Wild Spirit by Annette Henderson

and resilience.
    â€˜There’s one important person you still have to meet,’ Doug said. ‘The bloke cutting the road through the forest. I’m expecting him in for dinner. You’ll love him.’ Doug and Gina had mentioned Eamon Temple to us back in Libreville over dinner. We were on our second drinks when he pulled up outside the kitchen door and strode into the house wearing laced-up jungle boots and baggy knee-length shorts, his loose, short-sleeved cotton shirt hanging out. He was tall and wiry, around sixty, with tousled grey hair and arms and legs streaked with sweat and mud. Doug stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Eamon, meet Win and Annette Henderson.’
    A firm hand gripped mine, and Eamon’s steady gaze met my eyes uncompromisingly. ‘Glad to know you.’ His face creased into an exhausted smile. He spoke quietly with a mild Midwestern American accent, choosing his few words carefully. A glint of humour played around his eyes as he lowered himself slowly into an armchair.
    Eamon was a native of Columbia, Indiana. He’d played a key role in the original establishment of Belinga, and he and his wife had raised their family there. Bethlehem Steel had brought him back for this second tour of duty because he knew the place better than anyone. He’d even known Schweitzer well. I was unaware then of Eamon’s status as a living legend. In the 1950s, when the Belinga ore deposit had been first explored, he had surveyed the route of the proposed Trans-Gabonese Railway from the coast to Belinga through hundreds of kilometres of swamps and forest, on foot – twice. For this, he had been awarded the Star of Gabon medal. All I could see in front of me that night was a man, no longer young, haggard and drawn from his battle with the terrain, whose whole being was invested in the task before him.
    He’d based himself at a rough forest camp on the banks of the Djadié River, a tributary of the Ivindo. He and a team of Gabonese plant operators were carving the route through to Belinga with Caterpillar D8 and D9 graders and dozers. Fifteen Gabonese – men, women and children – headed by Biété Benoît, a local powerbroker, shared his camp. Eamon had come into town that night to pick up cigarettes and whisky for the men.
    I watched and listened as he recounted the litany of problems associated with the work to Doug over dinner. Machines had broken down, parts were difficult to get, andthe mountainous terrain was crisscrossed by rock outcrops that required lengthy detours. They were under pressure to finish before the onset of the next wet, and in time for a ceremonial road opening planned by the government. Once the road was through, Eamon would become chef de chantier or chief of works at Belinga, which would put him below Doug, but above Win, in the hierarchy.
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    On the flight back to Libreville, Win’s lack of French and the daunting task ahead of him occupied my thoughts most of the way. He had no aptitude for foreign languages, yet the job he faced would be a major challenge even without a language barrier. The tight project timetables would not allow much time for settling in.
    Back at our beach campsite, there was little we could do towards our preparation until the shops opened on Monday, so we had the weekend free. After breakfast on the Saturday, I made my move. ‘I think it’s time I taught you a bit of French,’ I declared, fixing Win with my most assertive look. His glum expression told me what I already knew – this would be a battle.
    â€˜Sit down here, and try to concentrate. Do you know what a noun is?’
    â€˜Remind me.’
    â€˜A noun is the name of something. For example, “table” and “chair” are nouns.’
    â€˜Right.’
    â€˜Okay. All nouns in French are either masculine or feminine. For example, “table” is feminine.’
    â€˜How can a table be female?