Chapter 1

“They don’t give a shit about drinking laws over her,” blustered Conor O’Driscol.

“Yeah I had about four beers last night,” agreed Keith Darcy.

“Well we’d still better be careful,” advised Henrik Schleisenmater, their leader as the three youth relief volunteers entered the small shanty town on the outskirts of Verrettes, Haiti.

“Fuck me this is the worst dump so far,” moaned Conor. “Look - shit on the street ... oh it’s dog shit ... or hey! Is it, watch it mate,” he shoved Henrik aside. “Anyway it wasn’t the worst hit place, but still needs our rebuilding efforts,

They strolled into the bar, thronged by a sleepy, mostly black, some brown and some lighter skin, very scruffy, shabbily dressed crowd of men and women who all looked the worst for wear, drowning beers or some local hooch. Dark eyes under darker brows and long black hair stared at the young white faces, but there was no challenge as they would expect back in their respective European cities;after all they were here to help. Keith ordered and paid for three bottle of beer and they took them outside to stand on the beat up timber porch under a makeshift tarpaulin cover to take advantage of the minimal breeze rather than the stench inside.

“Could do with a shag,” snickered Conor, eyeing a large matron struggling along the dirt road with a laden papoose over her hefty shoulders.

“Her or the babby?” scoffed Keith, slapping Henrik on the shoulder to emphasise his mirth at the Dublin lad’s expense. He got a killer look which meant nothing.

“We’re supposed to meeting Jorge here, maybe he’ll give us an idea where the talent is,” suggested Henrik. “His English is pretty crap - better than my French,” he added with a chuckle. “But he might have a girlfriend with mates.”

“Fucking hope so,” muttered Keith. “Fuck all here. Who’s idea was it?”

He didn’t get an answer as they all ogled the ample butt of a woman getting backwards out of an ancient American limousine, which made the three cover their faces because of the dust cloud that had arrived with it.

“He knows the place, this Jorge?” queried Conor.

“Has relatives I think,” answered Henrik.

“Big arse, no bra” sniggered Conor, his attention back on the woman from the car who waddled past them, highly pregnant, carrying a baby trying to grab her braless tit and shepherding two other mites. “I would.”

“You’d fuck the local donkeys I saw you looking at,” scoffed Henrik.

“Just a hole mate, variation on this one,” Conor retorted gesturing with his hand on a wanking grip.

“No bra for sure, what makes you say no knickers?” asked a puzzled Henrik watching the young mother slither by.

“No fucking panty line you arsehole, don’t you see things? for fucks sake, fucking Germans?”

“Might be a thong...” argued Henrik, studying her closer until she disappeared inside the bar.

The drank the beers, getting more until a sultry youth in cast off ragged clothing arrived, shaking hands with Henrik. He was introduced as Jorge to the others, went inside and bought himself a beer but didn’t come back outside for ages. Conor looked inside and saw the local lad enjoying laughs and jokes with various people including the pregnant woman. He had taken the infant from her arms and was making funny faces, making it chuckle.

When he came out Conor asked him. “She got any mates mate?” nodding at the woman who slouched sexily against the door, engulfed by several overweight, unshaven black men. Jorge explained she was his cousin, married with four children and her younger sister was staying at his place while the relief was repairing her home.

“Fuck lets go, younger sister...” chuckled Keith. “Got to have friends. Ask him,” he prompted Henrik.

The German youth established from Jorge, the sister was 16 therefore too young, very attractive nevertheless, this emphasised by the classic curvy 36.24.36 shape internationally recognised and was interested in studying English literature and maybe wanted to converse with the foreigners.

“I suppose this is like one of those fave ... fav ... er you know those shanty towns in Brazil,” sniggered Conor as the four later approached a group of shacks close together, with a track and what looked like an open sewer coursing untidily between them.

