by Various Orca
“I’m not worried,” I replied. “It’s just that for international flights I’m supposed to be there three hours early.”
“We’ll be there almost three hours early.”
“What if there’s a major traffic jam or we get a flat tire or—?”
“The roads are clear, and if we needed to, we’d fix the tire.”
I sat back and tried to relax. Then again, I’d only be truly relaxed when I was on the plane coming back home, the wheels touching the ground and my task finished. It would take no more than seven or eight sleeps. That made me sound like a toddler, but that’s how I always counted being away from home.
“It’s going to be strange with both you and your brother gone. I’m going to be worried.”
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” I offered. “Remember, Steve is just going to Spain.”
“So I should be worried about you and that mountain?” she asked.
“You don’t need to be worried about either of us. It’s going to be a walk in the park.”
“Climbing a mountain is hardly a walk in the park,” she said.
“No, actually it is. Kilimanjaro is in a national park. How dangerous can a park be?” I joked. She didn’t laugh, so obviously she didn’t think my little joke was funny.
“Steve leaves soon, right?”
“The day after you.” My mother chuckled. “Your brother reminds me so much of your grandpa.”
“Steve? He’s nothing like Grandpa.”
“Your grandpa mellowed with age, but think of the stories he told from when he was young. I think that’s why the two of them never got along as well as he did with the others. Your grandpa saw too much of himself in Steve and wanted to try to change him so he wouldn’t go through the same grief.”
“Grief?” I asked.
“I often wonder what all those adventures of Grandpa’s were about. I know the war was hard on him, and I wonder if he was trying to find himself,” she said.
“And what is Steve trying to find?”
“Maybe the same thing. Peace.”
I didn’t think Steve would ever find anything except more grief. Well, at least he was an expert at finding and giving it. He was my twin brother, and I loved him, but there were times I could have killed him. We were so different—even physically. I towered over him and must have outweighed him by ten kilograms. I loved sports, and he had no interest in them whatsoever. History was one of his passions, and the only history I cared about was the score in yesterday’s games.
“I’ll try to keep in touch by texting you when I’m gone. Can you keep an eye on everybody for me?” I asked. “You know—all the guys—to make sure they follow their tasks.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure everybody will be fine.” She paused. “Are you going to contact Rennie?”
“That’s what Grandpa asked us to do, so I’ll do it. It’s just so…so…”
“Yes, it is. I can only imagine the shock your grandfather felt when he found out he had another daughter and a seventh grandson.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I didn’t want to think about that right now. “I just want to make sure they’ll all be okay,” I said. “I’m a little worried about Bernie.”
“Bunny will do just fine.”
“Please don’t call him that,” I said.
“Bunny is what he calls himself. It’s cute.”
“It was cute when he was four. He’s fifteen and in high school.”
“Well, I remember somebody who used to walk around in a little tiger suit,” my mother said.
“I was three, not fifteen. How cute would it have been if I wore it to high school? And at least I wanted to be a tiger and not a bunny.”
“He likes being called Bunny,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter what he likes. Being called Bunny is the sort of thing that gets him picked on all the time.”
“I know your aunt is grateful for the help you’ve given him.”
“I’ve tried. As long as I’m there, nobody really dares to pick on him much, but next year I’m not gonna be around. It’s not like Spencer is going to step in.” Spencer was Bunny’s “big” brother, but he wasn’t very big and wasn’t much less of a target than Bunny.
“He might,” she said.
“It’s not the same. Nobody in the world is afraid of Spencer.”
She laughed. “I’m just glad my little Tigger has always been there to take care of his little cousin Bunny, the way Tigger took care of Winnie-the-Pooh.”
There was nobody else in the car, so calling me Tigger, her special name for me, was okay. It wasn’t so okay when Steve called me that, especially in public.
“You are a very hard act to follow,” my mother said.
“What?”
“Sometimes I think your cousins feel like they can’t hope to compete with you.”
“It’s not a competition,” I said.
My mother laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you say the words not and competition in the same sentence.”
“I just try to do my best, that’s all. The point of a game is to win, but I am a good loser too.”
“And how much practice have you had at being a loser?”
“I’ll try to lose more in the future.”
“Losing isn’t the end of the world.”
“I never said it was.” Although it had felt like it the few times it happened.
We circled around the ring road leading to the terminal.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come inside?” my mother asked.
“No need for you to spend money on parking. I’ll be fine.”
She slowed down and pulled into an open spot. I got out quickly, and she popped open the trunk. I grabbed my green duffel bag and my backpack and of course my grandpa’s cane with his remains in a secret compartment inside. I held it tightly.
“Are you sure you have everything?” she asked.
“Everything.”
“I’m not even sure why I asked. You are the most responsible seventeen-year-old in the world.” She paused. “But I’m still going to be worried until you get back.”
“Funny, but I’m going to be worried about you until I get back.”
