The story, as I first heard it, had the zing of a Hollywood pitch: Led by a soft-spoken doctor, a band of American conservationists had persuaded the president of the Central African Republic to let them raise a militia and take over the eastern third of the Texas-size country. Their mission was to drive out the marauding gangs of Sudanese poachers who were rapidly wiping out the region’s elephants and other animals. Their authority: shoot on sight.
No one had been killed yet when I arrived in Bangui in early March. Throughout the dilapidated capital, signs of a November coup attempt were still fresh: Bullet divots scored the bricks of the Tropicana Club, and a curfew remained in effect. A detachment of Libyan paratroopers hulked in front of the mansion of President Ange-Félix Patassé, who had been bailed out, again, by his friend Muammar Qaddafi.
Most of the fighting had taken place in the northern reaches of town, where the American group, Africa Rainforest and River Conservation (ARRC), had rented a gated compound. The place had been unscathed in the fighting, and as I approached the large whitewashed porch it occurred to me that this was probably not coincidence. Scattered among the wicker furniture were several men in fatigues, a couple of AK-47s, a grenade launcher, and a very excited chimpanzee.
Dave Bryant, who had been hired in August to lead the militia, extended his hand. “Welcome to bloody paradise,” he said. He introduced a slight, 26-year-old Iowan named Michelle Wieland, who was in charge of ARRC’s community-development component, and a thin 35-year-old New Zealander named Richard Hagen, who had flown in to help with security.
“And the little fellow jumping up and down is Commando,” said Bryant. “We rescued him from a Sudanese trader, and to show his appreciation he’s been crapping all over our floors.”
Bryant’s face seemed custom-assembled for bad-ass impact. Beneath a clean-shaven scalp, a towering forehead descended into a deep ravine of a scowl line, bridged by wraparound sunglasses. An expansive Fu Manchu mustache arched around a loaded cigarette holder, which dangled expertly from one side of his mouth.
“I guess you’ve heard that we’re in a bit of a cock-up,” he said. “We’ve been stuck in this shit-hole for five months now, trying to get out into the bush to do a reccy [reconnaissance] before the rains hit. We’re waiting for gear, we’re waiting for money, and we’re waiting for vehicles. And we’re waiting for people in this zoo they call a government to do something other than put their bloody hands out.”
The three were eager to hear about my meeting that day with the American ambassador, Mattie Sharpless. Sharpless had recently arrived in Bangui for what the State Department defines as a “hardship assignment,” and I had asked her what she knew about ARRC.
“The rumor is that they’re hiring South African mercenaries and diverting funds into diamond ventures,” Sharpless had answered.
Wieland winced when I relayed the quote, but Bryant smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, well. We South Africans don’t usually like to use the term ‘mercenary.’ We prefer to say ‘playing at soldiers on a privately employed basis.’”
Tom Clynes shares more stories and behind-the-scenes happenings from his Central African Republic assignment.
