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The outlying regions, distant from mainstream culture, are always targets of neglect.

The unique identity imbued with the local climate and characteristics is often suppressed, reduced to a single narrative synonymous with the Third World, danger, terrorism, famine, and religion.

However, having traveled the depths of Africa and the Middle East, I dare say that it is difficult to categorize these areas merely as a Third World entity.

The reason is simple. Even within the same continent and country, people may belong to different tribes, speak different languages, and practice different religions. To draw a parallel, while Westerners might lump Korea, China, and Japan together as ‘Asia,’ when the inhabitants of these countries meet, they’ll vehemently argue, “How on earth can those people be considered the same as me?”

Thus, regions often generalized under the label of the Third World reveal significant differences upon a closer look—so much so that one might question whether they indeed belong to the same cultural sphere.

In this way, the term “Third World” cannot encapsulate the anthropological diversity of these areas, which simultaneously harbor a myriad of colorful, albeit overwhelming, challenges that might rival a buffet.

For instance…

“K-Kamila… Sorry, but I really need to go to the restroom…”

“Uwaaaaak!!!”

It’s like one of those endemic diseases, you know?

—

Episode 16 – The Six Million Dollar Man

The day after our local business trip.

We caught food poisoning.

“Ugh…”

“…Are you okay?”

The cost of indulging in the local cuisine was steep.

A fever that felt like my brain was boiling, cramps slicing through my stomach, nausea, and diarrhea turned the bathroom into a temple of deep, reflective thought about life.

When I took the thermometer and checked Kamila’s forehead, the result was a whopping 40.1°C.

It was a fever serious enough to suspect acute infection.

Of course, my own condition wasn’t much better either.

After a hearty meal provided by the tribe, we both ended up stricken with food poisoning.

Around dawn, sudden stomach cramps hit me first, waking a groggy Kamila, who began to complain about her high fever.

There wasn’t even time to say a word. In that moment, we instinctively realized we had food poisoning.

“Drink some water. Slowly.”

The filthy hygiene conditions and severe water contamination in the Mauritania Continent have been well documented in embassy announcements, international organization reports, and travel guides.

Whether it was because we ate meat left out at room temperature (I emphasize that the local daytime heat easily exceeds 50°C) or caught freshwater fish from contaminated rivers, who knows?

Kamila, who had relished her meal, was now groaning and languishing.

“Are you not drinking?”

“I had some earlier. With the antibiotics.”

“Do you have any medicine left?”

“Yes.”

I handed Kamila the antibiotics and fever reducers.

It was a stockpile bought at the pharmacy for emergencies, but I never thought I’d be using it so soon.

After finishing off a bottle of bottled water, Kamila and I laid there for a while, resembling corpses, before waking again. The sun was high in the sky.

As I staggered out of our lodging, familiar faces awaited us. It was the Warlord Duo.

Sitting in the Warlord’s vehicle and chitchatting, they cheerily waved their hands and began speaking in brief Kien phrases.

“Late sleep. Bad habit. Lunch?”

Lunch? After the food poisoning from yesterday’s meal, I wasn’t in the mood for lunch. No matter how much of a foodie Kamila was, she had to restrain herself when it got to this point.

Before anyone could say anything, we both shook our heads. This was the very first moment our opinions aligned without a single discrepancy since arriving in the Mauritania Continent.

“Are you sick?”

“Yeah…”

“Where?”

“Food poisoning.”

“Ah!”

The Warlord Duo started laughing knowingly, almost as if mocking frail foreigners.

“Understand. Here, food. Very terrible. Disease. Common. Need doctor?”

“Is there a doctor in the village?”

“No. But in the city. There is.”

The Warlord Duo that provided the information about the doctor in the city offered to go there themselves. I questioned the need to travel to a city five hours away just to treat food poisoning.

“City. Need to go. Here, things. Lacking.”

“Oh, in that case…”

“On the way. Get doctor. But…”

The Warlord Duo made a gesture with their hands, rubbing their thumb against their bent index finger.

Oh, for crying out loud. So that’s it. These punks were gonna ask for a bribe to fetch a doctor.

I rolled up some cash and handed it to the shameless Warlord Duo. Confirming the amount with a satisfied grin, they hopped back into their vehicle.

