CHAPTER 31

After three weeks on the continent, Ecko was tired and homesick and missed his family. He had scouted a tournament in Cape Town, attended conferences in Accra and Nairobi, and watched a dozen games with coaching friends in Senegal, Cameroon, and Nigeria. He’d logged 8, 000 miles between countries and spent Thanksgiving Day stranded in an airport in Accra, the capital of Ghana.

But he had one more stop, one that he could not, in good conscience, blow off, though he desperately wanted to. He landed in Kampala and was met at the airport by an old friend named Nestor Kymm, a coach of the Ugandan national team. Kymm’s brother ranked high in the government and knew which strings to pull. Early the next morning they drove to Entebbe International Airport and were directed to the cargo field far away from the main terminal. There they met a smartly dressed officer named Joseph something or other. Ecko could neither pronounce nor spell the man’s last name so he simply called him “sir. ” Joseph seemed to expect this.

They piled into his jeep and circled around two long, wide airstrips lined with taxiways choked with cargo planes, some waiting to take off, others landing. Surrounding the runways were endless rows of huge military tents shielding tons of crates of food. Joseph parked his jeep by an administration building and they hopped out. He glanced at his watch and said, “Your flight leaves in about an hour but nothing runs on time. There’s a fifty-fifty chance you can get on it, so don’t be disappointed if you don’t. We won’t know until the last minute. It’s all about weight and balance. ” He waved at the chaos and asked, “Want a quick tour? ”

Ecko and Kymm nodded. Sure, why not?

The tents were in a large grid and separated by gravel drives. Cargo trucks and forklifts bustled about as hundreds of workers loaded and unloaded the crates. Joseph stopped and waved an arm. Before them were the tents. Behind them airplane engines roared as they took off while dozens more waited.

Joseph said, “We’re feeding a million refugees a day and they’re scattered throughout the country in about fifty settlements. Some are easy to get to, some almost impossible. All are overcrowded and taking in more people every day. It’s a terrible humanitarian crisis and we’re barely hanging on. What you see here is a frantic effort by our government and the United Nations. Most of this food comes from the U. N., but there’s also a lot from the NGOs. Right now we’re working with about thirty relief organizations from around the world. Some bring their own airplanes. Some of these are from our air force. Others from the U. N. At certain times of the day, this is the busiest airport in the world. For what that’s worth. ”

Ecko asked, “How far away is Rhino Camp? ”

“An hour, give or take. There’s a Danish group that flies from here to Rhino four times a day and I’m trying to squeeze you on board. If that fails, we’ll try another one. As you can see, there are plenty of planes. ”

It was a stunning assemblage of aircraft, almost all twins and turboprops, short-field workhorses built for narrow and uneven dirt strips. On the ground they zigged and zagged their way from the warehouses to the taxiways where they fell in long lines and waited. On the other runway, a steady stream of the same planes landed every thirty seconds and wheeled onto the nearest taxiway. Every takeoff and landing created another boiling cloud of dust. The runways were asphalt and could handle the biggest jets, but the connecting roads were dirt and gravel. A mile away, in a much more civilized part of the airport, commercial flights came and went at a leisurely pace.

They watched the show for a few minutes, and Joseph said, “As you might guess, traffic control is a nightmare, ground and air, but we do okay. Haven’t had a fender bender in over a month. ”

“How safe are the flights? ” Ecko asked.

Joseph smiled and asked, “Getting a bit nervous, are we? ”

“Of course not. ”

“Well, we can fly only in good weather. These planes are headed to the bush where only a handful of towns have proper runways and traffic control. Most are going to dirt strips with no navigational support. So, what you see here are some of the best pilots in the world. They can fly in all kinds of weather, but often they can’t land. So we ground them when it rains. ”

“Where are the pilots from? ”

“Half are from our air force, the other half come from around the world. A lot of U. N. guys, and a surprising number of women. To answer your question, we haven’t had a crash in seven months. ”

Seven months seemed like an awfully short period of time to Ecko, but he firmed up his jaw as if he had no fear. There was no turning back anyway. He’d made a promise to Samuel.

Joseph’s radio squawked and he excused himself. Ecko and Kymm retreated to the safety of a warehouse tent, and in the shade watched the incredible, organized chaos before them.

