Free Wild Spirit by Annette Henderson

It was the first time I had heard the term, meaning ‘boss’ or ‘master’. I hoped my slight flinch had gone unnoticed.
    Mario insisted that I, as the only woman present, should sit at the head of the table. The food and wine could have placed us in any good Italian restaurant, and Étienne served the three courses with a grave gentleness of manner that I warmed to instantly. Mario was in high spirits throughout, laughing and joking. He seemed delighted to have some company during a meal. I tried to picturewhat his life over the previous five months in camp had been like, as the only expatriate, trying to do the job of several men. I began to understand why he had brought his dog, Lupo, with him.
    After dinner I walked out to the porch and stood in silence, trying to imagine what our life up here would be like. The chill air carried the earthy fragrance of the forest. The insect chorus and the throb of the generator played off each other in a syncopated rhythm, and the faint smell of smoke from the fireplace hung lazily about the building. All my senses told me I was going to love it.
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    We woke to a cold morning and the voice of Mario outside, giving instructions to a group of labourers. Dry-season cloud blanketed the sky. Bernard had stoked the fire and the table was set for breakfast.
    My first view of the camp in daylight was through the louvre windows on the back wall. Abandoned banana and manioc plantations covered the hillside; beyond them, the forest canopy formed a patchwork of undulating green. Here and there, giant emergent trees spread their crowns against the sky. The mountains in the distance, grey-green in the pale morning light, were cloaked in unbroken forest. The sound of African voices reached me: men leaving on foot for work, and women setting off to tend their food gardens.
    Doug had the day planned out for us. He would take us on a tour of the camp during the morning, and after lunch would brief Win in detail about the construction program. Over breakfast, he gave us a history lesson.
    â€˜Bethlehem Steel established this camp in 1960. The exploration phase ran for about seven years before thecamp was shut down. This building dates from that era. In those days, there were French biologists based here as well, studying gorillas, birds and bats. We’re at 670 metres altitude here. That’s why it gets so cold.’
    â€˜How does the supply system for the camp work?’ I asked.
    â€˜We bring everything up river either in the pirogues or on the company’s barge. The fresh food is flown in to Makokou in iceboxes twice a week and the mail with it, in a locked canvas pouch. Fuel comes up in 200-litre drums. Most of our timber and cement comes from Makokou. We coordinate everything by radio.’
    â€˜What’s the situation with the power supply?’ Win asked.
    â€˜At the moment, we have a 110-volt Perkins diesel generator that we start up at six in the morning and shut off at ten at night. But once our mechanic is on board he’ll be installing the new one, which will give us 240-volt power.’
    I finished my toast and jam and drank a second cup of coffee, laced with thick tinned milk, and then we were ready for the grand tour.
    Doug led the way to a padlocked corrugated-iron shed. Inside, rows of shelves were stacked with cans of vegetables and fruit, tins of coffee and evaporated milk, bags of sugar and flour, sacks of potatoes, rice and onions, and stocks of light bulbs, plastic dishes, cleaning materials and mousetraps. Just outside, a triangular flat-iron water tank was positioned over a fireplace to provide hot water for showers at night. Beside the guesthouse was a long open shed with a concrete floor and a tin roof on bush poles, empty and deserted.
    â€˜That was the old sample shed,’ Doug explained. ‘We’re going to convert it into accommodation and offices.’
    A short drive up a dirt road brought us to three