“Quickly go. Police. Coming with us.”

“Police? Why do we need the police?”

“Dangerous. Armed robbers nearby. Hear gunshots sometimes. Very perilous.”

As they rambled on, the Warlord Duo lifted his shirt a bit, revealing something. I stepped closer to see what the fuss was about, and there it was—the butt of a pistol popping out.

It’s a warlord; of course he has a gun. I figured it was no big deal. Did they think that since they had firearms, we had to worry about them? Just then, the man spoke up.

“Pistol. Useful. Alone, 70,000 Tachron.”

“Just go. Please.”

After shooing away the street vendors, all we had left were sick bodies and empty stomachs.

Honestly, I wanted to skip eating, but to function today, I needed something, anything, to eat.

“What’s for lunch…?”

“Let’s eat what we brought. We can’t stomach the food served here.”

We crawled into the SUV and dealt with our rations. The emergency rations I mentioned were combat rations; our trunk was packed with Patalia, Lushan, cult, and even Kien Empire army rations.

To be clear, there were no rations distributed to the Abas army. The unofficial disguise Information Officer cannot carry anything linked to the motherland. This holds true for combat rations, as well as medications and daily necessities.

Pâté that tasted like pig liver, tins of meat reeking of foul odor, and crackers that were harder than bricks. What on earth were they stuffed with? The crackers gave off a pungent aroma of spices, while the meat in the can was as tough as leather with chunks of white fat sprinkled throughout.

Combat rations were inedible, no matter how you sliced it; in fact, they’re just not fit for consumption.

But there weren’t any better options.

“Who the hell made this crap… Ah, it’s from the Empire.”

“This cracker is way too hard. How do we even eat it?”

“Try soaking it in water. I don’t know much more.”

Knowing that, Kamila began to eat the combat rations without complaint.

When we were in the North, she often enjoyed these ‘exciting’ combat rations, but only a couple of times. After being traumatized by the horrific taste, she always avoided combat rations like a rabid chihuahua.

She was a born gourmand, but also quite the foodie. She loved eating as much tasty food as possible; could she ever endure combat rations?

Yet, there she was, quietly consuming the rations.

The reason was simple. She had witnessed the women of the tribe preparing food without washing their hands.

These damn rural folks lacked even the basic hygiene thought that one should wash their hands before cooking, kneading grain flour with dirty hands grimy from the earth.

Faced with this devastating truth, Kamila ultimately sacrificed the joy of gastronomy for her health. What did it matter if the taste was off? It was better than dying from illness, she reasoned.

And so, after finishing her meal in silence, Kamila slumped back in her chair. It was more accurate to say she had no energy to do anything rather than feeling bothered by the world.

“What do we do now?”

“You should go in and get some more rest.”

Stepping outside, I began to tie my shoelaces.

Kamila, looking pale, leaned back in her chair and asked, “Where are you going? You should rest a little today…”

A faint sigh escaped her dry lips.

“I have work to do.”

—

The operation proceeded as planned, and time flowed smoothly.

Long-range observation of government army forward bases, border reconnaissance, intelligence collection from residents, terrain assessments, and the like—all of the prepared plans were wrapped up successfully.

I used the pretext of a news report to scout the border between the third group warlords and the government. I moved about the village surrounding the border to thoroughly check every significant point there.

I particularly focused on observing the roads. I wanted to verify whether the roads listed in the documentation actually existed, their conditions, and if any roads were missing, which exact locations they were in.

During this process, I took several photographs, and the warlord’s guides happily allowed me to take them, claiming I was capturing background photos for the article. Of course, those photos would feature the Hassan Warlord’s facilities suspiciously magnified, but I swapped the film in time before any censorship hit, so I wasn’t worried about getting caught.

Monitoring the government army’s forward bases was significantly easier than photographing the warlord’s facilities.

The Warlord Duo and others from Al Bas Tribe kindly guided me to a hill that overlooked the government army’s forward base, requesting that I report any of their acts of wrongdoing. Thanks to them, I captured some pretty decent photos.