“Favellas you fuckwit,” said Keith. “Except they’re on a hill this is flat”

They were greeted by a wizened old woman, an equally grizzled old man, two middle aged women who were neighbours, three mongrel dogs, a parrot in a cage, and two canaries in another cage. A laundry line was strung across the room which was overloaded with many garments. Jorge greeted the adults with hugs and kisses. Drinks were scrabbled together and polite chit chat ensued all Jorge and the locals, the three foreigners mute and pissed off with lack of female interaction.

“So where’s this young sister,” asked Conor impatiently.

Jorge conversed in French and told them she was in the shower. More dull conversation, then more impatience set in so the three hinted they should be leaving. The old man ushered them through the filthy hovel, together with the neighbours by a different route and ignored what seemed to be protestations from the old woman who remained, puffing a pipe.

“Must be the front door,” Keith chuckled, once through a room and into a yard paved intermittently with bricks, some uneven slabs and a patch of gravelly concrete. He bade them goodbye, the two middle aged women went, passing from the yard area into what seemed like jungle.

Water was running to where they passed and Henrik looked over a partition made of rusty, bent, corrugated metal. Jorge joined him, beckoning excitedly to Conor and Keith, his fingers to his lips signifying silence.

They saw a young woman using a bowl being dipped into a huge old rusty fuel barrel and pouring the water over her head. She was swathed in what have won her a wet T shirt competition prize. Her arse crack dark behind the dingy wet white cotton that clung to every nuance of her small body. Her long raven hair soaked and matted on her scalp and shoulders, her feet bare in puddles as she repeated the dousing.

“Fuck me! Turn round darling “ whispered Keith.

She didn’t although treating them to a gorgeous rear view of her wet cotton clothed rump when she bent double to feel for the rag she’d dropped...

Jorge led them reluctantly away with great difficulty and on reaching the track, Conor protested vehemently.

“Fuck, why? We could have watched and wanked to that bit?”

Two days later Henrik was relieved of leader duties, replaced by Jens Jaedermeist, a braw Danish physical education student volunteer who drove Conor and Keith to another earthquake stricken site not far from where so much stuff had been cleared yet more diggers and searchers were needed.

They toiled in the heat and unrelenting sun under shelters until convinced nothing else could be repaired.

“Seen the ass on that bird there,” nodded Jens to Keith, nodding towards a Canadian miss of large proportions sorting some small tools. Bent from the waist down, clad in a torn denim pair of shorts, her free hanging tits exposed up the underside of her loose shirt

“Aw! Don’t keep on mate. I’m in the mode of denial such is the lack of cunts I can get into on this mission,” the Kentish lad moaned. “Asses as you say and the likes are in the back of my mind until we’re finished then I’m off to Havana to sample some of that Cuban skirt.”

“OK how about a beer tonight. Heard of this bar about half a click away. Skirt I don’t know but a beer away from this lot’d be nice?”

Conor, Keith and Jens strolled along the inevitable dirt track later, after their work, to the unique sounds of the tropical forest surrounding them. A few shacks appeared, then a few more, developing into four rows of filth, squalor, human and animal sounds and excrement. Not a soul could be seen, but some sort of festivities could be heard away from the dwellings. Conor ever on the alert for signs of female activity heard water being splashed and searched past the shacks and lean tos. He remembered the opportunities Jorge had denied them, realising Jens was a more sex centred animal and was up for some titillation. He had lagged behind the others and whispered, beckoning when they turned.

He was wedged in a gap between two shacks. They joined him to his incessant gestures to be quiet. They stared through yawning gaps in the tin sheets towards the sound of pouring, splashing water.

A large mature woman with her back to them, was washing herself in the so-called privacy of the scruffy yard. A massive dirty chipped porcelain sink, oil cans, two buckets, a coiled hosepipe, shovels, a pick, a string of laundry, a toilet basin and cistern with bottles of shampoo on the top, a string of clothes pegs were the decoration. For her use there was a running tap into a large bowl and a small pink jug.