She started to tear up. I felt tears start to surface, but I blinked them away. I couldn’t let her see me cry or let her know that I was worried.
“I better get inside and check in,” I said.
She threw her arms around my neck. She was small but strong. I gave her a big hug back.
“I love you,” she said.
“Yeah, I sort of figured that. I am pretty loveable.”
She made a huffing sound in my ear.
“I know, I know, Mom. I love you too, but I have to go.”
She squeezed a little tighter before letting go.
“I’ll text you as soon as I’m on the ground,” I said.
I reached out and gave her another hug and then walked toward the terminal. I stopped, turned around and waved. She waved back, and then I went inside.
Now that she was gone, I could let my defenses down a bit, although I didn’t want to cry in front of strangers either. I was worried. More than that, I was scared. I was traveling halfway around the world, by myself, to climb a mountain. A really big mountain. Maybe I should be scared. I just couldn’t let anybody know.
I had one thing to do before I checked in. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my cousins.
Hey guys. Just getting on plane to Tanzania. Good luck to all. Back soon. Text if you need help. Don’t let Grandpa down.
I pushed Send, knowing that almost instantly all six would get my message. Each of us had an individual task to complete, but somehow it felt like it was up to me to make sure they were all completed. But I’d have to finish my own task before I could help anybody else.
It was just me—me and Grandpa’s cane. It was made of smooth brown wood and the handle was two carved elephants, their tusks intertwined. I thought back to him, cane in hand, walk
ing, or leaning on it, sometimes spinning it around or using it as a dancing partner as he did a little jig, his ever-present black beret tipped to one side. I gave the cane a little shake and I could feel the ashes shifting inside. This cane was such a part of him. Now he was part of it. Here, in my hands.
FIVE
My eyes jerked open as the plane’s wheels hit the runway. We bounced up and down a few times, and then finally stuck to the ground. We rolled along the runway. It was so rough, I wondered if we’d landed in a field. I looked out the window. The runway was a narrow strip of pavement lined on both sides by dense bush. Probably good that I’d been asleep as we approached the airstrip and hadn’t seen it coming. I was just glad to be back on the ground.
I really didn’t like flying at all. It wasn’t just about being up high, which I didn’t like. To me, flying was less like science and more like magic. How could a plane hang up there in the air? I knew all about aerodynamics, but it still didn’t feel right to me.
I’d never told anybody about my fear of flying. Particularly Grandpa. He loved flying almost more than anything else. I remember being up in a plane with him behind the wheel. He loved being up there, and I loved being with him, so I made sure he didn’t know how much I hated flying. He’d put me in the copilot seat when I was so small I could hardly see out through the windscreen. Sometimes he’d even let me put my hands on the rudder—a four-year-old flying a plane.
While we flew, he told stories: flying in his Lancaster during the war, being a bush pilot in the North, bouncing around Africa. That made me smile. When I thought about the last time he was in the air at the controls of his plane, my smile left. He knew he was getting too old to fly solo, and that wasn’t just his thinking but the government’s. As he’d said, “Regulations are regulations, and I can’t fight them.” So he allowed his pilot’s license to lapse.
I had been there on the ground, holding my mother’s hand, Steve holding the other, when Grandpa landed that last time. He went up alone, just him and the plane and the sky.
If I closed my eyes, I could still see him slowly walking away from the plane after he landed. He told me it was one of the saddest days of his life. I was sad for him, but secretly I was grateful I’d never have to go up with him again. And that still made me feel guilty.
I was now on the third flight of my trip and each plane had gotten smaller and more suspect. Finally we arrived in Moshi, a town near Kilimanjaro. Grandpa would have loved this last plane because it was so tiny. It held only sixteen people and seemed less like a plane than a bus with two propeller-driven engines. Bad enough that it was like a bus, but it wasn’t even a nice bus. The carpeting on the floor was worn and torn, as were the seats. Torn wouldn’t have been bad if my seat hadn’t also been crooked—one of the support legs was busted—and if it had a seat belt that worked. Rather than buckling up, the attendant had helped me tie the two ends together.
The plane was still bumping along the runway when people started to get up from their seats. They seemed to have no sense of safety or following rules, although I could appreciate wanting to get off this plane as fast as possible. On the ground was good, but feet on the ground was better. I thought the flight attendant would tell them to sit down, but she hadn’t bothered. Passengers held on to seats, swaying while they opened up the overhead compartments and pulled out their bags.
The plane finally came to a complete stop, and I untied my seat belt and got to my feet, smacking my head loudly against the overhead compartment. The thud was loud enough that people turned to stare. A few looked like they were about to laugh or giggle, and others looked concerned.
“I’m okay,” I said to everybody and nobody. “They just don’t make these big enough for me.”
I stepped into a gap in the aisle and stood up, almost straight. My head brushed against the ceiling of the plane. I looked up and down the aisle. I was clearly the tallest person aboard. I pulled out my carry-on bag and then Grandpa’s cane.
