Eighty Days to Elsewhere

by kc dyer

  “But—don’t we have to make it to Yemen?” I say, trying to Google the distance on my phone as I jog along behind him.

  Of course, there’s no Wi-Fi signal, but it seems impossibly far, even for such a giant bird.

  Meanwhile, Dominic has been wrapped in an enthusiastic embrace from Waving Man.

  “Romy, this is Captain Andrew Tracks,” he says. “He’s from Switzerland, and he flies cargo for an NGO called Doctors Without Borders.”

  “Médecins Sans Frontières,” says the captain with a broad smile, “And everyone calls me Anthrax.” He’s almost as tall as Dominic, but fair haired, and sporting a wicked sunburn. Nevertheless, he shakes my hand with enthusiasm.

  I shake back, and ask about the distance.

  “It is too far, really, for this craft,” he explains, with an accent that sounds German to me. “Normally we fly in with a cargo plane full of medical materials and personnel. But this is the only one available to us at the moment, so we use what we have.”

  Then he inexplicably throws his arms around me, and points to one of the pallets. “This is because of you,” he says, tearing up, before releasing me at last. “Merci vielmal!”

  Before I can ask what exactly he’s getting at, he produces a couple of pairs of giant ear protectors, and hands one to each of us. Fortunately, these protect us from the unrelenting sound of the giant machine, as it lifts us skyward. Unfortunately, they also prevent me from getting any kind of answer from Dominic as to how he secured this particular passage, after all.

  * * *

  —

  At the risk of stating the obvious, I have never been one of those people who aspires to living life on a perilous edge. Remember the grade school rollercoasters? I mean, part of the draw for this particular quest—aside from the desperation element—was that air travel was not involved. Put me on a machine, hurtling along narrow tracks at high speed below the ground, and I’m perfectly comfortable.

  I am a New York girl, after all. I have third-rail current in my blood.

  It’s not as if I haven’t been on an airplane before—see aforementioned trip to Quebec City with my fifth-grade class. Mind you, on that trip, I spent the whole flight with my face buried in my teacher’s shoulder. She was a patient woman, Mrs. Johns.

  The difference between a short-haul trip across the snowy wastes of Canada, buckled safely into a padded airplane seat, and being cinched onto a metal fold-down in the back of a cargo copter is no small thing, is all I’m saying. Not so long ago, I thought nothing could be more frightening than being locked alone in a dark, urine-scented cell in Egypt.

  I was wrong.

  By the time Abdul dropped us at the airfield, any hint of the city’s greenery had been left behind. Now, in midair, I can see a couple of scrubby bushes against low, distant hills, but everything else is sandy brown. Or plain sand. The wind, having died down long enough to give us a glimpse of the machine that would ferry us south, rises up again with a vengeance after we lift off. Over the course of the rest of the day, the giant metal bird is buffeted in all directions by the desert winds. When we do get a glimpse of anything below us, it is either a gorse-flecked, but otherwise empty, desert landscape or the white-capped surface of the Red Sea.

  By the time we begin our descent into a tiny airport outside the desert city of Port Sudan, I feel exhausted and completely battered. As we set down, Anthrax turns in his seat and grins at us. “What a ride, eh?” he yells, and, in the pure elation of it being over, I can’t actually disagree.

  * * *

  —

  While Captain Anthrax consults with the ground crew over refueling, Dominic and I walk across to the terminal to seek out sustenance—and something to drink. My mouth feels like I’ve spent the entire trip dragging my tongue through the desert. Even my throat feels full of sand.

  Dominic can’t stop talking about the helicopter ride. “That was the best thing I’ve ever done,” he says, his eyes aglow.

  “It scared me to death,” I answer, but clearly, every bump that made me close my eyes in terror only added to his fun.

  “When we lurched sideways over the water? Man—I thought . . .”

  “We were going to die? Because that’s what I thought.”

  He laughs.

  “I’m not joking,” I say, but he lopes on ahead of me toward a nearby Quonset hut, still grinning like an idiot.

