“It is rare to find a foreigner, and forgive me for saying so, an American, that understands the complexities of dealing with such a situation. Time is so valuable in a place such as this. One never knows when time will stop being a friend. We have a saying here, in Sudan, that a hundred thousand candles cannot find time when time is lost. With that many candles, the search is sometimes worthwhile.”
Staring at the man for a moment longer, Hanley turned, entered the plane and walked to the same chest that he had taken the goggles from. He removed a large plastic box marked as a first-aid kit. Inside were an assortment of bandages and ointments found in kits of this nature anywhere in the world. Underneath the medical supplies, Hanley fitted a piece of white cardboard, beneath which he stored the Sudanese dinars he had acquired at the airport in Cairo. He counted out one-hundred-and-twenty-five thousand and rolled them up in a wad. He put the kit back and walked back to the door. The assistant custom inspector was standing with his back to the plane. Hanley said, “Here, I hope there are enough candles here to help you find the time you need.”
The man turned and eyed the money in Hanley’s hand. He smiled slightly and said, “Time is elusive, but can sometimes be found.” He moved closer and took the money, opened the roll and quickly counted the bills. His smile broadened when he realized there was an additional twenty-five thousand Dinars in the roll.
“Please wait here for a few minutes more. I will return soon with the necessary papers.” As he walked away, Hanley stepped from the plane and walked over to the building. Taking the gun from his pants pocket, he dropped it to the ground, covering it with some loose dirt and dust. Looking around, he no longer saw the lizard. Probably booted away during all the commotion, Hanley thought.
He returned to the plane to wait in the heat, aware that he may have given the money away with no assurances he would be allowed to leave Port Sudan.
Hanley just sat down when the assistant customs inspector came storming back with the two guards trailing behind. He looked distressed and the two men were sullen. The larger of the two was still without a gun.
“I’m sorry, but we must clear up a matter of importance. My men say you started your plane in an attempt to leave and they were forced to stop you. This man, Abdul Essam, says he dropped his gun and you now have it. This is very serious and we will be forced to detain you now.”
Hanley held up his hand and said, “I did not try to escape. I started the left engine to insure that dust had not clogged…”
“What is clogged?” the assistant customs inspector interrupted.
“…that dust had not blocked the exhaust. Your man dropped his gun, which he was pointing at my plane at the time, and I believe it’s still where he dropped it. Here, I’ll help you look.”
Hanley jumped from the plane and walked over to the building before his hosts could react. They turned and followed. Hanley stood, pretending to look around for a moment and then bent down and retrieved the gun. He blew the dust off it. Holding it by the barrel, he turned and offered it to the customs inspector. The man’s look of concern instantly turned to anger. He whirled to face the two men and began yelling at them. Both trotted off and disappeared around the corner of the building. The assistant customs inspector turned to Hanley, placed the gun under his left arm, looked at his clipboard, signed a form, flipped over two pages and signed a second form. Taking copies from beneath both, he handed the copies to Hanley and said, “This was an unfortunate incident; very unusual. You are free to depart at any time. If I were you, I would not wait until morning.”
He offered Hanley a grim smile, turned and walked away quickly. Not about to wait another moment, Hanley entered the plane, shut and locked the rear door, made his way to his seat and began the process to depart. He radioed the tower, and with some difficulty notified them of his plans to leave Port Sudan. With a blast of smoke, the big engines of the Beech turned over. Taxiing out and onto the departure area, Hanley waited a bit until he was cleared to depart. Hanley Martin taxied to the runway. It was now three-thirty. No matter, he was leaving and would land in Mapuordit at about seven o’clock. One way or another, he would be in Mapuordit.
3
The bottom of the Beech’s windshield was aligned with the horizon. The setting sun, low in the sky to his right was enlarged by the denseness of the atmosphere, bright but not glaring, a perfect glowing orb, bright orange with a streak of dull blue across it, a thin cloud mixed with dust carried high in the air from the dried-out land below. Hanley’s hands were dirty. The dirt and sweat of his palms made the yoke feel greasy. Red dust covered his clothes. If he moved his arms quickly, dust raised, creating a small cloud that fell to his lap and onto the seat between his legs.
Below was Sudan, a brown landscape, patches of green appeared, but were scattered. A long ribbon of green marked his passing over the White Nile, a sibling river, not great, but good to the land that touched it. Studying the charts of Sudan over the past year had given Hanley a good knowledge of the major features over which he flew, so different from what he knew. From the air, Africa was different from the other lands he crossed,