For reference, the tool I used to gather photo information was a high-performance magic camera, similar to the giant cameras that paparazzi carry around. Typically used by journalists, it was also favored by the special reconnaissance (SR) teams of the Abas army, which was how I was able to acquire it cheaply through a contact of Jake’s (a special forces vet).

In any case, since I got a lot of photographs, I’d just send them to the Military Intelligence Agency, and they’d handle the analysis.

Even if Larry, the senior analyst of the Royal Intelligence Department, isn’t the most likable character, his skills are top-notch. The same goes for his analysis team. Of course, Pippin and Charnoy aren’t to be underestimated either.

The important thing is that there are people who will analyze the intelligence for me. I sent all the collected photos to my office at the Military Intelligence Agency and to the safehouse of the operations team, which should be in the Lushan Federation by now.

Everything seemed to be proceeding according to plan.

But you know, things in this world don’t always go according to your wishes.

As I was continuing the intelligence gathering, I ran into an obstacle.

“Ugh…”

There was no one around who could potentially be recruited as a local informant.

I’d been roaming around the village for two days, but couldn’t find any individuals from the warlord or tribe who could deliver the critical information I needed.

To express it more accurately, I was looking for someone who could uncover deep information on the Hassan Warlord and Al Bas Tribe similar to Farid, but more on the surface level.

For example, “So and so from one tribe had a spat with so and so from another tribe,” or “one of the executives from the three groups cheated on his wife.” Just some trivial gossip.

I needed someone who dealt with such light, broad information.

But I failed.

“……”

While I could personally seek out such information, with my solo operation, I didn’t have the luxury to concern myself with those minor details.

Who could I even entrust this to?

Just as those thoughts crossed my mind…

“…Huh?”

Returning to the village, sick body in tow, I was greeted by an odd sight.

Emaciated locals carrying discolored, shabby baskets and buckets were crammed into an open space. Though obscured by the crowd, I could see a few individuals leisurely exiting the scene, carrying basins.

One peculiar thing stood out about the items they were holding.

Baskets, buckets, and basins presumably prepared to collect water were filled to the brim with clear, steamy hot water.

Someone was distributing clean drinking water to the residents.

“Have a charity group arrived?”

I placed my hands on the steering wheel, pondering briefly. But then I quickly realized I hadn’t heard anything about a charity group coming here.

Deciding to take a closer look, I exited the vehicle, peering ahead until I finally recognized the identity of the person distributing water.

“Kamila!”

“Oh, you’re here, aren’t you?”

“What are you doing over there?”

Camila, who was sitting there, waved her hand. Before her was a colossal cauldron, and water was bubbling vigorously inside it.

With a sharp crack, a broken twig fused with the flames. Camila, throwing dry branches into the fire with a makeshift poker she must have scavenged from somewhere, began to poke at the firewood.

As I looked around, I noticed similar cauldrons scattered throughout the open space. Fierce flames proudly loomed, the bubbling cauldrons roared. Buckets repeatedly went up and down as people stood in long lines, each clutching a receptacle, waiting in front of the boiling pots.

Camila, having set the fire to a pile of wood, answered with a bright smile on her pale face.

“I’m distributing water.”

Camila was handing out water to the villagers.

When I suddenly asked why she was doing this, she replied,

“Last night’s dinner. We got food poisoning because we ate food prepared with contaminated hands.”

“Yes, right.”

“But these villagers must have been eating that kind of food every day. When I asked them why they don’t wash properly, they said it’s useless because the water is too dirty.”

It’s well-known that millions die in Africa every year due to dirty water. The use of contaminated water leads to the spread of diseases, increasing the demand for clean water. And the armed groups that cause bloodshed arise from the supply failing to meet this demand; that fact is also widely recognized.

Camila wasn’t ignorant of this. After all, she was a serious conflict studies major and had been a volunteer with humanitarian organizations like Médecins Sans Frontières.

So, she answered that she was boiling the water herself.

The villagers’ responses were relatively positive. In fact, they seemed quite pleased.

Once you realize that you have to drink contaminated water, how could that situation have happened only once? Even more hygiene-conscious African residents than those in the Mauritania Continent still die from drinking unboiled water. Did those villagers in the countryside, where internet access is available, really die because they didn’t know they should boil water? Or did they have no choice but to drink it first since they couldn’t afford to boil it?