  Now that we’re safely on the ground, it’s hard not to smile at such joyful enthusiasm. And yet, somehow, I manage it. Who is he to feel so joyful, anyway?

  My heart does lift a bit at the familiar red and white sight of a Coca-Cola machine, but on closer inspection it proves to be empty. The lock on the front is rusted and snapped, and the door is hanging ajar. Next to it is a large white plastic water carrier about half full, a kettle, and some teabags. Grabbing a cup with a broken handle, I turn the spigot and run water straight into it, but Dominic snatches it away from me before I can drink.

  “Unless you want to be peeing out your butt by nightfall, we need to boil that first,” he says, and dumps the contents of my cup into the top of the kettle.

  “Elegantly put,” I say drily. Literally drily—my lips are sticking to my teeth. “I’m just so thirsty.”

  He sets the kettle on a little gas burner. “I’ve basically given up urination altogether,” he says, grinning. “Saves a lot of time, actually.”

  Five minutes later, he hands me bitter, black tea, steaming a little in the handle-less cup. No sugar, no milk.

  Nothing—nothing—has ever tasted so good.

  It’s over our second cup of tea that I finally learn the truth, and it’s not lost on me that I don’t hear it from Dominic. When Captain Anthrax joins us inside, Dominic hands him a cup of tea. Anthrax pulls a packet of sugar out of one of the pockets in his cargo pants, adds it to his tea, and then swallows the whole cup appreciatively.

  He clinks cups with us after drinking, which I’m not sure counts as a real toast, and I tell him so.

  “I just want to celebrate you two,” he says cheerfully. “When you see the camp, you’ll know how important these supplies are. Half of the people—more than half, actually—are kids.”

  “This camp is where in Yemen, exactly?” I ask.

  Anthrax looks puzzled. “Not Yemen,” he says. “Eritrea. In the deep south, outside Asseb. I drop you in Aden, afterwards.”

  “I thought . . .” I begin, but he’s not finished.

  “Your schtutz means we can bring a full complement of emergency supplies,” he says, and clinks my empty cup again. “Prost!”

  As soon as he leaves to begin his preflight check, I turn on Dominic.

  “What did he mean—schtutz?” I ask.

  And for the first time, Dom’s smile falters. “I think he means money,” he says. And then, at last, it all comes out. To secure our place on the chopper, he has maxed out both our credit cards.

  It is possible I have an opinion about this.

  Which I’m quick—very quick—to share.

  “There was no other way,” he says, after I run out of words at last. “And it was for a good cause, right? Our fare covered the costs for the last pallet of dehydrated food going to feed hungry kids.”

  “A good cause? A good cause? What about our cause, Dominic?” I demand, feeling shocked to my core. “How are we going to get the rest of the way around the world with no more available credit?”

  “I really tried, Romy.” He narrows his eyes. “As I recall, you didn’t have a better idea. This was all I could come up with.”

  “Really? Really? The only option was to spend all our money?” I jump to my feet. “I missed the ship in Suez because of you. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t switched those envelopes in France.”

  “I didn’t switch them,” he explodes, throwing his arms up in disgust. “Jesus! I’m not o
ut to undermine you at every turn, you know. Of course I want to win this thing. I told you—I need this job. But we agreed to work together, and this was my best shot at helping us both.”

  He stalks off toward the helicopter.

  Anthrax, oblivious, sees him coming and gives a double thumbs-up.

  Time to go. My anger washes away, and suddenly, I feel sick about getting back into this helicopter with things so bad between us.

  “Dominic—wait.” I hasten my pace to catch him, but he doesn’t slow down.

  “Look, I feel really torn about this, okay? I know it’s a good cause, but—it’s like on an airplane where they tell you to put your own mask on first. We need to help ourselves before we can help other people, right?”

  Dom stops suddenly in his tracks, the dust swirling in a little cloud around his sneakers. “Okay, maybe you’re right. And I feel bad about including you now, I do. I shouldn’t have used your card without asking.”

