After pouring some wine and spooning some meat and vegetables onto a plate, the American answered the barrage of questions that came his way. Everyone seemed to speak English moderately well.
“Tell us, Mr Martin, what do you think of our airport?” one of the doctors asked.
“I’ve seen worse. Believe it or not, there are a few airports in America that make yours look good,” Hanley said. He dipped a piece of flatbread in the broth and began to eat, thankful for the food and his safe arrival.
“Really? I thought all airports in America were paved. Where is there not paved airports in your country?”
“They’re everywhere, really, many are out west, some in the Midwest. Anyway, yours is not bad, as long as approaches are made during daylight hours. What kind of meat is this?” Hanley asked.
“Local beef. We don’t have it often, as it’s very scarce. It’s Sunday and we thought you might arrive so we had something a bit nicer than normal,” Father Robineau explained.
“Well, I really appreciate this. I must admit I am hungry. I ate last night and have had nothing since. My stop in Port Sudan didn’t allow me time to eat. I thought I might be spending the night there, but things worked out and customs let me leave.”
“You’re fortunate,” one of the Slovakian doctors observed. “We’ve been told when the customs inspector there is in a bad mood, say when his wife has refused him her love, he makes people wait for days before he lets them leave. You’re a lucky man, Mr Martin; his wife must have been agreeable, no?”
“I’ll try to remember to drop her a note of thanks,” Hanley said.
A nurse sitting across from Hanley smiled and sipped from a tall glass filled a third of the way with the same wine Hanley was drinking. Watching her drink, Hanley was reminded of how Rocky sipped ice tea from a tall glass sitting at her patio table. He chewed his food a little faster and tried to focus on what was around him now.
The rest of the evening was taken up with more questions about Hanley, his past, why he came and American politics. Hanley asked few questions. As his exhaustion became too much for him, he apologized for his frequent yawns. He was taken back to the sleeping quarters. On the way, they stopped to see the building housing the showers, another large, unpainted wooden building, the interior divided with thin plywood sheets into rooms. One room was larger and contained sinks and a long table, the rest stalls with showers or toilets, amenities Hanley would soon come to appreciate. Long sheets of heavy, white cotton cloth were tacked to the rafters, creating a ceiling for the rooms and some small amount of privacy. Two white lightbulbs hung from cords attached to the rafters.
“We are fortunate to have electricity. It often fails and so we provide a candle and holder,” the priest explained. “I have not had a chance to ask about Sophie; is she well?” he asked the American.
“Yes, she is very well. When I left them, they were both well and happy. She sends her love. She is a lovely, decent woman, Father.”
“Yes, she is. Thank you,” the priest said. “Tomorrow is a busy day here. It will be especially busy for you. We wake very early at Mapuordit. So, take your sleep while you can. There is one more thing which I will begin to explain tonight and continue to explain tomorrow. Monsieur, nothing could possibly have prepared you for what you will see here in Sudan. It is unlike anything you have ever known. You will need to control yourself because what you will see will both anger and sadden you in ways you did not know were possible. This country is in a terrible way. Terrible things are happening now. Everything you do must be done with care. When these things begin to affect you, then you must allow God to care for you. Good night.”
5
Sand colored but a bit redder, the wall radiated heat, not like the welcoming warmth of toasted bread but the alarm raising heat of a large bonfire or a blast furnace full of molten iron, a tub holding the drippings from a careless and sloppy sun hanging overhead. Fear took hold of Hanley, a deep and instantly recognizable fear, the kind he’d known for as long as he could remember, a significant part of his memory album, conjured-up, an early memory of stumbling on a king snake in his parent’s backyard, its sudden odd twisting unnatural flight or the odd-lost fear his parents would never come back from a dinner out without him. The wall’s intense heat burned his face and then his hands, raised to protect and protest its radiant violence. But now he was awake, disoriented and tired, the gauze of the insect screening over his bed as obscurant as his dreams. Hanley longed for more sleep before the next day started.