Anyway, the villagers’ attitudes towards Camila, who provided clean drinking water, were very favorable.

Simply boiling the water couldn’t remove the impurities, so unidentified chunks floated on the surface like tiny boats, but they felt grateful even for that. One and all, the villagers bowed their heads in appreciation towards Camila.

I watched the scene with interest.

“…”

As long as Camila had an unending supply of magic power, she could boil water 24 hours a day. If she remained there, clean drinking water would be continuously provided.

And another important point: she could single-handedly drive away the murderous locust swarms. Not just scare them away, she could burn them all if she wanted to.

I carefully scanned the crowd surrounding Camila. I wondered if someone was watching.

Sure enough, a few paces away, a few elders and strong men stood in a good spot. They were whispering amongst themselves while keeping their eyes fixed on Camila, who was distributing water.

As I quietly observed them, the strong men, who had been chatting with the elders, appeared to become aware of my gaze and turned their heads away as if nothing had happened when our eyes met.

“…”

I shifted my gaze back to Camila. She was calmly tending to the pot.

*

While there may have been an imperialist among her ancestors, it didn’t appear that Camila was deeply entrenched in imperialist ideologies, as her benevolent acts had continued for quite some time.

At first, she was boiling well water.

“Could you bring me some gravel and sand? There must be some clean ones washed and dried somewhere.”

“Do we need charcoal as well?”

Making a few makeshift filters to remove the floating impurities in the boiled water.

“Do we have enough medicine?”

“We don’t have anything except for what we’re going to eat right away.”

“The warlords went to fetch a doctor. Can’t we share a little with the patients?”

She even sprinkled out some medicine.

Camila supplied the village with large amounts of drinking water and unpacked the goods she had brought from her home. Food, blankets, toilet paper, medicine, and so on.

In a remote village like this, even basic necessities were considered precious. How valuable would high-calorie combat rations, energy bars, fever reducers, and painkillers be in such a place?

Although less than two days had passed since she arrived, it was easy to guess from the villagers’ living conditions and attitudes, especially when one saw them gleefully snatching up rolls of pristine toilet paper.

Noticing the dire situation in the village, Camila began to provide the necessary items to the residents. She didn’t charge them anything. I insisted on giving it away for free.

“Are you sure you’re not going to charge?”

“What’s the point of robbing the village people’s pockets? Just give it away. We’ll be leaving tomorrow anyway.”

What was loaded in the SUV were all goods necessary for long-term activity. It was meant as a precaution for unplanned events that might prolong our stay, yet it looked like we would leave without even opening the packaging, the factory scent hardly dissipating.

There was no reason to take back things that were occupying space. So, she distributed them for free.

If I could exchange readily available items for information, that would be beneficial for me. Of course, antibiotics were the exception. I couldn’t hand those over even if Camila threatened me with a monkey wrench.

As Camila handed out blankets to the villagers, she pouted, saying,

“When did I ever hit you with a monkey wrench? What a strange metaphor…”

“I’ve been hit with one before, and it hurt. That memory just suddenly came back to me.”

“Meh~ you’re lying.”

After receiving a pile of gifts, smiles bloomed on the villagers’ faces. Although the Mauritania Continent had just begun to enter summer, here it already felt like Christmas. If I had to compare it in global terms, the atmosphere resembled that.

Lively. Hopeful.

The villagers kept expressing their gratitude to Camila. Some clasped their hands and bent low, others knelt and kissed the ground. The former was a traditional expression of appreciation from the tribe, while the latter was a prayer typical among Al-Yabd believers.

Clearly, the old farmer-like wizard, despite looking under the weather, moved their hearts by giving away essential goods for free. The atmosphere on site became so heated that eventually the village chief and elders had to step in to calm the excited villagers before the situation could settle down.

I slowly surveyed the villagers beside Camila and lowered my voice.

“Once you’ve given out everything, let’s start heading back.”

“Just a moment. Let me boil some more water.”

“Even if you do, it won’t fill the barrels. We’ve run out of buckets to bring water.”

The sudden arrival of gifts felt as abrupt as the farewell.

