OOC.
"Welcome to Oasis"
0630
Western Zembala Displaced Persons’ Center (Oasis)
June 10th, 2013
The dark sky had lost the nightly fight, as the African sun slowly began to creep up above the tropical forest and the savannah. This was the only point of the day in which one could not hear the cacophony of gunfire, explosions, and blood-curling screams that dominated Zembala for almost 20 hours a day. Countless fights had been fought on this ancient land, and to the trees, rocks, and dirt, this civil war was just another bloody chapter in the history of the land, nothing but another trial like all of the others. The birds and animals continued as they always did, with a flock of geese flying past the orange-red sun, the scene looking like something that would be on the front cover of National Geographic. Down on the savannah below them, a small family of African Elephants wandered through the brush. This was serenity at its finest, and if you were to witness this scene, you would quickly forget that Zembala was even being torn apart by a vicious civil war. At least, until the sound of blades swiftly sliced through the air and forced the elephants into a panic, sending them running for the forest.
A pair of helicopters would soon pass by the rising African sun, namely a brush-camouflaged Mi-17 and a brush-camouflaged UH-1Y Venom. The latter was practically unheard of in any organization aside from the US Marine Corps, but with Fusilier Worldwide’s CAO being a former USMC 3-star General, you’ve got some pull in many facets of the organization, and it seemed that the man was able to swing the Marine Corps into leasing some rights on the Venom to Fusilier. This particular bird, named “Mamba” by its crew, had already distinguished itself in the 3rd Zembalese Civil War, having rescued a team of UN Military Observers from a large force of ZIF militants, as well as having aided foreign special forces teams in extracting their diplomats and citizens from vicious fighting in Njala. Now, Mamba was escorting a helicopter packed full of aid workers to Oasis, the largest refugee camp in all of Zembala.
It still stumps me how I went from banging a saucy Irish redhead that I met in the bar of the Hôtel des Mille Collines to playing poker and drinking in the back of a Hip, heading to do medical work at the shittiest refugee camp in Africa. Why the hell did I say that I was a former 18-Delta?
Sitting on the floor of the Hip were 4 men – a French engineer, an American teacher, a South African psychiatrist, and none other than Gene Larson, a field medic. The men had cracked open a case of Budweiser that the teacher had brought along, and they had started a game of poker. Various forms of currency sat on the floor of the helicopter, with the Frenchman claiming a large collection of cash. The other aid workers were doing their own things, whether it be reading, sleeping, worrying, or watching the poker game. Gene looked down at his cards – pair of 5s – and took a sip of the second beer that he was on. He knew that he wasn’t going to win, and he was down $300 already, and he didn’t want to lose anymore. Soon, it was his turn to play, and the eyes of the others were upon him. He took another sip of his beer, and signed, putting the cards down on the table.
“Fold,” he said. “You assholes are gonna suck me dry.”
“Sore loser,” the other American said.
“Hey, I’ve already been broke more than once in a foreign country,” Gene said in response. “Should’ve learned my lesson the first time, but it took me 8 times to learn it.”
The other poker players and the aid workers began to laugh at Gene’s comment, despite the fact that he wasn’t lying. Still though, Gene gave a laugh and walked away, his beer in his right hand as he dusted some dirt off of his tan BDU pants, which were tucked into a pair of worn OD green combat boots. His pants were secured by a tan rigger belt, with a brown t shirt tucked into the pants. With his dogtags tucked into his shirt, and a black mil-spec watch on his wrist, Gene guessed that he looked like some sort of dink, though the other aid workers weren’t too far off. Many of the Westerners were wearing khaki outfits that you’d see in some Hollywood safari film, or they were just wearing expensive designer-made clothes. Such clothes make people stand out like sore thumbs in such a poverty-stricken continent, and sore thumbs signify that they have money to spend. When you’re a poor teenage African with no parents, living on the streets and surviving off of garbage, that sore thumb could make you rich if you were to subdue them and hold them for a ransom. It was a good business, and it wasn’t always reported in the media. You would have to read the travel advisories from the State Department, and who ever listened to the government anymore?
