The Network - Jason Elliot [95]
Jameela’s head is pressed against the passenger window in silent fascination. Over the intercom I hear her voice from time to time, pointing out the features of the landscape beneath us. Later I hear a strange sad music in my headset and realise she’s singing to herself.
Two thirds of the way, a range of black and waterless mountains looms out of the wilderness below. Beyond, we can make out a thin blue band on the horizon which I point out to Jameela, who bites her lip in anticipation. I make the aircraft swing from side to side in celebration and Jameela’s face bursts into a dazzling smile of delight. Then, just shy of three hours’ flight time, I talk to air traffic control at Port Sudan and begin our descent.
Above the coast I turn south and the lonely Red Sea port of Suakin passes under us. It’s an ancient place, abandoned by the Ottomans in the 1920s, now inhabited by a dwindling local population and crumbling steadily into the sea. A few minutes later I spot the airstrip and make a single low pass. There’s a solitary white jeep parked by a tin shed at the end of the runway, and beside it stands the driver, waving his arms slowly above his head. I think almost warmly of Halliday, who hasn’t had long to make the arrangements I’ve requested.
It’s a dusty landing. I taxi down to the shed, turn and cut the engine. There’s a blissful silence. The driver runs forward to help us with our bags, and we bundle into the jeep and head for Suakin. At the ramshackle port we transfer to the boat he’s found for us. It’s an ageing Zodiac with powerful twin outboards, and I don’t ask where it comes from. Nor does our driver ask where we’re going. Some black identification numbers on the prow suggest a military provenance, so perhaps he’s got a cousin in the army. He runs over the controls with me and points out the several large jerrycans of water aboard, as well as a box of fruit which he indicates was his personal idea. I reward him appropriately and arrange when we’ll meet. In the meantime he’ll return to the aircraft and guard it in our absence.
Not far away we see several fishermen selling fresh catches from their boats. One of them is hacking steaks off what looks like a small version of a tuna fish. He cuts two wedges of the dark flesh for us using a blackened machete, which he has to knock through the fish with a mallet. We stow it in the Zodiac with our things, I set the GPS to start acquiring, and the engines splutter into life.
We motor out of the channel and into the open sea, bouncing across the water under the sun. It’s burningly hot, and I’m grateful when Jameela, who’s been eyeing me throughout all this with a mixture of suspicion and admiration, takes off her scarf and ties it over my head. It’s the first time I’ve seen her without it. She runs her fingers through her long dark hair as if a portion of her spirit has been released with it, leaning into the wind like a dog from the window of a car, and she’s loving it as I hoped she would.
Fifteen minutes later the coastline behind us is a thin black line. But ahead, just where the GPS predicts, a dozen deserted islands have sprung out of the sea. Some are tiny and barren, others larger with thick bands of vegetation stretching along the bleach-white sand of their coastlines.
‘Choose your island,’ I say.
She points her slender arm to a small sandy cove a few hundred yards distant, flanked by rocky entrance spurs, between which stretches a dark green canopy of trees. We haul the Zodiac onto the beach and take the extra water and bags to the treeline, where I fuss over an improvised camp. There’s no sound but the ticking of the cooling engines. I look up to see Jameela running to the water and plunging in, fully clothed.
Then she races back to me and flings her arms around me.
‘Thank you,’ she says, ‘thank you.’ I hold her wet body against mine, savouring the scent of her skin for a few moments until she releases herself and rummages in her things to find her swimsuit.
She changes under a towel and I struggle not to show any