  He turns, and lifts a hand to Anthrax to indicate that we are coming.

  “I couldn’t leave you behind,” he blurts, turning back to face me. “I want to win this thing fair and square, but if it meant stranding you alone in Egypt, I couldn’t live with that. Not after I’d promised to work together.”

  “I can look after myself,” I reply huffily, but I can’t really dredge up the same level of animosity anymore.

  “I’m sure you can,” he answers, his whole body radiating stiffness. “It won’t happen again, believe me.”

  He points toward the horizon, where the silhouette of the city of Port Sudan rises up against the pale blue sky. “There’s a train station in town. You’re totally welcome to take another route. Do what you want.”

  And with that, he turns and strides off to the helicopter.

  Maybe I will, I manage to not say out loud. The rotors on the helicopter begin to slowly revolve as Dom jumps in through the back hatch. I see the window to the cockpit slide open, and Anthrax’s arm pops out, waving me over.

  The sunlight reflects off his watch, blinding me, but also reminding me of the bitter truth. Dominic maxed out the limit on my ExLibris credit card. Angry or not, I have no money for train fare.

  As the rotors pick up speed, I take a deep breath of sand-filled air, and crouch-run toward the chopper.

  chapter twenty-nine

  IMAGE: In Flight

  IG: Romy_K [Port Sudan, Sudan, April 3]

  #AstonishingAfrica #AirborneEritrea

  151

  In spite of what feels like an even bumpier ride, at some point I fall into an uneasy and uncomfortable sleep in the back of the helicopter. As we sail on through the dark African night, I’m tired enough that I actually miss the landing completely.

  Later, I learn that Anthrax set the giant bird down sometime around three and fell asleep in the pilot’s seat. As for me, I awaken before dawn. There’s the faintest hint of a chill in the air, and only a whiff of breeze that, when it touches my face, feels like it has crossed water. The back of the chopper is empty of human life, and when I stick my head through the door to the cockpit, there’s no sign of Anthrax. The huge loading bay door is open, and so I step out that way to take a look around.

  I can’t see any of the usual indicators one would expect from an airport—runway, terminal, airplanes. Instead, there’s a metal Quonset hut, and beside it, a collection of large white tents. I scurry along in that direction, looking foremost for a washroom or latrine of any variety at all. I finally spot the familiar-looking green plastic siding of a porta-potty and make a beeline for it. This particular version comes equipped with an outside sink, but once I’m finished inside and I attempt to wash my hands, I find the water is not hooked up.

  There is, in fact, no sign of water anywhere.

  My memories of Egypt are verdant compared to this place. The wind is still mercifully low, but dust skitters along ground dry as a Mojave riverbed. As I emerge among the tents again, I see a line of dust billowing up along the horizon, which—after a moment’s squinting—resolves into a convoy of heavy trucks headed this way.

  Right at that moment, Anthrax emerges from a doorway at the end of the Quonset hut. He’s carrying a paper cup in one hand, steaming gently from the top. Behind him Dominic appears, a steaming cup in each of his hands.

  I take a deep breath and aim myself in that direction.

  * * *

  —

  There’s no tea to be had, and the coffee is terrible, but it’s hot and clears the last of the sleep out of my skull. When I drain my cup, Anthrax points at something behind me. “That’s where it’s all going,” he says.

  For the first time, I turn and look across at the vast expanse of desert behind me. There’s no border or fence in evidence, but as far as the eye can see is a collection of low, widely spaced buildings.

  I use the word building loosely. Most of the small structures are made from scrap wood, corrugated iron, and tent canvas. Some of the buildings are framed, but not one has glass in the windows or doors of anything more substantial than cloth. The trees, when there are any, are low and scrubby, with dusty trunks and sparse, needley foliage. Among the buildings are people of all sizes and shapes—too far away to make out distinct facial features, ages, or even genders—but close enough to see they are going about their business as a new day dawns. Many of them appear to be hurrying toward the approaching trucks.

