— The phone at the reception only works for incoming international calls. You can request a call, but you will need a credit card or cash for that.

  — That was my second question. Where can I find a bank or at least an ATM to withdraw cash? — Who are you?! And how did you even end up in our hotel?

  — Alright. I'll tell you everything. But later. Let's go down to the first floor and call your friend. We can't waste any time! They'll be here soon!

  As they descended, Nusiére was released from the euphoria of adventure, and doubts once again took hold of them. "Who is he anyway?! And why did I think I could trust him? What is he getting me into? Maybe he's a government spy from South Sudan? Or, worse, working for Harami? What if I betray my friend Said? I don't know anything about him! But he knows something about my brother's fate... perhaps that's the only lead I have to find him. I need to learn more about this guy! I didn't even ask his name!"

  They descended to the first floor, and Nussier took his usual place at the counter. John remained on the other side of the reception desk. Nussier picked up the phone and immediately put it back down.

  — Before I call my friend at the port, answer my questions... — the concierge said very seriously to John.

  "Oh! This guy has character! Well done!" John thought to himself, impressed.

  — Alright, but let’s be quick. We'll save our main discussion for a more relaxed setting. Agreed? What do you want to know?

  — Who are you really? And how did you end up in our country? — Nussier continued with a serious expression.

  — My name is John. I'm from Boston, USA. Everything I told you about meeting your father is the absolute truth. I ended up here by chance...

  — What does it mean to be accidental? You can't just end up on the other side of the world by chance!

  "Of course I can, my friend!" John muttered to himself.

  — Why are you here? Who do you work for? What do you know about my brother's fate? — the concierge fired off questions one after another.

  — The thing is, I don't know how I ended up here. Well, just like in all the other cases... I don't work for anyone. I used to be a broker. I know very little about your brother's fate, but I think I can help you. I need more background information about him. Can we please continue later?

  — What do you mean you don’t understand how you got here? Were you brought here unconscious? What other cases are you talking about? I don’t understand anything!

  — It seems so... Every time I... — John's response was cut off by a phone call.

  — Good afternoon, Bashir Hotel — Nusyer replied instantly, standing up straight.

  — This is the military commissioner. Have you found any traces of the fugitive? Perhaps he returned to the hotel? My men have scoured the entire area and found nothing.

  — No, sir. No one has left the hotel or come in here.

  — Understood. Stay in position, I'm sending a team to you — the interlocutor on the other end of the line concluded.

  Nusser quickly hung up the phone. His face changed noticeably, instantly transforming from serious to confused and anxious.

  — They're coming here! — the concierge said fearfully. — We need to hurry.

  He picked up the receiver and quickly dialed the combination of numbers from memory. Frozen like a statue, Nussier pressed the phone to his ear. Seconds passed slowly, but nothing happened. John realized that all he could hear in the receiver was a long series of beeps.

  — He's not answering the phone. He must be busy with the loading! — Panic once again seized Nusyer, and he looked at John with hope. An unfounded sense of guilt filled his entire being. He felt guilty for the fact that his friend Said didn't answer the phone.

  — Where is the port? — John asked.

  — About two kilometers to the southeast from here. You can use the four cargo cranes that are visible even from here as a landmark.

  — Alright. I'm heading towards the port, and you need to call your friend before I arrive.

  — What's going to happen if I can't do it? — asked the anxious concierge.

  "How quickly he transformed from a 'confident lion' into a 'helpless kitten'! But it's not surprising! I don't think he finds himself in such predicaments every day. Still, he's doing great!" John reflected.

  — Everything will work out! Pull yourself together, Nusyer! I'm sure your friend will get in touch soon. I'll be waiting for him by the crane far from the shore. If not, you'll find me yourself. What time does your shift end? I don't think the military will interrogate you for long.

  — At six o'clock in the evening. They are going to interrogate me?! — Horror was evident on his face.

  — Don't panic! You haven't done anything. They'll ask the standard questions and let you go. Just say you were at the reception and didn't see anyone. But you already know all that...

  — Why did I get myself into this adventure... — Nussier said with a sigh.

  — Why, you ask? To learn the fate of my brother! I would do exactly the same. You are brave and noble! That's it. I must go! See you in the evening!

  Already at the door, John turned around:

  — Stop! What is your friend's name at the port?

  — Said. See you later, John! — Nussier replied unexpectedly warmly.

