, papayas, fruits that I had never heard of but were delicious and found in large quantities in the Plateau.

Philip, the waiter, immediately greeted me.

"Good morning, master. Duddo well?" he said in the his stunted Italian.

Philip was a young Nigerian man, apparently about my age. Helpful and mild-mannered, he handled the varied tasks of his job with thoroughness: he kept the kitchen and dining room tidy, the bachelor's rooms and bathrooms tidy, and even ironed the laundry. He was an efficient handyman. A rare case among Nigerians.

Luciano Breda also greeted me warmly.

"Good morning, Giorgio," he said to me as we entered the office building that was directly across the street from our cafeteria.

He introduced me to the employed staff and those who would be my helpers.

Andrew, the driver of my Land Rover, and Paul and Joseph who would help me with office work and topographic surveys. All three were Cameroonians.

They were young, enterprising boys who had found in the Mambilla Plateau a job opportunity. In some ways, they were also expatriates.

Instead, Sambo, a Nigerian, cared for the horses that would come in handy in the long patrols of the territory, there where Land Rovers could not reach.

The camp's power supply was provided by a generator located near the office area. Giorgio Campanaro, the camp factotum, was in charge of its vital supply and maintenance, as well as in charge of the camp's myriad other needs, food supplies and materials and parts for the vehicle maintenance.

Edda, the wife, kept the workers' accounts and payroll.

Everyone in the team had a specific task, and because of this we were all indispensable to the success of the project.

Other professionals would over time make their appearance at the camp, but most would stay only a few weeks, or a few months, and then leave again. These were highly specialized technicians, almost all of whom were already experts on Africa, and who would work on a specific area of the project at certain times of the year. They would all help broaden knowledge of the Mambilla Plateau area and feed data from their work into the region's comprehensive development plan.

My task was to provide each of them with paper media for the completion of studies and data collection.

Only as the months went by would I fully understand what an immense project I had been called to collaborate on and how many different people I would have to interact and cooperate with.

Young inexperienced migrant in a world of experts internationally.

What responsibility. What honor. What personal gratification. And what opportunities for growth and knowledge Africa gave me!

That first morning I immediately pulled my Nikon camera, SLR roll camera, out of my suitcase, that would keep me company during my long time at the camp, helping me afix the most salient, and most touristy, as well as work-related, moments of my African adventure. I had also brought along a good supply of rolls of film, some still in black and white, some in color slides. Months could pass between taking the photograph and seeing what was imprinted on the film, because the rolls of film were entrusted to the various carrier pigeons back in Italy, to be developed in Rome, and the photos would only return to the Mambilla with the next wayfarer. This was especially true for slides, because t h e r e were no photographic studios in

Nigeria capable of

develop them.

And so each new arrival at the camp was always the subject of expectation. In that remote corner of the world, every person who arrived was a source of curiosity and news. Curiosity about what was happening in Italy and news for the continuation of the work.

"Giorgio," Luciano called me. "Come with us, we will introduce you to the local king right away this morning."

Climbing into the Land Rover, together with Carlo, Gianni Ricci and Gian Sartirano, the veterinarian, we headed as a delegation to the town of Gembu.

Wudu Samburu was the local king (lamidu). His power, though under the control of the central Nigerian government, extended over the entire territory and people of the Mambilla Plateau, who paid tribute to him by herding his livestock and paying him local taxes.

The royal compound was located at the top of the hill Gembu central, near the post station and military police base.

Surrounded by a high wall of dry brick earth, it was large enough to contain the homes of the king's twenty-six or so wives and fifty or so children.

The Islamic religion of the local king and his people allowed him to maintain, in addition to his four official wives, an indefinite number of concubines. The only constraint was to demonstrate material capacity for their sustenance. And Wudu Samburu was able to do so. Maintaining such a large harem was a symbol of his great power, wealth and magnificence.

The royal house was at the center of the compound and housed not only the king's residence but also guest reception rooms, sometimes for Nigerian government authorities, but more often for cachalla from the various Plateau villages.

The cachalla were similar to our mayors. They represented local power in the various communities and submitted, as subjects, to the authority of their king.

The hierarchy was clear and the control of the region absolute.

Despite successive military coups in the central government, the Plateau was a seemingly quiet oasis and the local police merely made their presence known in the territory and the town of Gembu.

The military guards at the entrance to our camp had never had any cause for concern or need for intervention. At least until then.

We had to wait a few minutes before the king received us. This gave me time to take a look inside the famous compound.

All the huts, one for each wife, were circular in shape and had red brick earth walls and thatched roofs. The women's job was to control the offspring and keep the yard clean and tidy.

Wrapped in their brightly colored traditional wrapper or jalabiya dress, they were colorful blobs that moved like ants.

Even in the most Spartan African style, everything appeared impeccably neat.

Columns of smoke came out of