Just as Gene sat down in his seat next to his large OD green assault ruck, his green duffel bag, and the UCP-colored bag that held his medical gear, the force of several 7.62mm rounds hitting the bottom of the Hip caused some of the novice aid workers to freak out. Veterans like Gene weren’t phased, and simply looked out of the windows. Although no one could guess where the fire was coming from, most of the veterans surmised that the ZIF or the Horsemen were firing on the helicopter from the jungle. Gene looked over towards Mamba to see the crew firing an M240 Bravo down into the jungle, followed up by 2 Hydra rockets, which would explode down into the jungle and put an end to the harassment. ZIF animosity towards the African Union and the NGOs was well-known; in a “press conference,” the ZIF had vowed to behead any peacekeeper or NGO that they managed to captured, and although none had been beheaded yet, a Red Cross CH-47 carrying a large number of injured civilians was shot down just 3 kilometers from Oasis with no survivors, and it sent a message to the AU and the NGOs that the ZIF had few qualms about killing noncombatants who went without heavy support outside of Oasis.
The helicopters would soon approach Oasis, and the crew would alert the aid workers to this development. Expecting to see a well-maintained refugee camp in which everyone was happy and healthy, most of the aid workers were disappointed when the reality of Oasis was that it was little more than an AU-defended shanty town. It had been a year since the creation of the camp, and many refugees were still in tents, or in tent-shanty hybrids with a few solid buildings mixed in. It looked like a Brazilian favela, minus being on a hillside and with a river running through the middle of the camp. Gene saw this, and shook his head. Mosquitoes plagued tropical areas, and apparently whoever designated the camp to have a river running through it should have been shot for such a design flaw. It wasn’t some roaring rapid; quite the opposite, as the river was one of the slowest-flowing rivers in Africa, and it was known for its mosquitoes. Also, the river was probably filthy and overused by the refugees, with people swimming, gathering drinking water, washing clothes, disposing of trash, and relieving themselves in the river all at the same time. Despite the fact that there were numerous port-a-johns and restrooms located in the camp, not everyone flocked to them. Sometimes at night, your home was too far from the restroom for a safe walk to the john, but with the river right behind your house, you could just plop a mud baby into the river and walk back inside. As a result, the river was just nasty. Many aid workers suggested the idea of building a pipeline and even working on a septic system for the camp, but the plan was shot down by the AU bigwigs, who argued that the pipeline would be sabotaged, and the septic system and the pipeline would be too expensive to produce.
The helicopters soon landed on the raised helipads that had been constructed. Set up near the helipads was the 2-story, concrete Processing Center, with the main gate sitting just nearby, along with the security checkpoint, in which refugees were processed into Oasis. Set up in front of the Processing Center was a sign that read NEW WORKERS ENTER HERE, written in English, Spanish, French, Arabic, Afrikaans, German, and a few other languages. As the back door lowered to create a walkway for the aid workers, they were welcomed by the rising heat of the tropical area, clocking in around 80 degrees Fahrenheit at the present moment. Some of the aid workers, notably those from the other side of the Equator, were hit by the heat and humidity almost immediately, wiping sweat from their brows and digesting water in order to reassure themselves that they wouldn’t suffer heat exhaustion. Carrying his bags as he exited the helicopter, he decided not to slip on his hat as they were simply moving over not but a few meters from the helipads. As they walked, Gene stealthily slipped the beer can into a nearby trashcan, due to society’s rather low opinion on alcoholism.
The inside of the Processing Center was rather modern, with furniture, ornaments, and architecture that you’d expect to be in some Western office building than in the Processing Center of one of the biggest follies in the history of refugee camps. The interior was air-conditioned, and it was one of the few air-conditioned buildings in the camp, aside from the security and worker barracks and some illicitly-acquired A/C units that some refugees smuggled in, those these were often stolen by other refugees, and would end up broken, as few people had the know-how to repair these units. As the new workers arrived, personnel arrived to transfer baggage to the living spaces that each aid worker would be assigned to, taking the name of each person and using a list to find out where each new aid worker would be bunked at, though not everyone would have the luxury of staying in an air-conditioned area, as they were still building accommodations for the increase in aid workers and many would have to brave the elements and bunk at their work stations.
After turning over their bags, the aid workers were led into a rather small conference room, where some chairs were arranged in rows and columns. A middle-aged white man wearing a dark green polo tucked into a pair of faded blue jeans stood at the front of the room, in front of a powerpoint title screen projection that read “WESTERN ZEMBALA DISPLACED PERSONS’ CENTER,” with the small images of several organization emblems below it, namely the International Red Cross, International Red Crescent, the African Union, and several other organizations. Gene took a seat in the back row, and immediately kicked back and relaxed as everyone else filed in and prepared to listen to the briefing. It wouldn’t take long for everyone to show up and sit down. Upon noticing that everyone was seated, the big Englishman began to speak.