  John stepped out into the street, melted by the heavenly light. Looking around, he quickly spotted the tops of four cargo cranes and, understanding the direction he needed to go, set off on his way... There were no proper sidewalks here, just a faint division between the roadway and the pedestrian area. Cars sped by at quite a high speed, which didn’t seem to bother the pedestrians who briskly crossed the street. The street was littered with trash and dust… John looked at his "Like" sneakers; his big toe peeked out from a hole and blended in with the local terrain in color. "Well, at least it’s not that hot…" he thought, and began to carefully search around for details that stood out from the overall picture and might hold the key to solving his "problem." This had become a habit, even though it hadn’t yielded significant results so far. But he understood that observation was absolutely necessary.

  An old man was repairing his shoes, sitting right on the sidewalk in the dust, mumbling to himself. His meticulous work was interrupted by two boys who accidentally splashed him with murky water from a bottle.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "Two boys again... just like yesterday in Dhaka," John thought fleetingly. "But they are completely different; their gaze is unremarkable, unlike the bright blue eyes of those boys! It feels like paranoia, John!"

  He lifted his head and saw a billboard on the roof of a two-story building, advertising strange root vegetables while simultaneously calling for independence. Just below it was an open window, from which an elderly local woman was watching him. There was no surprise or interest in her gaze; she seemed to be simply passing her break, observing the bustling street. On her head was a bright blue turban, which stood out strikingly against the gray-sandy backdrop of the street.

  Although not often, various cars from the seventies or eighties regularly passed by. Some were carrying firewood, others — cows, and some — armed men. John noticed that trade was quite underdeveloped. Along his way, there were several small shops that mainly sold water and flatbreads. Perhaps it was just that kind of area... So far, he hadn't seen anything unusual.

  John looked ahead at the street stretching into the distance and imagined how everything had come to be here in its time. For many millennia, this place was a scorched desert, inhabited only by geckos and skinks. But about two hundred years ago, somehow, these uniform two-story structures made of clay and who knows what else emerged from beneath the sand. Then, someone simply scattered these poor souls, the local inhabitants, with a giant hand, like a handful of grains, and each of them stood up, dusted themselves off, and went about the tasks programmed in their minds. Today, just like two hundred years ago, people bustle about in this desert, fulfilling their functions and mimicking a process called life. And most likely, this will continue for many centuries to come... John hoped that this was just his imagination and instantly dissolved his abstraction, returning to reality.

  The sun had already passed its zenith and was now bearing down noticeably less. John adjusted to the average walking pace of the locals. To avoid drawing attention, he even mimicked some elements of the gait of those around him, strolling leisurely down the streets and shuffling in their old shoes. The faces of the Sudanese appeared tired and worn. The harsh climate and underdevelopment of the country took their toll, and almost everyone looked older than their years. Their eyes reflected kindness and a gentle disposition, yet there was also a sense of the weight of existence and fatigue. It was clear that they loved their land, but the pressure of the system and fear of punishment restrained their desires and unfulfilled potential.

  The clothing was very modest, much like life in the African country. However, every third person wore an AK-47 around their neck as if it were some kind of necklace. Yet, there were no signs of violence or war; everything seemed ordinary and measured. Apparently, the weapons are echoes of the civil war. It ended ten years ago, but trust between South Sudan and North Sudan has yet to develop.

  Completely merging with the flow of local residents, John continued on his way, pondering his new acquaintance — Nusyra.

  "Nusyer is definitely a handsome guy! I clearly got lucky with him! There’s something special and attractive about him! He quickly managed to overcome his fears of the possible consequences and decided to help a stranger. But I got the impression that I saw two sides of his personality. Moreover, there seemed to be a serious struggle happening between these personalities!"

  At first, he was a law-abiding citizen of a totalitarian country, fortunate enough to hold a "prestigious" job at a hotel. Surely, obtaining this position added a few more pounds of responsibility and obligation, further reinforcing his already dominant personality. Later, when he saw the jalabiya of his missing brother, the Nusair who had long been buried by the external circumstances of his life awakened. I assume he felt intense emotions... those very ones that are beyond control and understanding, the feelings that can break through any barriers, the ancient forces that are embedded in us from birth. I too once felt something similar for the first time...

  "It was this part of Nusyer that triggered him, thanks to the extreme jolt of his deepest feelings, which had been smoldering in the most hidden corners of his soul. Everything that mattered to him in ordinary life faded into the background. They completely consumed his entire being. In that moment, Nusyer was living the life of his true self. The very one he had buried long ago and continued to cover with ashes until today," John continued to elaborate on the concierge's behavior.

  "He changed again in his expression and judgments when we went down to the reception and started asking me questions. Why hadn't he done this earlier? Why had he rushed to help me without a second thought? Clearly, emotions, not logic, were guiding him here."