***
The next morning Father Robineau introduced the American to Jumma, who was to be his young Sudanese mentor as they shared a small breakfast of tea and dried biscuits with sliced fruit. He found the young African was polite, but inquisitive, fascinated about everything it seemed, particularly anything American. Hanley liked him immediately. Jumma told Hanley he had been at the mission at Mapuordit for almost six years and that his father, mother and brothers lived in Rumbek. The priest said Jumma was assigned to Hanley for the next few days at least. After breakfast, Hanley, Father Jean-Robert and Jumma walked the compound while Hanley was introduced to the workers and shown the other buildings.
“Tell me more about Sophie and her husband. I have not been back for more than two years. I know you said they are well and happy, but tell me of the last time you saw them,” the priest asked.
Hanley explained that his first trip to France was over two years earlier. He was attending the Paris Air Show for the first time. He stayed with Michael and Sophie at their home in Saint-Nazaire on the coast of southern Normandy. He was also their guest for two days when he stopped on his journey to Africa. He told the priest of the dinner with Father Bertrand during the first trip which brought a smile to the face of the priest. Jumma sat and listened, his eyes never leaving Hanley’s face for a second.
The old priest said, “My niece is a beautiful woman; not just physically, but in all ways. I’m certain you saw this, Mr Martin; everyone does. Her father is so proud of her. She is a doctor of psychiatry, did you know that? Yes? Then you know she does not practice and does not talk about it. Her experiences were bad and she quit her practice. She does not discuss it, nor does her husband.” Hanley knew about it, but no details. Michael Campbell mentioned it to Hanley years ago, saying only that it was her decision and that he honored it, as well as her request not to talk about it. Hanley had told no one.
“Where is Sister Marie Claire?” Hanley asked.
“Sister Marie Claire is in Yirol today gathering some supplies for us. She will return this evening. Perhaps you will meet her then,” Jumma said. The young African smiled upon hearing the name of the nun. Hanley wondered why her name brought the young man such happiness.
After the priest left them, Jumma began Hanley’s tutorial of the Land Rover.
“Pump the throttle three times quickly and then turn the ignition key, please,” Jumma ordered. With skin the color of a ripe walnut husk, Jumma’s immaculate white shirt shone like newly cleaned silver in the midmorning sun. Hanley’s lesson in starting the old Land Rover had just begun. Jumma was twenty years old, intense, with a wisdom only a childhood filled with unspeakable horrors can leave to one so young.
Modifying slightly what he was told to do, Hanley turned the engine over immediately. The smile on Jumma’s face told Hanley his young tutor was pleased.
“Jumma, years of starting airplanes such as the Beech has given me a feel for such things, but I could not have done that without your expert guidance,” he shouted over the rumble of the old engine. The young man beamed his delight and gave Hanley a thumb’s up. Two of the fingers on his right hand were missing. Seeing Hanley’s gaze lingering on his hand, Jumma explained, “My missing fingers are the result of torture by the Sudanese rebels. They wanted to know where my family had gone when we fled our village in southern Darfur. I was separated from my family during the flight and was picked up by rebel forces in a nearby village. I was thirteen.”
Hanle
y’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as he listened to Jumma calmly explaining how his father taught his children to mix the truth with lies, enough to keep the family safe. Jumma told his captors the family sought shelter in a village nine kilometers north of his home. “My father prepared his children well,” Jumma said. “Many nights I lay awake and practiced in my mind telling the rebels or the Sudanese soldiers what my family had done to make a living or where they had gone if they were forced to leave our village,” Jumma said. “After I was released and received medical treatment, I joined my family at Rumbek, at the Catholic compound, where we planned to meet should we become separated.”
To Hanley, Jumma sounded too detached when describing the experience. The inside of the truck seemed suddenly to close in around him, Jumma’s stories falling on Hanley like stones. The early morning heat combined with the faint smells of old oil, gasoline and the African dust, filling Hanley’s nose, a bitter taste on his tongue, its tip stuck to the inside of his front teeth. Rapid breaths filled his lungs with the dusty African air and he choked, coughed into his fist, tears appearing in the corners of his eyes. Wiping his damp cheeks, Hanley wondered if Jumma thought of his future in days or weeks and not years as Hanley did when young. “Sorry, I need some air,” he said, stepping from the vehicle.