“Hello and welcome to the Western Zembala Displaced Persons’ Center, or Oasis,” he said in his London-English dialect. “I am Philip Hoxton, Human Resources Director, but just call me Phil. It’s good to see a fresh batch of aid workers, and we need all of the help we can get, what with the recent cuts to our budget. Let’s get down to brass tacks on this thing and then get you all out there. I know you just arrived and you would like to settle in, but we desperately need to get you all out there and working. I am sure that everyone has signed their liability waivers and read over your briefing on the flight in.”
“The most important thing to remember here at Oasis is that to these refugees, you are a beacon of hope,” he continued on. “To them, you have come from the prosperous parts of the world to reach out and help them. They view you as one of us would view a diplomat; a representative of your respective nation. That being said, they do not hand out trust freely. While they know that you are here to help, they don’t always open up to us immediately. You see, this center was supposed to be state-of-the-art, and in the AUAMZ leaflets, Oasis was touted as such. However, it seems that our expansive budget had to be split up among the rest of AUAMZ, if the entire mission is to survive. As a result, Oasis struggled early on, and although we are able to provide these refugees with simple aid and services, they have managed to create their own marketplace and economy. Bars, stores, market stalls, brothels, pharmacies, diamond appraisal, pawn shops, and other locations have risen up. It’s quite interesting to say the least, for a refugee camp to become its own small town.”
“However, with urbanization comes sociological problems,” he said. “We can’t isolate Oasis from the war, and it seems that there is widespread animosity and strife between our Christian and Muslim refugees. Gangs have begun to form, claiming allegiance to one side or neither, and it pains me to say this, but these gangs have been bringing in large quantities of weapons. Captain Pretorious, the Commanding Officer of our AUAMZ security detail, assures me that they are doing everything in their power and they are disarming many gangs at any given time. However, do not be intimidated. In addition to the peacekeepers, Fusilier contractors have shown up to assist us, and I am aware that many of you have some military and law enforcement experience. We will do everything in our power to keep you all safe.”
4 individuals would soon enter the room. The first man, an English-looking black man wearing a pair of dirt-caked khakis, a sweat-stained faded denim shirt, and a stethoscope around his neck, was obviously the Chief Physician. Behind him was a rather short woman who was dressed in the grey BDU pants and black boots worn by most Fusilier contractors, along with a black tank top and a leg holster that contained a Browning Hi-Power. She also had a communications earpiece in her right ear and a pair of silver Aviators clipped on the front of her tank top. Her long black hair was kept under control with a black headband, a hair band, and a bobby pin to keep it in a high-riding ponytail. The fellow behind her was obviously an overworked American, dressed in a dirt-stained tan shirt that barely hid his large belly, a pair of dirt-stained worn-out blue jeans, and a battered pair of cowboy boots. Unlike the others, he was still wearing his sunglasses. Behind this fellow were the final two members of the group, an Anglican priest and a Muslim Imam, both men dressed in worn khaki clothing. None of them wanted to be here, but anyone could tell that they were thankful to get away from the heat and humidity.
“Alright, these people are in charge of the various departments here at Oasis,” he said. “I’ll allow them to step forward and introduce themselves and give you some insight into what they control.”
The black doctor stepped forward first, his weary eyes catching some light before he began to speak in a seemingly uncharacteristic fit of excitement and joy in his work.
“Hello and welcome!” he said, speaking with the voice of an English-educated African. “I am Dr. Charles Kouassi, and I am from Njala, Zembala, but I grew up in London. I am the Chief Physician of this camp, and my duties entail me to oversee all physical and mental health services here at the camp. I have read over the dossiers of those of you who specified that you were chiefly medical professionals, and I must say that it will be a great pleasure working with you all!”
Dr. Kouassi stepped back, and the less-enthusiastic woman stepped forward. Her tone of voice hinted that she couldn’t care less about this, but she stood up straight and made eye contact with the room, not even blinking.
“I’m Alma Steiner, and I am the second-in-command of the Fusilier security detail,” she said, speaking with a mix between a New York City dialect and an Israeli accent. “I served in the US Marine Corps for 4 years, followed up by 10 years in the Israeli Defense Forces, and due to the latter, most of the workers and my men call me Captain Steiner. Don’t put my personnel in a position in which they have to rescue your asses. Follow orders and use your common sense so that things will be easier for all of us.”
