The man nodded. His skin was the color of thick cocoa, but the black hair was liberally salted with grey. “You’re the one grows plants?” he asked.
It was Jerusha’s turn to nod. “My name’s Jerusha Carter,” she said. “Sometimes they call me Gardener.”
“I’m Ibada. I keep the grounds for the embassy. Toss that here.” He held out his hand, and Jerusha underhanded the gourd to him. He slid a long knife from a sheath in his belt and pressed the heavy blade into the gourd, splitting it open. Jerusha could see pulpy fruit inside, laced with large seeds. “The baobab is the Tree of Life in Swahili,” he said as he cut the fruit open. “That one there, it’s an old, old one. It’s been growing since before the birth of your Christ.”
Jerusha looked at the tree again, trying to imagine all that history that had passed since it first sprouted. It was impossible. “They look so… strange.”
“One tale says that the gods gave each of the animals a seed to plant. Poor baobab was the last, and it was given to the stupid jackal, who planted the seed upside down so that the roots came out on top.” He laughed, and Jerusha had to laugh with him. He was pulling seeds from the pulp, gathering them into one large palm. “Tree of life, remember? You’ll find the leaves used as a vegetable. Kuka, they’re called-my mother used to make kuka soup. Here, look…”
He handed one of the halves of the gourd to Jerusha and poked a finger into the pulp. “You know cream of tartar? That originally came from this fruit. Down in the market, you can buy dried pulp covered with sugar; it’s called bungha. Or you can mix it with milk or porridge. Very versatile.” He took the gourd from her again, took her hands, and poured a dozen of the seeds into her cupped palms. “Those-grind them down and you can use them to thicken soup, or roast them, or grind them to get oil. But I think you will use them for growing, eh?” He smiled at her.
“Thank you, Ibada,” she said. The seeds were cool and wet, and she could feel the great trees inside them, waiting to spring forth. “Later,” she whispered to them. She opened a pouch of her seed belt and let them fall inside. The pouch felt heavy and comforting.
“This is why you came to the tree, no?” he asked. “You could feel the call of the Great Mother in her?”
“Yes.” Jerusha brushed a hand over the thick trunk. A heat seemed to answer her, welling up from the ground below. “I think I could.”
“Hey, Jerusha!” The call was a loud bellow. Both of them looked back toward the buildings of the embassy. Wally was striding toward them, waving.
Ibada nodded, grinning again. “I feel that call too, sometimes. You and the metal man, you’re not here just to see the animals or take pretty pictures of Kilimanjaro?”
“No.”
“Then you might need the baobab,” he said. “Use the seeds well, Gardener.”
“I will.”
Ibada lowered his head, almost as if he were bowing to her. He began walking back to the electric cart. Wally passed him with a suspicious glance. “He bothering you?”
“No. And I can take care of myself.”
Wally had the grace to look abashed. “Sorry,” he said. The cart whined as Ibada left with a wave. “They said the car would be ready in an hour to take us to that Finch feller. I knocked on your door to tell you, but you didn’t answer. The feller at the desk said you were out here, so…” His voice trailed off into silence. He was looking up at the baobab behind Jerusha. “Cripes, that’s one big tree,” he said. There was a distinct note of awe in his voice. Somehow that made Jerusha feel better.
“Yes, it is,” Jerusha told him. “C’mon, we should get ready.”
Kawi Airport
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania
Finch had said it would take at least a couple of hours to get them properly provisioned; they wanted to leave for Lake Tanganyika in the early afternoon. He took them to a… well, it wasn’t really a store. Not that Wally could tell. It seemed more like a depot, or small warehouse, not far from the hangar where Finch kept his plane.
A stuffy, mildewy smell wafted out of the mud-brick building when Finch unlocked the door. Wally and Jerusha followed him inside. There was no electricity; the only illumination was the mustard-colored light leaking through grimy windows, except in places where the windowpanes were broken. Rows of shelves and piles of crates filled the space. Many shelves were empty, but those that weren’t amounted to lots of gear. Camping gear, by the look of it.
“Wow!” said Wally. “This is all yours?”
“Finders keepers,” said Finch. “Been flying in and outta the bush for thirty years. People get lost, people leave things behind, people get one glimpse of the jungle and go screamin’ back to their hotel. I find it, take it here, and then sell it to lucky blokes like you.”
Jerusha said, “This stuff isn’t stolen, is it?”
“Bite your tongue!” Air whooshed through the pilot’s flared nostrils. “I’m an honest businessman.”
Wally edged in front of Jerusha again, just in case. “Hey, she’s just asking, is all.”
“Just so we’re clear, mate. I don’t steal, but I don’t run a charity here, either.”
“Huh?”
Finch rolled those tiny little eyes again. “You’re gonna pay for what you take, right?”
“Oh, sure, you betcha.”
“Thing is,” said Finch, “I’m sure the Committee is good for it, but I can’t wait around six months for a check to arrive from the United States. Not many banks around here that would honor it anyway, right?” He chortled, slapped Wally on the back. Most people flinched after doing that, but not Finch; it looked like he had pretty thick skin. The clang echoed through the warehouse.
“Right, I guess. So, um, what does that mean?”
“It means I run an honest cash-only business.”
Wally looked at Jerusha. She shrugged. What else could they do?
The outfitting trip turned out to be an expedition in its own right. Though she’d offended him with her question, Jerusha won a bit of grudging respect from Finch once they got down to business. She had done her homework, and had compiled a list on the way over from New York. Wally knew they were doing this on the spur of the moment, but he had no idea just how unprepared they’d been.
He’d been camping up in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. Preparing for a trip like that was nothing compared to this.
It was one heck of a list: Packs. Safari vests (with extra pockets). Biological water filtration bottles. Chlorine tablets. Painkillers; antibiotics; antidiarrhea medicine; rehydration salts. Pocketknives; machetes, for hacking through brush; compasses; toilet paper; rope. Flashlights; electric lanterns; a handheld GPS unit. Lots of batteries. Sleeping bags. Tents.
For Jerusha they also bought insect repellent, mosquito netting, and antimalarial tablets. Wally hadn’t been bitten by a bug since his card turned. Jerusha got a wide-brimmed hat, too. Sunburn wasn’t much of a danger for Wally, but he bought a pith helmet for the fun of it. He’d always wanted a pith helmet, ever since watching Tarzan the Ape Man (the original, not the remake). It would keep the sweat and rain out of his eyes.
Finch made a big deal about footwear. It had to be comfortable, he said, but it also had to let your feet breathe. Wally decided to go barefoot. It would be more comfortable than anything else, and besides, Finch didn’t have any secondhand boots or hiking sandals that wouldn’t get shredded by Wally’s iron feet. As long as he was extra careful about rust, going barefoot wouldn’t be a problem.
Finch made an even bigger deal about the satellite phone. “Don’t lose this bloody phone,” he said, shaking it in their faces. “This is your lifeline to the outside world. Your cell phones will be worthless in the jungle.” He gave them a long lecture explaining how to use the phone. Wally tried to follow as best he could, but he secretly hoped Jerusha was getting it.
They unrolled one sleeping bag after another, trying to find a pair that hadn’t been afflicted with mildew. Finch asked Wally, “Committee does this to you a lot, does it?”
“Does what?”