Joseph was back, driving his jeep, and he barked, “Get in. Let’s go. ”

They weaved through the grid and were soon lost in a cluster of tents. When they emerged there were three identical turboprops with workers stuffing boxes inside. On each tail was the name of the nonprofit, something in a foreign language, but under it in small print was “Denmark. ” Joseph approached one of the pilots, evidently a Dane, and said the magic words. He looked at Ecko and Kymm and waved them over. As they crawled on board and settled into the cramped seats just behind the pilots, Joseph said, “Good luck, lads. I’ll see you when you get back, if you make it. ”

They strapped in and began to sweat in the stifling humidity. A ramp boy closed the door and the pilots began flipping switches. Ecko and Kymm watched them with fascination. As the turboprop began to taxi, the copilot opened his window and a fresh wave of hot air blew in. The line was slow but steady.

Though he was nervous about the flight, Ecko was thrilled with the adventure and was once again pleased with his decision not to tell his wife about this little side trip. He would describe it all when he got home.

From 10, 000 feet the Ugandan countryside was beautiful, and Ecko absorbed it all. He was struck by the lack of roads and the remoteness of the villages. And he was once again grateful that his parents had settled in America.

Behind them were three large crates of food, with smaller boxes crammed into every available space. The plane rattled, shook, and vibrated, and this never ceased. Remarkably, he caught himself dozing off.

The descent became interesting when Ecko and Kymm had their first glimpse of the runway. From three thousand feet it appeared to be nothing more than a pig trail hacked out of the middle of a forest. Huts from a nearby village could be seen, but there were no other signs of civilization. On final approach, the copilot turned around and yelled, “Hang on. ” This was not comforting. The landing was a hard slam dunk that caused Ecko to dig his fingernails into the left knee of his co-passenger. When they could breathe again they managed to laugh. Every successful landing is a good one.

Two cargo trucks were waiting at a small metal building that housed racks of food and water. When the engines died, a crew of teenage boys yanked open the rear doors and began unloading the crates. Within minutes, the trucks were loaded and the plane’s engines restarted. The pilots waved goodbye and taxied out.

The truck driver was another Dane. He introduced himself with a big smile and told them to get in the cab. Half of the grounds crew hopped on board and settled among the cargo. Rhino Camp was half an hour away.

Ecko’s first look at it caused him to shake his head in disbelief. Tents and shanties stretched for miles and thousands of refugees, most of them his people, South Sudanese, walked the dirt roads, seemingly going nowhere. The truck stopped at a distribution point where other trucks were arriving and unloading. A Ugandan army private was waiting for them and they immediately left on foot. Ecko carried a small gym bag filled with supplies and gifts. For almost an hour they walked through the settlement, passing countless refugees milling about with nothing to do. They passed long lines of women and children waiting patiently for the next meal, and more lines of people outside clinics and makeshift huts where relief workers filled out forms and handed over food, medicines, and secondhand clothing. They passed hundreds of women and teenage girls walking elegantly with pots of water balanced precariously on their heads.

At the Doctors Without Borders hospital, they asked around and found Christine Moran, who led them to a small exam room where Ecko finally said hello to Beatrice and her sons. Chol and James were nattily attired in their spotless school uniforms, though they were skipping classes on this special day.

From the gym bag, Ecko pulled out tee shirts and caps adorned with the NC Central lettering and logos. Eagles everywhere. He handed Beatrice an envelope with a long handwritten letter from Samuel, and a smaller one with cash. For James and Chol, there were colorful Christmas cards signed by the Eagles players and coaches. They talked for an hour about Samuel and his new life on campus, his classes, his friends, his basketball. On his cell phone, Ecko showed them a video of Samuel and his roommate, Murray Walker, as they sent along their love and Christmas greetings. Another video was of Samuel slamming dunks in practice.

Kymm took dozens of photos with Ecko’s cell phone.

Six hours later, the empty Danish cargo plane landed at dark at the Entebbe airport, and Ecko said thanks and goodbye to Kymm. As he waited three hours for his flight to Nairobi, Ecko sent the photos to Samuel.

Roaming the terminal, killing time, he vowed to do whatever he could to rescue the family, though he was well aware of the long odds against it. He called Samuel and they talked for half an hour, expensive minutes on the international plan. He loved the photos and wanted to know everything about his mother and brothers. Ecko walked a fine line between being honest about their living conditions and giving the kid some reason to be hopeful.

· · ·

Down three players due to curfew violations, and including a redshirt freshman, the Eagles rode the bus to the campus of Furman, in upper South Carolina, for a Wednesday night game. Coach Britt played all nine, and nine were not enough. The Eagles lost by 15 to go 3–5.

Mercifully, there were no games for the next week as the schedule broke for exams.

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