A trickle of excitement bubbles in me even while I try to suppress it, the thought that I could be heading for my freedom. The idea that Tse might be there. Drew? No, I doubt Tse would have brought him, just in case it doesn’t go my way. But Carissa, Carissa seems to know her stuff.When I’m free, I’ll have to find some way of paying Tse back, her fees must have cost him a fortune.My foot’s tapping impatiently, just wanting to get there, get this done and over with.There’s a chance I’ll be able to go home.Just the idea has my heart singing.
It’s stupid, pointless, but every mile of the way to the courthouse, I’m getting my hopes up and can’t push them away. The threat of Colombia seems to recede as surely the judge will see my home, my rightful place is here?
There’s a turn that unbalances me as though the truck’s gone around a sharp corner, then shortly after, it pulls to a stop. I eye my companions, they look resigned, maybe their cases aren’t as strong as my own, maybe they were caught crossing the border. Maybe they haven’t got anyone to represent them. I might be a hateful person, but I’m thinking if the judge turns them down, he’s more likely to let one through.Please let that one be me.
The doors open.
Wait. What?
Sounds of engines fill the air, and it’s not LA traffic. Those sounds are from planes taking off and landing.I’ve been brought to an airport.
Calm, calm your breathing, Mariana. Maybe the courthouse is nearby.But the embryonic thought doesn’t get the chance to take hold when we descend from the truck and are led to a terminal. I may never have seen the outside of a courthouse before, but I’m certain it wouldn’t look anything like this.
The guard practices his Spanish on me, I shake my head and he repeats it in English. “No bag?”
My voice so weak, he leans forward to hear me. “My lawyer was bringing it to the courthouse. I’m supposed to be there, not here. My immigration hearing…”
“You’re right where you’re supposed to be, Miss. You’re going back to your own country.”
“But my country is here.”
“Ha. What they all say, isn’t it, Tom?” One of the other guards laughs and not in a nice way. This is the one who pushes at my shoulder. “This way.”
My hands are still handcuffed, but that doesn’t stop me. All my life I’ve done what I’m supposed to, so afraid of otherwise drawing attention to myself. But my one thought today is to get the time in court that I deserve. I turn and run…
I fall flat on my face as a massive bolt of pain jars me, my arms twitch and I can’t stop them. Gasping air into my lungs I try to get them working again.I’ve been tasered.
“I advise you not to try that again,” the guard tells me without any sympathy. “Now get up and follow the rest.”
I have no idea how long it normally takes to get through an airport even when you’re travelling to somewhere you want to go; I’ve never experienced it. Here, we’re led to a room and kept hanging around, but I don’t mind waiting.Somebody’s got to realise their mistake.I’ve been put on the wrong transport. Or perhaps it had been done on purpose, my case not worthy of a determination by the judge in person. Eventually we’re on the move again, and being loaded on to a small charter plane, and my hand is handcuffed to the arm rest.
There’s no entertainment, nothing the TV had prepared me for. Just a utilitarian flight to a country I’ve never seen, never wondered about and never researched. I’ve no love or fond memories of the place of my birth.
I want the flight to last forever, I don’t want it to end. I want it to turn around and take me back to Los Angeles.
What lies in store for me?I’ve no plans, no idea what to do. The one thing I won’t do is make any attempt to contact my father. He is not a good man.
An announcement in English and Spanish, and a change in engine noise and air pressure signal we must be landing. I look out on an alien landscape, then move my head so instead I’m staring down at my hands. Burying my head in the sand like an ostrich. If I ignore it, it can’t be happening.
But it is. A bumpy landing. It’s raining, hard from what I can see.I don’t even know what city we’ve come to.What’s underneath me doesn’t look like it would qualify as a big town, but not having bothered to learn anything about the country, I don’t know if they have skyscrapers, or even the low-rise buildings like in Tucson. This is certainly not like a large American airport. There’s no bus from the plane to the rundown looking terminal. We’re walked across the tarmac into what’s little more than a ramshackle shed. There’s a desk where we stand in line.
I’m at the back. Everyone’s speaking in Spanish, and I keep wiping the tears from my eyes. It’s not home, it’s foreign. Even the air smells different. If I was on vacation it might be exciting, but I’m not, and instead it’s terrifying.
“I don’t like this,” I overhear one of the guards saying.
My ears prick up as his companion replies, “Pilot told us he had to divert the plane due to a traffic control hitch in Bogotá. But I agree, soon as we get off the ground and back to civilisation again, I’ll feel easier.”
“Sent us to the back of beyond. Just look at this place.”
“Soon as the line moves through, we’ll be back on the plane. Can’t be quick enough for me.”
My intrigue is piqued by their conversation and that we’ve arrived at a different airport, though why should it worry me where I am? I’m standing on Colombian soil, and I’d have no sense of coming home, whether I was here or in a big city.
There’s a heated conversation going on in Spanish at the desk in front of me. Suddenly a man turns and glares at the US guards. “We need bus to Bogotá. Not good you bringing us here.”
The guard shrugs as though it’s none of his business. The men behind the desk ignore everything that’s going on. There are a couple of Colombian guards who openly show their interest in the man who’s spoken, their hands resting on their guns. He throws up his hands and backs down.
“Señorita De Souza,” a man announces as at last I get to the front of the short queue. A process of elimination, I suspect, as I’m the only ill-fated passenger left.
