Not anymore.
They packed like tourists-lots of clothes, cameras, toiletries, all the stuff Americans were afraid they couldn't get overseas. Once in Milan, they dumped most in order to travel light the rest of the way. They needed lightweight clothes for the African heat, something to cover their skin. Bleeker was at a disadvantage. He could never blend in with his wintertime Minnesota skin like milk. They could lay on the fake tan pretty heavy, make him as brown as possible. Darker, but not dark enough. So they would have to say he was a writer, like a reporter, paying them to let him tag along. They could say he was Canadian.
Guns. They couldn't bring their own. Bleeker hoped they wouldn't need to use any at all, but just in case. Bosaso was a modern growing city, but Bleeker couldn't escape the feeling that it would feel like the Wild West. Mustafa said his people would take care of the guns. No worries. Sure, that was something easy to shove onto the back burner. Right.
Next, Kenya, where Mustafa's cousins and uncles lived. The country had been a refuge for Somalis escaping the war in the early years. Many moved on from there to other countries in Africa, then Europe, then America. Minneapolis, for some reason. It was a quiet welcome. A friendly meal, some prayers, and then the guns, both of them given cheap but reliable 9mm pistols. They looked like they'd seen plenty of action. From Croatia, the uncle said. Good guns. Bleeker wanted more stopping power, but he took what was given.
Bleeker's attention drifted with a cigarette dangling from his lips, sitting with his back against the wall, looking out a window as the sun set, listening to Mustafa and his uncle talk in their native tongue. He could only pick up a few words here and there. But Mustafa had already told him what they would be discussing-how to get themselves into Somalia without anyone knowing about it.
One of the words he kept picking up: "Boat". From Kenya, south of Somalia, all the way past the horn, to Bosaso, without being noticed.
Bleeker thought he was laughing a little, right on the edge of dreaming. They'd come so far to be so close to bet it all on a crapshoot.
*
"That's a pirate boat, right?" Bleeker was going to point but Mustafa slapped his hand down. Not even to the halfway mark, early morning, and they were seeing the small fast wooden boats packed with skinny men armed to the teeth. If they had wanted Mustafa's cousin's boat-another long skinny skiff almost like the pirates-it was an easy target. But somehow they skated past. Nothing to see here.
"They're not a tourist attraction. Don't point." Even looking at them was a no-no.
"Shit."
A couple of cousins looked on, laughing. Altogether, there were seven of them. All black except Bleeker. They covered him up as much as they could-big sunglasses, a hat, shirt buttoned up all the way, a bandana around his neck, covering his nose and mouth. But those hands. No way to hide those hands. The heat was impossible, the gleam off the water as painful as needles in Bleeker's eyes. He would sweat pools of orange. That's why he had to wear darker colors, long sleeves. Mustafa and his people were in T-shirts and polos. He was obviously the odd man out.
"We're going to get caught."
"They've been up and down the coast for years. They know what to do."
"Did you ever go with them when you were younger?"
Mustafa shook his head, glanced at his cousins, then back at Bleeker. "Last time I saw Warfaa, there," he nodded towards the man manning the outboard, "we were both, I think, four, five. We left at about the same time. Our families had tried so hard to stay out of it, the war, and then our grandfather, Bahdoon, was killed when he refused to turn his sons over to one of the warlords, a man named Ibrahim. A military man. It wasn't like Arabian Nights with swords and genies. He had soldiers and guns and trucks. He stole food meant for starving people. He shot anyone who got in his way. The Americans were here, but they were useless. So my grandmother got us out. She died after the trip, but along the way, she was our rock. It was her sister in Kenya who helped us come to America.
"I was too young. I remember being told not to look when we passed the dead or soldiers or fires. I remember my father and uncles sleeping all day, only coming out of hiding at night to take over from our mom and aunts. Otherwise, they might be drafted into the army. So I don't know these men anymore, but we all went through the same thing. They won't let us down."
Bleeker didn't know what to say. "You know, Cindy's partner, Poulson? The one Jibriil shot first? He was in Somalia back then. In the Marines."
"Yeah?"
"Oh yeah. He talked about it with me. Guess it was his only time out of the country. But he said it was dull. They weren't allowed to do anything. He was there when Blackhawk happened, and still, what could they do? They pulled everybody out right after. As far as I know, he spent the whole time checking in equipment."
"No action? He didn't see the riots? The dead?"
Bleeker shook his head. "He was a guy with a clipboard. But still, even with all I saw in Iraq, and even with me supposedly being good with the Somalis in town, I'm thinking he understood you guys better than I did. He had a chip on his shoulder."
"Too bad."
"Not like he hated them. More like, I don't know, he made a lot of jokes. He liked to laugh with the local Somalis, even if they didn't get it. Or they did, and knew he was making fun of them. That's the sort of guy he was."
"He underestimated Jibriil."
Another pirate boat. Warfaa said something to Mustafa, who nodded. "If they stop us, you've got to be cool. They'll notice you eventually, but don't give them a reason to."
A nod. Then, "Did you underestimate Jibriil, back when he was friends with Adem in high school?"
Mustafa was keeping an eye on the pirates, who were too close for comfort. Warfaa waved. The pirates circled the boat, one lap, then waved back, went on their way.
He said, "Back then? He was nothing. A wannabe. Tried to join up with my old gang all the time, and I kept telling them to push him away. There was no way I was going to let one of Adem's friends drag him into that."
"What if you had? You know, what if you had let him?"
Shook his head. "Boy would be dead. He would've gotten tough with the wrong man, got himself shot. It would be all my fault."
"Then he wouldn't have gotten wrapped up with the Muslims."
"One of those things, like, it was fate. If I went back in time, right? Tried to do it different? There'd always be something happen to make sure we ended up right here. Never going to change." Mustafa handed over a bottle of water, already warm. "Get yourself full. It's still a long trip."
*
They pulled up to a concrete pier jutting out from a shore of giant rocks, a large cargo ship nearby while many smaller boats came and went around it. Bleeker saw lots of these piers along the way, the deep blue water stopping against the rocks. Machine noise all around. Past the rocks farther ashore, Bleeker saw the arms of cranes, bright yellow, moving back and forth. Cargo containers, bundles from the farm, wooden crates.
One of the cousins tied the boat around a post sticking up from the concrete. They all steadied the boat, pulled it against the pier. Couple of scrapes, then Warfaa pulled himself onto the dock and reached down to help Bleeker and Mustafa out. Then the cousins, except for two who had to take care of the boat and would meet them later. And there they were. Bosaso.
Even after being on the boat for so long, surrounded by the deep and watching the land grow closer, the view from land was even better. Bleeker thought about the lakes back home, how he'd been sleeping on a frozen one that stretched for miles and miles only a few days before, and how now he'd spent most of the day on the Indian Ocean. Cindy would've loved it. They might have traveled one day, when the child was old enough. They would've taken her to Disney World. They would've left her with grandma and taken a trip to India.