Between Heaven and Earth (4 page)

I was now on the third flight of my trip and each plane had gotten smaller and more suspect. Finally we arrived in Moshi, a town near Kilimanjaro. Grandpa would have loved this last plane because it was so tiny. It held only sixteen people and seemed less like a plane than a bus with two propeller-driven engines. Bad enough that it was like a bus, but it wasn't even a
nice
bus. The carpeting on the floor was worn and torn, as were the seats. Torn wouldn't have been bad if my seat hadn't also been crooked—one of the support legs was busted—and if it had a seat belt that worked. Rather than buckling up, the attendant had helped me tie the two ends together.

The plane was still bumping along the runway when people started to get up from their seats. They seemed to have no sense of safety or following rules, although I could appreciate wanting to get off this plane as fast as possible. On the ground was good, but
feet
on the ground was better. I thought the flight attendant would tell them to sit down, but she hadn't bothered. Passengers held on to seats, swaying while they opened up the overhead compartments and pulled out their bags.

The plane finally came to a complete stop, and I untied my seat belt and got to my feet, smacking my head loudly against the overhead compartment. The thud was loud enough that people turned to stare. A few looked like they were about to laugh or giggle, and others looked concerned.

“I'm okay,” I said to everybody and nobody. “They just don't make these big enough for me.”

I stepped into a gap in the aisle and stood up, almost straight. My head brushed against the ceiling of the plane. I looked up and down the aisle. I was clearly the tallest person aboard. I pulled out my carry-on bag and then Grandpa's cane.

The door popped open, and sunlight and fresh air flooded in. I took a deep breath. It felt good. The first passengers exited, and the rest of us shuffled forward until I climbed off the plane and took my first step in Tanzania. I was here, and that meant I was one-third of the way to finishing my task.

I'd divided it into three parts: flying to Tanzania, climbing the mountain, and flying home. I figured the mountain part wouldn't take much longer than the flights.

I followed the little stream of passengers toward a small building, hoping they knew where they were going. Right inside the doors were the customs booths. One had a sign above it that read
East African Passports
. The other said
All Other Passports
. That was me.

I dug out my passport and went to the back of the line. There were three other people in front of me: two men in their twenties, and a much older woman. Maybe she was the mother of one of them, which reminded me: I'd have to text Mom and let her know I'd arrived.

The men stepped up to the customs booth, leaving just me and the older woman. She turned around to face me.

“First time in Tanzania?” she asked. She had a British accent.

I nodded. “Is it yours?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Are you here to climb the mountain?”

“Yes. And you?”

“The plan is for me to—”

“Next!”

We both turned toward the customs booth. The guard was waving for her to come forward.

“Good luck with your climb,” she said as she stepped up to the booth.

I didn't think luck was going to have anything to do with it.

I was hot and tired, and my legs were a little shaky. It had been almost twenty-four hours since my mother had dropped me off at the airport, and I hadn't gotten any more than two or three hours sleep since then. Fear of flying will do that to you.

The woman moved through customs, and I stepped forward.

“Passport, please,” the official said.

He opened it up at the picture and held it up, looking from it to me.

“This is you?” he asked.

The question threw me. “Yeah, of course.”

“It does not look so much like you,” he said. “But many of you tourists look the same. Length of stay?”

“Two or three days.”

“Why so short?”

“That should be long enough to climb the mountain,” I answered.

“And you think you can do that in two days?”

“Well, I don't know; that's why I said maybe three.”

He shook his head and gave me a look like I'd offended him.

“How much currency do you have?” he asked.

“Currency?”

“How much money do you have with you?”

I'd heard about this. He was asking me for a bribe. “I have enough,” I said.

“Enough? Are you being insolent with me, young man?” he demanded. “I will ask you one more time, how much money do you have on you?”

His loud words and hard stare left me no doubt that I'd have to tell him and give him a bribe if he asked for it.

“Um…I'm not sure. I know I have enough. I have a couple of hundred dollars in US funds and lots of Tanzanian shillings and a bank card. Everything else is already paid for.”

“You are traveling by yourself and you are only seventeen,” he said. “Who will care for you when you are here?”

“I'm meeting a man named Elijah. He's probably out there waiting for me,” I said, gesturing to the door with the Exit sign above it.

“What is this Elijah's last name? What is his occupation? Is he Tanzanian? Does he run a tour group?”

“I don't know.”

“None of it?” he asked in disbelief. “You do not even know his full name?”

I shook my head.

“And you just trust that this Elijah will be out there waiting,” he said. “What if he isn't? Do you have a number to contact him?”

Again I shook my head. I didn't feel good about that myself. I had just trusted that Grandpa and his lawyer had made all the arrangements.

“So if he is not there, what will you do?” he asked.

“I'm sure he is, but if he isn't, I guess I'll just wait.”

“For how long?”

“Until he comes.”

“And what if he does not come until tomorrow or the next day? Do you think this is a hotel where you can sleep?”

“I'm sure he'll be there.”

He muttered something under his breath. I didn't need to know Swahili to know he was neither pleased nor impressed with me or my plan.

“Do you have anything to declare?” he asked. “Are you bringing in drugs or guns or alcohol or prohibited fruit or vegetables?”

