The coast of Egypt was flat and brown from an altitude of eight thousand feet. The green of the Mediterranean Sea turned to white as the sea ran to the land.
The fastest route, the straightest, would take Hanley over the city of Baltim. Touching the coast at that point, he planned to turn south, from there to Cairo was approximately one hundred miles. That Cairo would be the first city in Africa he reached would be a blessing, he believed, being something close to normal. Some English would be spoken; customs would be similar, perhaps tougher, at least no worse than Crete had been. No coercion or overt extortion. The plane might not draw as much attention as it did in Crete. His papers were in order. The one thing that worried him was that, now that he was in Africa, in the Mideast region, how would officials react to the letter of employment he carried from a Catholic charity? Any customs agent he met from here on would probably be Muslim. He knew an American working for a Christian order would generate little enthusiasm from the locals.
Approaching the coast, Baltim spread out before him. From altitude, the buildings appeared to be similar, various-sized boxes, some white, some gray, some beige, tattered, some supporting water tanks, electrical wires stretched like threads spun by blind spiders, stretched everywhere, a shimmer of heat above everything. The lives of thousands of people passed beneath him in seconds, a curious feeling as he thought about it. The city stopped at the ocean, a sudden change, the buildings seemingly tied in a bundle by a thin ribbon of beach. He watched as Baltim and its unseen people passed by. Did they hear him and wonder who he was? Would a child look up at the old plane and become fascinated, learn to love flying as he once did?
Since college, he had flown airplanes, loved flying, the accomplishment, the skill it required. Airplanes made him fairly wealthy, would keep his daughter and granddaughter comfortable all their lives. Growing his businesses had not been a difficult task.
Hanley decided to continue south–southeast to find a landmark he wanted to see. After another thirty minutes, a green fan appeared ahead to the right of the plane, its presence in the middle of the arid land a thrilling surprise. Somewhere within the fan was a river. No ordinary river, Hanley thought, but a myth. It was water of legend, bringing life to a place where none should exist, a heaven where a hell would be if not for it. Stories passed from generations for thousands of years mentioned the beauty of life carried by its currents and sometimes taken by them too. He knew he would see the Nile soon after making the coast, but was not prepared for the impact it would have once he saw it.
The green of the fan deepened, indicating the lushness of a delta. Dipping his right wing, he tracked a slow smooth arc in the hot Egyptian sky while he searched for the larger flow of water. The Beech was at five thousand feet. Hanley believed, at his current heading, he would cross the Nile soon. He could see the activity along the streams, the small boats, people living their lives, tied to the water that gave life to everything.
And then he saw it, the spot where the river divided itself, creating the streams and the delta, flowing to the Mediterranean. Moving south, he watched the river grow, widening, showing its strength, the water occasionally reflecting the sunlight in glowing arcs. Thousands and thousands of years this river flowed, giving its gifts to kings and beggars, prophets and paupers, the lost and the found. It didn’t matter, the river cared for all the same and took life with the same care. Love and indifference, perhaps all the same. Hanley, thrilled with it all, flew on.
***
As he neared Cairo, the air around the city grew brown, with a red tint toward the south. Cairo was a very polluted city, its air stifled and burdened with the exhalations of old buses and taxis and the breath of six million souls. Hanley reached air traffic control in Cairo at seventy-five miles and again at fifty. He was on approach, sandwiched in between two 747s. He would touch down and leave the runway at the first possible ramp, an arrangement agreeable to both he and approach control. Lowering his landing gear, Hanley concentrated on the task of landing the Beech, while a tiny signal continued to sound in the back of his mind; this was Africa and there were no rules.
Cairo was a pleasant surprise. The customs people were all efficient and courteous, English was spoken and he was finished with his inspection and paperwork in under two hours. Hanley also suspected he arrived at the right time of day to facilitate the process. Seeing he carried virtually nothing in his cargo hold, the inspectors checked in all the obvious areas, examined his paperwork, and questioned him about his destination, registering mild surprise at his answer of southwestern Sudan and the Catholic outpost. The young customs inspector, Riyhad, looked hard at Hanley and asked, “Mr Martin, what brings you to the desert?”
Hanley looked at the sky, removed his old, black baseball cap with the emblem of the Pittsburgh Steelers on it, swiped his forehead with the back of his hand and said, “A woman.” Riyadh smiled and nodded.
After completing his inspection of Hanley’s plane and paperwork in Cairo, the young Egyptian said, “May I suggest something to you, Mr Martin? As I know you are going to Sudan, and will enter at Port Sudan, I will offer you some advice. Things will not be what you