The door popped open, and sunlight and fresh air flooded in. I took a deep breath. It felt good. The first passengers exited, and the rest of us shuffled forward until I climbed off the plane and took my first step in Tanzania. I was here, and that meant I was one-third of the way to finishing my task.
I’d divided it into three parts: flying to Tanzania, climbing the mountain, and flying home. I figured the mountain part wouldn’t take much longer than the flights.
I followed the little stream of passengers toward a small building, hoping they knew where they were going. Right inside the doors were the customs booths. One had a sign above it that read East African Passports. The other said All Other Passports. That was me.
I dug out my passport and went to the back of the line. There were three other people in front of me: two men in their twenties, and a much older woman. Maybe she was the mother of one of them, which reminded me: I’d have to text Mom and let her know I’d arrived.
The men stepped up to the customs booth, leaving just me and the older woman. She turned around to face me.
“First time in Tanzania?” she asked. She had a British accent.
I nodded. “Is it yours?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Are you here to climb the mountain?”
“Yes. And you?”
“The plan is for me to—”
“Next!”
We both turned toward the customs booth. The guard was waving for her to come forward.
“Good luck with your climb,” she said as she stepped up to the booth.
I didn’t think luck was going to have anything to do with it.
I was hot and tired, and my legs were a little shaky. It had been almost twenty-four hours since my mother had dropped me off at the airport, and I hadn’t gotten any more than two or three hours sleep since then. Fear of flying will do that to you.
The woman moved through customs, and I stepped forward.
“Passport, please,” the official said.
He opened it up at the picture and held it up, looking from it to me.
“This is you?” he asked.
The question threw me. “Yeah, of course.”
“It does not look so much like you,” he said. “But many of you tourists look the same. Length of stay?”
“Two or three days.”
“Why so short?”
“That should be long enough to climb the mountain,” I answered.
“And you think you can do that in two days?”
“Well, I don’t know; that’s why I said maybe three.”
He shook his head and gave me a look like I’d offended him.
“How much currency do you have?” he asked.
“Currency?”
“How much money do you have with you?”
I’d heard about this. He was asking me for a bribe. “I have enough,” I said.
“Enough? Are you being insolent with me, young man?” he demanded. “I will ask you one more time, how much money do you have on you?”
His loud words and hard stare left me no doubt that I’d have to tell him and give him a bribe if he asked for it.
“Um…I’m not sure. I know I have enough. I have a couple of hundred dollars in US funds and lots of Tanzanian shillings and a bank card. Everything else is already paid for.”
“You are traveling by yourself and you are only seventeen,” he said. “Who will care for you when you are here?”
“I’m meeting a man named Elijah. He’s probably out there waiting for me,” I said, gesturing to the door with the Exit sign above it.
“What is this Elijah’s last name? What is his occupation? Is he Tanzanian? Does he run a tour group?”
“I don’t know.”
“None of it?” he asked in disbelief. “You do not even know his full name?”
I shook my head.
“And you just trust that this Elijah will be out there waiting,” he said. “What if he isn’t? Do you have a number to contact him?”
Again I shook my he
ad. I didn’t feel good about that myself. I had just trusted that Grandpa and his lawyer had made all the arrangements.
“So if he is not there, what will you do?” he asked.
“I’m sure he is, but if he isn’t, I guess I’ll just wait.”
“For how long?”
“Until he comes.”
“And what if he does not come until tomorrow or the next day? Do you think this is a hotel where you can sleep?”
“I’m sure he’ll be there.”
He muttered something under his breath. I didn’t need to know Swahili to know he was neither pleased nor impressed with me or my plan.
“Do you have anything to declare?” he asked. “Are you bringing in drugs or guns or alcohol or prohibited fruit or vegetables?”
Of course I wasn’t bringing in any of those things, but I’d been told by the lawyer, Mr. Devine, that it was illegal to transport human remains across national borders. That was why they were hidden inside my grandpa’s cane.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Um…no,” I stuttered. Lying never came naturally to me.
“Then why did you not answer immediately?”
“I didn’t understand you!”
“Why, is my English not good enough for you?” he snapped.
“I’m tired. Really tired. I don’t have any of those things. I don’t even drink and I’d never do drugs, and I don’t have any weapons…anywhere.”
He looked at me long and hard, as if he was trying to make a final decision about whether or not he should let me into the country. That made no sense. I was pretty sure there was no way he couldn’t let me in. His scowl deepened, and then he picked up a stamp and thumped it against my passport and handed it back.
“I can go?”
“You sound surprised. Did you think you should be turned away?”
“Of course not!”
“Then leave and stop holding up the line.”
As I fumbled with my passport and duffel bag and backpack, the cane slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. I bent over to pick it up.
“That is an interesting walking stick,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Most people leave with such things. They do not bring them into the country.”