Of course I wasn't bringing in any of those things, but I'd been told by the lawyer, Mr. Devine, that it was illegal to transport human remains across national borders. That was why they were hidden inside my grandpa's cane.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Um…no,” I stuttered. Lying never came naturally to me.

“Then why did you not answer immediately?”

“I didn't understand you!”

“Why, is my English not
good
enough for you?” he snapped.

“I'm tired. Really tired. I don't have any of those things. I don't even drink and I'd never do drugs, and I don't have any weapons…anywhere.”

He looked at me long and hard, as if he was trying to make a final decision about whether or not he should let me into the country. That made no sense. I was pretty sure there was no way he couldn't let me in. His scowl deepened, and then he picked up a stamp and thumped it against my passport and handed it back.

“I can go?”

“You sound surprised. Did you think you should be turned away?”

“Of course not!”

“Then leave and stop holding up the line.”

As I fumbled with my passport and duffel bag and backpack, the cane slipped from my hand and fell to the floor. I bent over to pick it up.

“That is an interesting walking stick,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Most people
leave
with such things. They do not bring them into the country.”

“It's special. It belonged to my grandfather.”

“Let me see,” he said, holding out his hands.

Reluctantly I handed it to him.

“This design is local, carved by the Chagga people. I am Chagga.”

“My grandpa spent some time right here when he was young, a long time ago. He was a pilot.”

He turned the cane over in his hands, examining it with the same intensity he'd reserved for me. I had to resist the urge to grab it away from him. It wasn't just my grandpa's cane he was holding in his hands, it was my
grandpa
.

“This stick it is very light. As if…as if…” He shook the cane, and I could
feel
the ashes moving inside. “As if it were
hollow
.”

He took the top and twisted it around until it popped open. He looked inside, and then looked up at me. “You thought you could fool me.”

“I wasn't trying to fool you. It's just that—”

“It is a serious offence to smuggle drugs.”

“Drugs!”

He yelled something in a language I couldn't understand, and before I could object, two men in uniforms, carrying guns, grabbed me!

SIX

I sat on the little bunk, legs up, arms around them, back against the rough wall. I looked down at my wrist for the time and was frustrated. They'd taken my watch and everything in my pockets, as well as my belt, my hiking boots and my socks. What did they think I was going to do with socks? Ball them up and throw them at the guards? How long had it been? One hour…two? And more importantly, how long would it be? They couldn't just keep me here. They'd soon discover that it wasn't drugs. But then again, it wasn't legal to transport human remains either. How long could I get sent to jail for doing that?

I heard the sound of footsteps and looked through the bars, past the two seated guards. Another soldier appeared, and the two guarding me rose to their feet and saluted. Whoever he was, he outranked them. From his tone, I could tell he was giving orders. He turned and stormed away, and they quickly unlocked my cell.

I got to my feet, sockless, scared and feeling very alone. I wished somebody—my mother, my grandpa, even one of my cousins—was here to help me. I had to get the cane back.

“Come,” one of the guards said. His voice was soft, which only put me on high alert. I walked out of the cell.

“Wait!” he called out, and I froze.

The other guard ran off and returned a few seconds later carrying a pair of sandals. “Here, for you.”

Confused, I took them from him. They were brown and worn out and obviously way too small for me. I put them on, though, and followed the guards down a hall to an empty room with rows of wooden chairs, a couple of tables and a big raised bench. A courtroom! Was I going to be put on trial? I spun around to face the guards, who both smiled at me. What was going on?

A door at the side of the room opened, and two more soldiers entered. Neither of
them
was smiling. Behind them came an older man dressed in a suit and carrying my grandpa's cane! He nodded in my direction, and my guards jumped to attention and saluted.

I expected the man to go and sit up at the judge's bench, but instead he came directly to me.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I believe this is yours.” He offered me the cane.

Was this a trick? Was this his way of making me admit that it was mine? What was the point in arguing? We all knew it was mine. I took it.

“Thanks.” It felt good to have it back, no matter what happened next.

“Would you like something to eat, or perhaps a drink? Tea or coffee or a soda?”

How strange and nice. I guess they did court differently here. “No…no, thank you, sir.”

“I think I would like a tea. It would feel rude to drink alone, so I will ask them to bring enough if you change your mind. Do you like milk and sugar in your tea?”

“Um…yes, please…milk and lots of sugar.”

He turned to two of the soldiers. “Could you please arrange for refreshments?”

“Yes, sir, Your Honor, Judge!” one said, and they saluted and left.

So he
was
a judge.

“Young David. I must apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said.

I startled at the mention of my name—hardly anybody called me David—but how did he even know my name? Then I realized that of course he knew my name; they had my passport.

“I was delayed and could not be here for your arrival as planned,” he said.

As planned? What did that mean?

He shook his head slowly. “I can so clearly see the resemblance. There is so much of him in you.”

“Resemblance?” What did that mean? “Wait… are you Elijah?”

He laughed. “Oh, I am so sorry, I thought you knew that! I am indeed Elijah!”

“But he called you Your Honor.”

“I am both your grandfather's friend Elijah and a judge. The reason I was delayed was that I was presiding over a court hearing in the capital city, Dar es Salaam, where I sit on the bench of the Supreme Court of Tanzania.”

“The Supreme Court…wow!”