“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