We returned to our lodgings. Perhaps due to rumors about Camila’s poor condition, herbs picked from the mountains, expired medicines, and local food rich in folk remedies started pouring in.

Among them was a potion, whose origin was a mystery. The old woman who delivered it insisted it was a magic potion manufactured at the Magic Tower. However, both Camila and I had never seen anything like that before in our lives.

To be honest, what the villagers handed over as a potion was likely a counterfeit. More accurately, it was a fraudulent potion.

While potions made at the Magic Tower aren’t quite as brilliant as those concocted by the alchemists in the Ivory Tower, their quality certainly wasn’t inferior. They were somewhat like the Samsung S series and Apple iPhone relationship—both of excellent performance, yet users still argue about their merits and shortcomings.

It’s the natural order of things for counterfeits to emerge when exceptional products exist. Even now, there were probably home producers around the world slapping ‘Made in Magic Tower’ labels on unidentifiable counterfeits. This potion was one of those.

It would be rude to refuse a gift of what one considers important medicine.

However, as someone with little knowledge of magic, it appeared to be a substance that would lead to severe side effects, so I quietly disposed of it down the drain.

“But if we throw that down the drain, wouldn’t it violate some kind of Waste Management Act? Didn’t the professor emphasize not disposing of failed drugs recklessly?”

“Exactly. That’s why if you visit the Magic Tower’s sewer, it’s a chaotic mess. You know, of creatures like that 30-meter crocodile you caught, Camila.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?! What if we get caught by the police!”

“They don’t care about waste management; they just tell the restaurants to focus on hygiene inspections. It seems like the food hygiene regulations were thrown to the dogs….”

While gifts were pouring in for a while, the village chief and elders once again stepped in to calm the crowd.

They told the villagers gathered in front of our lodgings to return home for now. They promised to convey their thanks on behalf of the village. They also added that the guests would surely understand.

With their skilled speech, reasonable justification, and the authority of the elders, they dispersed the villagers. The elders handed over the gifts that the villagers left behind to us and conveyed their thanks as promised.

“Thank you. The village has once again received grace.”

The elder bowed his head.

Watching him, Farid added, “…or so he said.”

While pouring water with Camila, he had somehow become our interpreter.

When I asked how he had ended up distributing water there, he replied he was suddenly asked for help and was pulled in without any explanation. He seemed somewhat simple-minded.

But right now, he was an excellent interpreter.

Farid translated everything the chief and elders said to us. While Camila was a human Papago, I could only understand the common language of the Mauritania Continent, so if anyone spoke in local dialect, I must rely on a local’s assistance.

“He says he’s really grateful. If the tribe needs any help, feel free to ask anytime.”

“Well, we just did our bit.”

“Hmm… He says he appreciates your good heart. It’s surely the will of the gods that such a good person has come to their village. Yes. That’s what he says.”

Camila chuckled while scratching her head.

As one of the elders held Camila’s hand to express his thanks, the other elderly individuals who had been standing at a distance suddenly started whispering among themselves. It was the village chief and the other elders.

They seemed to be engaged in a serious discussion, and even while conversing among themselves, their gazes kept returning to me and Camila.

“…Hmm.”

The village chief approached Camila after talking with the elders.

Clearing his throat lightly, the old man’s eyes glinted, as if he was anticipating something from the young magician.

Farid translated what he said.

“He asked how long you plan to stay in the village.”

I answered without delay.

“Please tell him we will leave at dawn tomorrow.”

Farid promptly translated my words. Upon hearing the message through the local, the village chief nodded expressionlessly, alternating his gaze between us, then led the elders away from the lodgings.

I drank a glass of bottled water left in the SUV behind Camila, who was waving her hand enthusiastically.

Though my condition was still far from ideal, it had improved significantly since the morning. My fever had dropped considerably, and my mind felt clearer.

“Camila, you should go to bed early tonight.”

“Huh? Why suddenly?”

Camila looked back at me, having glanced outside. The sky was gradually being tinted with dark hues, as if dusk was approaching.

“Isn’t it too early to sleep? It’s still midday.”

“Well….”

I knocked lightly on the door and window of our lodgings, responding nonchalantly.

“I have a feeling if I don’t sleep now, I will regret it tomorrow.”

 

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