The wait was now into its fourth hour. Port Sudan was the nightmare Hanley had been waiting for. When flight-planning, he decided to skip Khartoum and chose Port Sudan as his next stop after Cairo. The choice was made for two reasons; he assumed a port city would offer a more experienced general aviation and customs service. Port Sudan was also a bit closer to Mapuordit. Since this would be his last stop before reaching the mission station, he chose the closer of the two, allowing him a bit more fuel upon arriving at the Catholic outpost. He was wrong about the customs part.
The heat of a Sudanese noon was more than oppressive; it was intruding, insistent. It made the tires on the plane dull and soft. Hanley could smell them. He could not recall ever having smelled the tires on his plane without handling them. He thought the heat crazy. It was only the beginning of March.
The noonday sun was on the other side of the Beech and that afforded Hanley some shade. The inside of the plane was a cooker, even with every window and door that would open, open. He was soaked with his own sweat, and dreaming of a shower, when a short, stocky man came around the corner of the building, a clipboard in his hand. He was dark, almost native African dark, but he had the features of an Arab. His hair was short, his face displaying a large crooked nose riding on a thick, seldom-trimmed mustache. He limped. Two more men followed, walked around the corner and stopped, squinting at Hanley and his plane. Both were wearing holsters with semiautomatic pistols in them. Hanley climbed down from the plane and stood, waiting for the man with the clipboard. He saw the lizard stop its crawl along the building’s edge, watching the two men near the corner, its tongue flicking in the air.
“Mr Martin, I have some bad news to report,” the man said in barely understandable English. “The chief customs inspector cannot review your documents at this time and I am powerless to provide such a review myself. As I am only an assistant, I cannot provide you with the necessary approvals that will allow you to leave this impounding area and continue on your journey to Mapuordit. Therefore, you must leave your plane here until the chief inspector can examine your papers. He is a busy man, you must see, huh? These men will guard your plane for you for a small fee. I think it wise to use them. People here are desperate for gasoline and tires and wood such as on the floor of your plane, a beautiful plane, I would like to say. Sudan has become a dangerous place; not the place of my grandfathers. Please, I can help you find a place to sleep tonight and maybe the inspector will see your papers tomorrow or the next day.”
Well, shit, Hanley thought; there it is. The custom inspector in Cairo had been right. This is probably the cousin of his wife.
Now Hanley looked hard at the Sudan customs agent and said, “I know the chief customs inspector is a very busy man and I am certain tomorrow will be an even busier day than today. If there was a way I might alleviate the burden he faces of having to deal with a small man such as myself and my plane, I would certainly like to do so.” Hanley kept his voice low and his expression blank. The two men near the corner of the building looked bored and began to bicker while squinting into the sun, trying to follow the conversation. Hanley had the impression they did not speak English and were following on tone alone. The custom agent turned and said something to the men and they fell silent. He turned back to Hanley and blinked, staring hard at the face of the American. Decision time, Hanley thought. The man cleared his throat and said, “Please wait here while I speak to my superior. These men will wait with you to insure you and your magnificent plane come to no harm.”
He turned and walked away, stopping for an instant to say something to the two men and then disappeared around the corner of the building. Hanley saw that the lizard had not moved.
Trying to show little or no emotion, Hanley returned to the doorway of the Beech and sat down, leaving the men to squint in the sunlight. The day grew hotter. Hanley Martin hoped his guardians would grow tired of waiting in the heat and seek shade around the corner of the building. He’d drank four bottles of water since landing that morning. Last night in Cairo, he ate in a small dining area in the airport and had nothing since. Eating on a regular basis in Sudan would be a rarity, he expected. He needed to leave Port Sudan today. To his surprise, the two men sat down against the wall and continued to watch the plane while continuing to bicker.
Hanley knew that once he was free to depart, the flight to Mapuordit would be around three-and-a-half to four hours. There was a landing strip about ten miles northwest of the mission with a telephone there. Hanley had the number for the mission station. A ride could be at the airfield within thirty minutes of the call if all went well. Big if, he thought.
Hanley now believed he would