  Surprisingly, this is not the first time I've witnessed something like this. The same happened with a programmer in Chicago, a taxi driver in Madrid, a banker from Baku, and a blogger from Zurich... It's clear that the situations were entirely different, but there is a common thread running through them. Perhaps this somehow relates to my own adventures?

  John froze, instantly forgetting about Nusiere and his thoughts. He didn't notice how he had passed the residential areas and approached a busy road, pitifully resembling a highway. On the other side of the road, he saw a building that always filled him with the most positive emotions! Recognizing the painfully familiar signs, he smiled broadly and ran across the road with a joy that only children feel on the morning of January 1st when they rush to the Christmas tree… Like a sailor of the high seas who has spotted land, John was overwhelmed with joy! He bounded across the road to meet his savior, dreaming of accessible food and all the various perks that awaited him ahead. As he approached the building, he noted its neatness and cleanliness. It was a bank with an obscure name — "Omdurman." John couldn't care less about the bank's name, as an ATM awaited him on the street. The intoxicating logos of "Visa/Mastercard" made his heart race and caused him to forget everything else in that moment.

  Recently, he had learned to find joy, like a child, in the simplest things. He derived pleasure from almost everything around him. This made his life vibrant and fulfilling. Real… But money… Apparently, instinctively, John reacted to it as he always had, with a mercenary attitude, before realizing its insignificance. Moreover, he understood that if he were to return to ordinary life now, his attitude towards money would not change.

  "Money, get away. Get a good job with a higher salary, and you'll be fine." John hummed Pink Floyd to himself.

  His balance was exactly one thousand US dollars and was updated every day, at least it had been until today. John didn't know if his balance had been updated today. So every time he approached the ATM, he crossed his fingers on both hands and got a little rush of adrenaline. In fact, he had long since gotten used to managing without money altogether, but having it, of course, made things easier. And, of course, he always had a plan for a cashless scenario. After performing his ritual with crossed fingers, he began to enter the eight-digit code that he remembered better than his own birthday.

  "Two-four-six-two-seven-three-four-five," John whispered and quickly dialed.

  The loading wheel spun agonizingly on the screen. In moments like these, John could only think about how the ATM would refuse him, and how he would have to find other ways to obtain food. He also thought about Igor, that Russian who had gifted him a worry-free journey and thus made his travels much easier.

  He looked at the window behind the ATM and saw his reflection. It was a thirty-five-year-old man with quite an attractive appearance. He had dark hair styled in a grunge fashion, and gray-blue eyes that were filled with fatigue and longing, yet at the same time burned with the light of a thousand suns. His small nose did not detract from the proportions of his face; rather, it emphasized his connection to a European lineage. His skin was slightly reddened from the relentless Sudanese sun. John noted that he looked pretty good, considering the circumstances.

  "What is my purpose? Where does my path lead?" John asked his reflection philosophically.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the loading wheel change to a large green checkmark, indicating that the operation had been successfully completed, and the ATM emitted a delightful sound of bills being counted.

  "Alright. First thing's first, I need to find some food, something decent. Stock up on water. Buy matches, cigarettes, new shoes," John thought as the ATM generously churned out bills from its magical belly.

  The iron bank vault ceased its buzzing and opened the bill acceptor, from which a decent stack of money was sticking out. It amounted to five hundred eighty-one thousand in local currency, equivalent to one thousand US dollars. John always withdrew the full thousand, as he was never sure if another opportunity would arise, and it was also unclear how much money he would need. Additionally, he had a ritual: he always hid the leftover cash in the country he was in, so that if he returned, he could use it. He assumed that unlimited account replenishment was not guaranteed forever.

  The problem was that the bundle of money turned out to be quite substantial. And without a bag or even pockets, being in the poorest African country with such a "wad" in hand took on an extremely dangerous character. John imagined himself stepping out of the ATM booth — in tattered sneakers, an old jalabiya, with a burnt face and a huge stack of cash… And all around him, lean guys with AK-47s were scurrying about. The outlook wasn't great… The chances of staying alive were approaching zero, not to mention the money.

  John stuffed the bills into both sleeves of his jalabiya and, pressing his hands against his body, set off in search of a shop or a roadside diner. He had barely walked thirty meters when he heard a rough male voice behind him:

  — Sir! Stop!

  — Sir! Stop! —

  And just like that, the high of a successful withdrawal meets the reality of the Sudanese street. Who’s calling? A friend, a foe, or just the end of John's luck?

  If you're enjoying the ride through the dusty streets of Port Sudan, don't forget to Follow and Rate. The next part is where things get truly complicated.

  See you in the next one.