  Between the so-called heliport and the edge of this enormous settlement stretches a long fence laced through with lethal-looking razor wire. Following the fence line with my eyes, I see the first of the trucks slow to a stop beside a tiny hut. Someone steps out of the hut beside what I realize is a low pole gate. After a moment, the figure leans onto the pole and the gate swings open. The truck lurches into gear and the convoy drives straight toward us. The first truck has a large open storage area in the back, framed by a flapping tarp.

  The second has a machine gun on the roof.

  Any saliva I’ve managed to generate from my morning coffee dries up in my mouth. I clutch on to Dominic’s arm.

  “Is that a gun?” I mutter. When his arm closes around me instinctively, I do not resist.

  We both turn to look at Anthrax, who shrugs.

  “The official war is technically over, but there are still problems with local warlords and smugglers stealing supplies,” he says, as if he’s describing a neighborhood football match. “Which means we really have to scramble to get these supplies to the people who need them.”

  I can’t find the words to reply before the first truck pulls up.

  Anthrax waves as the crew—all men—jump off the trucks, then offers us a tense smile. “The faster we get stuff unloaded, the sooner we’re out of here,” he says.

  Without a word, Dom and I both turn and head for the ramp at the back of the helicopter.

  As we work together, I learn that most of the volunteers on the trucks are local people in the employ of the various nongovernmental agencies in the region. This camp is found along what is known as one of the deadliest migrant routes in the world. People running from war and famine trek from East Africa through to Libya, with the faint hope of catching a boat across the Mediterranean and finding asylum in Europe.

  “The resources are so few for these displaced people,” says Anthrax as we lug the final boxes of supplies out of the back of the chopper. “And the need is so great—we have to do what we can.”

  By the time we finish loading the last of the trucks, I can see a long line of people forming near the heavily guarded airport gate.

  “There are so many children,” I say to Anthrax, who can only nod.

  He lifts a hand to the last of the volunteers, and the truck engines roar as they circle around to head back to the gates.

  Suddenly, I hear a pattering sound—like raindrops on a tin roof. Instinctively, I look to the sky, but it has harden
ed into a crystal clear blue. Not a raincloud to be seen.

  Without a word, Dom clutches my hand, and I barely manage to keep my feet as he pulls me into a full run.

  “Get on the chopper,” yells Anthrax, a little unnecessarily, considering we are already racing up the loading ramp as he shouts the words.

  Dominic pushes me inside and yanks the door shut behind us. Above us, I can hear the rotors begin to whine, which means—I hope it means—Anthrax has made it to the cockpit.

  The noise from the rotors intensifies, and then suddenly the floor rises up to meet me, and I crumple to my knees as we become airborne.

  Anthrax yells something from the cockpit, but I can’t hear a word over the roar of the engines. I crawl on my hands and knees to the nearest window, and look down to see three heavy jeeps that have pulled in front of the first truck, outside the airport gate.

  Turning, I find Dominic beside me. He’s wearing the ear protectors and is holding out the other pair for me. I grab them, but instead of putting them on, I reach up and push the ones he’s wearing away from one of his ears.

  “They’re stealing our supplies,” I yell straight into his ear. He jumps back a little, wincing.

  The helicopter banks suddenly to one side, and we’re both thrown to the floor. Dominic grabs me by the arm, and half crawling, hauls me over to one of the flip-down seats.

  “I need to talk to Anthrax,” I yell at him, trying to push his hands away. “We have to go back!”

  Dominic widens his eyes at me, and then yanks the seatbelt across my lap, strapping me in.

  “No!” he yells, clamping the ear protectors on my head. Then he takes my hands in each of his so that I can’t undo my seatbelt.

  Since, between the noise and the ear protection, neither of us can hear a thing, what follows is the most awkward miming conversation I’ve ever had in a careening helicopter.

  Which, as you might expect, is the only conversation I’ve ever had in a careening helicopter.