Captain Steiner stepped back, as the American stepped forward. His posture was laxed, but he managed to put on a smile as he began to speak with a heavy Southern twang.
“Ty Goforth,” he said. “I am in charge of construction operations. If you’re an engineer or any sort of construction worker, you’re workin’ under me. I run a fair shift, so as long as you do what I tell you to, we’ll be hunky-dory.”
As Ty stepped back, the two clergymen stepped forward, putting on warm smiles for everyone.
“I’m Reverend Walt Fletcher,” the Reverend said, speaking with a bit of a Welsh accent.
“And I am Imam Omar al-Fulani,” the Imam said, his English clear as day and hinting at a Western education.
“Mr. al-Fulani and I are in charge of the Chaplain Services here at Oasis,” he said. “I oversee our Christian Chaplains and serve as the main Chaplain for the Christian refugees, while Mr. al-Fulani oversees the Muslim Chaplains, and serves as the Muslims’ main Chaplain.”
“I know of a few of you having theological training,” al-Fulani said. “It’s a blessing to have more theologians here, helping to engender holy faith and compassion to take care of these displaced persons.”
The clergymen then stepped back, as Phil took control once more. Steiner left the room, as she was no longer needed for this part of the orientation. An aid worker soon handed Phil a box, which he put on the table before turning to the new workers.
“Here are your official identification cards. Wear these at all times on your person,” he said. “Line up here and get your card, and then meet up with whoever you are assigned to by Role.”
Some things just stay complicated and awkward, as a complicated and awkward line formed in front of the box of identification cards. Gene sighed and entered into the rear of the line, and it took around minute or so minutes for him to grab his own card and clip it onto his rigger belt. It seemed that a few people had met up with Dr. Kouassi as well, and he was ready to get them to their work station and ready to move out. Slipping on a worn-out paramilitary-style tan baseball cap, Gene awaited Kouassi’s lead.
“Alright, let’s move,” he said as he led them out of the Processing Center, past a family of refugees that had just arrived, speaking only when they had crossed over onto the dirt and grass that comprised the ground of Oasis. “To be truthful with you all, we are suffering from a lack of funds and a growing number of patients who need help. I will need you all to begin working as soon as we arrive at the tent and do a briefing. I apologize, but we need all the help we can get, and we need it as soon as possible.”
The area that they were walking through was a gated-off section of the camp, which housed the facilities for the camp. However, despite the chainlink fence doing its best to obscure the view of the camp, its somewhat hill-topped position gave it a good view of the shantytown below. Gene looked over to see the small shantytown that was formed, and it was like no other refugee camp he had seen before. It was more of a town than a refugee camp, and he could clearly see armed men walking below. Not peacekeepers or security personnel, but armed refugees. They weren’t doing much besides chilling next to a shanty building that was serving as a bar. This surprised Gene, as it seemed that the camp had a gun problem, and neither the AU nor Fusilier seemed to be stopping it. Apparently, Kouassi noticed what Gene was looking at, and attempted to divert his attention away.
“Mr…Larson, is it?” Dr. Kouassi asked. “Let the soldiers handle it.”
Gene shrugged his shoulders and nodded to the doctor after looking away from the scene. The group would soon be led to the medical station, which consisted of several medical tents and a large clinic building. Spotting the tents, Gene spoke up.
“I’m guessin’ that the clinic buildin’ is full?” he asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Kouassi admitted. “You’ll have to work here in the tents, and you will also have to sleep out here, unfortunately. We are trying to build more accommodations for workers, but this is the best we can do for now. Now that we’re here, it’s best that we get you all assigned to your stations.”
The doctor produced a list from his pocket, and began to read off of it.
“Alright…Dr. Kurjak, Dr. Karsadi, Mr. Larsen,” he began as he pointed towards a tent beside the wide-open gate that linked the medical district to the Common District, which was outside of the residential areas. “You will be assigned to that tent, and your gear should already be there.”
As Kouassi continued on, Gene looked over towards the two Doctors that he’d be working with. Looks like I’m stuck with the Muslim crew here. This is gonna be a blast. Gene sighed, and walked with the two over to their tent, which held around 10 cots, 3 cots in a small area for the doctors, crates of medical supplies, and the supplies of the 3 doctors, which were sitting on their cots. Wiping off some sweat from his forehead as he entered the tent, Gene chuckled at how Spartan their setup was.
“Wow,” he said before turning to the other two doctors. “Gene Larsen. I guess I’m the closest thing to a nurse that y’all are gonna have.”