Reaching across the seat, Jumma turned the ignition to off. “Don’t worry, Mr Martin, the air around Mapuordit must be taken in with much care,” he told Hanley as he came around the front of the vehicle. “I can get a surgical mask if you would like one,” Jumma said.
“What happened to your sisters?”
Jumma said he learned two of his sisters had been taken by Janjaweed soldiers. He said, “They may have been raped or killed or taken north and sold to slave traders. My father told me this. I have not seen them since we fled our village.”
Jumma sat on the bumper, the hot morning sun behind the truck, its front still cool enough to be comfortable. Hanley straightened up, air now moving into his lungs. Wiping his hands on the front of his cargo pants, feeling queasy, the uncertainty of his situation resting just beneath his stomach, he stumbled, catching himself on the hot metal of the front fender. The day just started, his stay in Sudan just started, he was still catching up from the long, long flight. He was disoriented. The bumper was warm. Sitting down, Hanley was comforted by the closeness to a large machine, a peculiarity started on his uncle’s farm, when he would sit against the large rear wheel of the tractor, shaded from the central Indiana sun, as he ate the lunch his aunt made, carried in a small, re-used brown bag. He sighed loudly.
Jumma said, “While in Rumbek, I learned French and some English from the Catholics. At fifteen, I was sent to Mapuordit to work at the mission.”
“Jumma, I want to drive to the airstrip. Will you come with me?”
“Yes, Mr Martin.”
Preparing to depart, Hanley adjusted the outside mirror, noticing it was cracked, struck by a rock or a branch, perhaps. As they slowly drove to the airstrip, Hanley saw a number of small camps that surrounded the Catholic outpost. There were some ragged tents and many huts made from branches, wood scraps and grass. A few had corrugated metal here and there. All were depressing to Hanley. A severe jolt sent Hanley out of his seat and the old truck off the road where Hanley stopped. Jumma had not moved at all.
“Sorry, I was looking at the camps where the people have settled. I wasn’t watching the road.”
Hanley’s young friend smiled. “I know,” he said, “I was watching you. I should be driving so you can see what you can see.”
The ground around the Land Rover was dry, so getting back on the road was not difficult. Hanley paid attention to keeping the truck away from the ruts and larger stones. Sometime later, they approached the clearing surrounding the airstrip. Hanley slammed the truck to a halt. Surrounding his airplane were a half dozen men whose ages ranged from that of Jumma’s to one old man who looked to be ancient. Some wore simple brown robes gathered at the shoulder, some a colorful beaded corset and nothing else. Their heads and feet were bare. They did not speak or look at each other. As Hanley stepped from the truck, the men all moved to the tail of the plane, where, together, they walked into the bush, vanishing before his eyes.
“They watched the airplane during the night; to protect it from thieves,” Jumma explained.
Staring into the brush where the men disappeared, Hanley asked, “Who are they? Who asked them to watch the plane?”
“They are Atuot. No one asked them. The people know you have come from America to help. They also know this plane can bring them medicine and may save the lives of their children. It has value to them. They will protect it. No one needed to tell them to watch,” the young man said.
Slowly, Hanley circled the Beech, looking for any signs of vandalism. He saw none. When he came to the rear of the plane, he noticed some seeds laid out on the tail section, laid out in a pattern. At the end of the pattern was a mark. Moving in to inspect it closer, he saw the mark to be a rough outline of a bird, painted next to the right stabilizer. The paint was yellow and looked to be no more than mud.
“What does this mean?” Hanley asked.
Jumma looked at the seeds and the symbol. “They have blessed your airplane. They are feeding the bird so that it can always fly. They want this bird to live a long life.”
“Yeah, me too,” Hanley said. Looking up at the dull blue sky, Hanley wiped sweat from the back of his neck and under his jaw. The day grew hotter, a heat greater than he had ever experienced. “Jumma, have you ever flown in a plane?”
“No, Mr Martin, I have not,” Jumma said.
