***
The schedule for the flights for the coming month sat before Hanley on the table in the mission office, the low light of the early evening from the small windows enough as he scanned his destinations, already familiar with the names, visualizing them on a map in his head, then switching quickly to the sight of the runways lining up before him, the nose of the Beech down in descent, the leveling out and tilting of the plane’s nose back to the sky as the tire skittered on the pavement or spewed the gravel behind them upon touchdown. Touchdown had been synonymous with safety until he arrived in Africa. Now, safety had little to do with it, he thought.
11
“Have you seen the airstrip since we’ve repaired it?” Hanley asked the nun. “I wanted to have it ready before the first flight.”
“No, I have no reason to go to the airstrip, except now, with you,” she said. “Jumma said it looks like new, although I doubt he has ever seen a new runway before.”
“I appreciate your coming out. Jumma was a great help with getting it done. My language skills being what they are, he was indispensable, you know,” Hanley shouted to make sure she heard him. “Jumma is proud of the work.”
The Land Cruiser bumped along the road to Akot and the mission airstrip, Sister Marie Claire fighting the steering wheel, trying to miss ruts, hitting others. The jolt of the tires smashing through clods of roan-colored dirt should have tossed Hanley into the air, but for the old seatbelt holding him down. The black vinyl seat was hot, making him sweat through his shirt. His back was wet enough that he slid back and forth across the seat as they drove. “It’s only 11:30 in the morning and already so hot, I can barely breathe,” he said, wiping the moisture from his forehead with his wrist.
Departing from the airstrip would be difficult, the track needing maintenance, always requiring inspection, which took time. Walking the airstrip for the first time, two days after his arrival, Hanley mapped the larger ruts and holes, the soft spots and brush having grown too near the track. Ever watchful for snakes, he noticed the large number of hoof prints, clumped together as the cattle grazed, or strung out as they walked in line along the runway. Stones had emerged here and there, the result of the rains, and Hanley noted them as ovals on the drawing he made of the landing strip, the blueprint for the reclamation project he would oversee. It would be hard, hot work. Even starting early in the morning was no protection against the heat. Now the spring rains passed, Hanley, Jumma and a small crew of workers from the mission could repair the ruts and holes in the track and have the work last. They filled them first with dirt, then with gravel from the back of the large truck, gravel Hanley bought in Rumbek, The repairs took several days to complete, the time extended by the number of trips made to buy the gravel. The improvements were enough to make the departures and landings manageable.
“Is every building in Kokomo air-conditioned?” she asked.
“Just those that need to be.”
“It’s the same here in Mapuordit,” she said, smiling. “Sister Mary Kathleen tells me her office at Notre Dame is so hot in the summer, she keeps a bucket of ice under her chair. She claims it’s the administration’s way of preparing her for Hell, which is where she believes they are trying to send her.”
“I doubt she needs their help,” he said as he held on to the armrest, hoping to anchor himself for the remainder of the ride. Every bump produced a loud clang from the rear of the vehicle, the tools banging inside an old metal box bolted to the floor. Hanley’s uncle taught him that loose toolboxes in trucks running over fields were dangerous. For a long time, he had not given the issue of dangerous toolboxes much thought, not until his first ride in the Land Cruiser, when a horrific bang and then the sound of metal sliding reluctantly along metal registered with him instantly. Instructing Jumma to stop, Hanley used an old piece of rope found beneath the front passenger seat to secure the wayward box to the back of the seat until he could manage to bolt it down, which he did.
The smell from the bush reminded Hanley of bailed Indiana hay, lying hot in the summer sun. Dust too was carried into the truck, sticking to his sweaty face and arms, a thin irregular line of brown forming along the underside of both his forearms.
He watched what appeared to be sparrows, but bigger, flying in and out of the brush along the road, never seeming to light, as if resting were too dangerous. The day before, he saw what he thought was a vulture, circling above the compound. Jumma said it was an eagle, a steppe eagle, which Hanley never heard of before. At that moment, Hanley realized how many things in this world were still mysteries to him and that fact would never change.
“Will you be taking Jumma with you tomorrow?” she asked.
“Well, I had to think about that. I wasn’t sure taking him on the first trip was wise, not knowing what I might encounter. I don’t look for any problems, but then, you never know. Since he has not flown before, I didn’t want his first time spoiled by an unpleasant memory. But since the first flight is into Ethiopia with no stops in between, I thought it would be alright, so, yes, he’s going with me,” Hanley said.
Her hands were red from the tight grip on the steering wheel, her gaze intent, watching the track before her for problems; replacing blown tires and broken suspensions was expensive and parts hard to come by. “He’s excited, but nervous. He wants