“I think you will fly in this one. When I travel, there may be times I need help loading medicine or supplies or even need a translator, assuming the different dialects are not a problem for you. Yes, I think that someday you may fly with me. Well, then, let me show you how this one works and get you ready for your first flight, whenever that might be. Then I’ll need you to return to the mission and bring me a sturdy wood box to carry some of my belongings. That sound all right with you?”
“Yes, Sturdy means strong. When I fly, will I be afraid?” Jumma asked.
“No, Jumma, you’ll love it,” Hanley said.
Jumma looked skeptical. The young African said, “Sister Marie Claire said only the French truly know how to fly. You are not French.”
“She said that, did she? The good sister must have forgotten her history,” Hanley said. “Come on, let’s look at the inside of this old plane. There are things I need to retrieve.”
6
Tightened by weeks of vibration, the screws holding the cover of the compartment concealing the five bottles of RedBreast whiskey took Hanley over thirty minutes to remove. To be alone for this, he sent Jumma back to the compound to find a box. The bottles were intact, protected by the padding he wrapped them in and a cheap nylon gym bag stuffed in with the bottles for the trip. Leaving the whiskey in their wrappings, he put them in the bag and zipped it shut, setting it on the ground next to the plane near his other bags and a box with books and pictures from home. Hanley then carried a small aluminum ladder outside and covered the engines with shrouds that would protect them from dust. He tethered each propeller to a landing gear strut, using a sock attached to a cord designed for that purpose, finishing his routine by locking the plane’s rear cargo door. He would not be flying for a couple of days and wanted the plane secured until then. The idea of sleeping in the plane crossed his mind, but changed it after seeing the Atuot standing guard.
He learned that morning the first flight he would make would be to Kenya for medical supplies and to bring a surgeon to Mapuordit to assist in a complicated procedure designed to correct the birth-defected foot of an eighteen-month old Cic boy, the Cics a clan of the Dinkas. The next day, he would then fly the surgeon back to Kenya and return with more supplies. A gift from a Swedish charity allowed all this to happen, including the fuel for the flights. Hanley would refuel in Kenya and have a signi
ficant amount left when he returned to Mapuordit.
Kenya would be interesting, he knew. As a boy, he had read stories in magazines about exotic animals, big game. Stories about Teddy Roosevelt and Stanley and Livingston. In college, he read Isak Dinesen and Hemingway. The mystery of Africa and Kenya in particular were not lost to him. It was important that he notice, that all the beauty and misery around him mean something, have it sink in, allow it to find a place in his consciousness and rest there, be nurtured and take root. Understanding Africa and Sudan was necessary if he was to stay safe, do his job and understand its people.
Soon, he would meet Sister Marie Claire. He must control the feeling that was growing in him, the anticipation and excitement. He was a bit afraid of his reaction, that trapdoors in his head would spring open, questions and fears spraying over the nun, popping forth like confetti from a can, his insecurities fluttering to the ground.
In the distance, he could hear the faint rough humming of a vehicle approaching. A small bit of fear, ice pressed against the bottom of his heart, shortened his breath. Were there government troops in this area or was it the boy? Squinting, Hanley looked toward the sound through the thick brush, squat bushes with small yellow flowers mixed with dead scrub and tan grass, a slight breeze shifting and mixing it all through which he soon saw a light-colored vehicle approaching from the southeast. Bumping up and down over the rough, Jumma’s white shirt shone through the dusty glass of the windscreen. The engine strained, the volume of its noise marking the boy’s command over its progress. It raised dust shifting in the wind, a sheet falling and sliding away from the truck, replaced by another. Hanley smelled the grass and the brush, a baked smell, compressed by the heat of the day, unable to float for long, pushed for a while by the breeze, driven quickly to the ground by the heat.
Jumma was now driving the old Toyota Land Cruiser. Its paint was a faded cream color, but it was in remarkably good shape for its age, Hanley thought. Rolling to a slow stop, the engine cut off and the young Sudanese slid from the driver’s seat. Smiling brightly, Jumma said, “Sister Marie Claire will not be back until tonight. Father Robineau said I should tell you this.” They loaded Hanley’s belongings into the rear and started back.
Sometimes the Darkness Page 5