The Journey North Goes South

Bridge of Madfoun

Previously:

The journey to the north begins with a tense departure. As we drive along the Mediterranean coastline, the highway narrows and the surroundings become increasingly desolate, marked by the smell of an old plastic factory and the sight of broken-down cars. Joseph's unusual behavior of ignoring stranded motorists on the side of the road puzzles me, especially given Joseph's typically compassionate nature. This confusion peaks when we encounter an elderly woman in distress, only for a young man to emerge from hiding and hurl an object at our car. Joseph's quick reaction and protective instincts prevent harm, but the incident underscores the unpredictable dangers of our journey.

“Just keep your head down,” Joseph replied in a way too calm voice. The car kept swerving back and forth. I hadn’t realized Joseph was such an excellent driver. It was like he forgot to mention to me that he used to stunt double for the Bond movies.

I needed to look up. I was finding it difficult to breathe and couldn’t wait any longer. I raised my head.

“Whatever you do, April, just don’t look back!” Joseph warned. I really liked the way my name sounded from his mouth. I was about to glance back when I blurted out, “What the hell is going on?! Who are those people? And what did they throw at us?”

“They are highway bandits.”

“Bandits?! Was I in some Middle Eastern version of Deadwood?” I thought of Swearengen, the badass saloon owner who made cursing an art. My mind was reeling, trying to process the surreal reality of modern-day bandits in the middle of a high-speed chase.

Joseph’s calm demeanor clashed with the chaos outside. The car jolted as he expertly maneuvered a corner. The bandits were following us closely in an old Mercedes.  “They target travelers here. Spike strips, rocks, anything to make us stop.”

“Was that a Molotov?”

Joseph didn't answer.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins, making it hard to think straight. My mind flashed back to that frightful day in Alaska, falling off the dock while working in the canneries, narrowly escaping a life less mobile.

The day had started simply, sorting salmon on the belt. Once the bins were filled by the ton, I’d hop on the forklift, get the totes weighed—trying not to piss off the imp who guarded his scale like a troll under a bridge—and drive them into the slippery frozen section of the cannery. Fish were either flash frozen or sent to the line, where thousands of cans ran down the line a minute, destined for other countries or military aid.

The first job I had in the cannery, was working on the line where the machines clacked and rumbled in a well-oiled rhythm. We were mostly girls, standing all day picking bones from fish. To keep from going insane, we sang odd, made-up songs, earning us the nickname "the cannery girls." It wasn't a particularly clever nickname, but it stuck.

By my third summer at the cannery, I had been upgraded to the dock—the best job. Outside all day, I enjoyed the fresh air and rapidly changing weather. But after weeks on my feet, sorting salmon from fishing boats, any distraction or break was coveted like winning the lottery.
We sorted by species: Kings, Sockeye, and Coho for top-dollar flash freezing; Chums and Pinks for canning and shipping overseas.

The tiring and relentless hours mirrored the salmon runs the fishermen endured. In Alaska, the sun sets around midnight, so we worked late and got up early. A rare treat was filling a fishing boat with ice. It became a game: whoever got the key to the ice house first won a break, a coveted "ice vacation" that could last one to two hours, depending on the boat’s size.

Amongst about 2 dozen men, I was one of the only girls on the dock. I hadn’t had my ice vacation yet because I wasn’t quick enough. But this day, I saw the Wonderland coming and anticipated they’d need ice. Before they even docked and signaled for the fill-up, I was running fast.

Smith, an old British guy who seemed to have been working the dock since Moby Dick's time, started running behind me. He and I were pals, bantering all day long about our travels during the off season. But all niceness was out, for the ice key. 

I beat Smith to the ice house, surprised at how quickly he moved given his age and likely hangover. He wrestled me for the key. "I got it!" I cried, clutching it fiercely. He tried to pry it from my hand, but I pushed him away. "No, it’s mine. Fair and square! Back off!" But he managed to grab it. "That’s low, even for you, Smith. I got it first!" You had to be straight up with this old salty dog.

"Okay, okay, you're right," he said in his slightly pesky voice, reeking of whiskey and coffee, despite it being only 10 a.m.

I marched victoriously down the fill-up dock, about 500 feet from the ice house. At the end, I turned the key and activated the pump. The pump was attached to a 10-foot metal pole with a box containing all the levers and machinery for adjusting the pipe according to the tide. The tide was low. About 50 feet or more down.

The Wonderland crew, a friendly family, waved as I shouted down, asking about their day and the weather, ready to enjoy my well-deserved "vacation." The Wonderland was my favorite boat of the summer, beautiful mahogany wood, kept in impeccable condition, shiny and bright red. I began lowering the ice hose for them to catch and place into the hull.

Suddenly, I heard a loud snap. The next thing I knew, I was hit hard on the back, as if someone had shoved me off. Did Smith just push me off the dock, being a sore loser? I flew headfirst toward Wonderland's red rail.  I tried to grab the ice hose, but I was falling too fast. It slowed me down just enough to redirect my fall toward the fishing nets on the boat, piled in a crisscrossed mess.

I hit the side of the boat hard and blacked out. When I came to, the youngest Wonderland boy was staring at my face, terrified. His fear sent me into a panic. I couldn't move or feel my legs or arms. I looked around at the faces hovering over me, seeking solace but finding none. Uh oh. I’m in real trouble here. This is bad, real bad. The crew was in shock, likely thinking I was paralyzed. My brother, who I had gotten a job on the dock that year, came running. I had never seen him pray before that day.

They lifted me onto a stretcher and raced me to the nearest hospital for an MRI. The doctors were shocked—I hadn’t broken any bones or fractured anything. But that day, I felt real fear and shock to my core. My short life had flashed before my eyes, and it could have been forever changed. By some grace or force, I was spared. I heard the sound of the tires screeching upon the highway and it snapped me back to the current reality. The car skidded slightly as we made another sharp turn. “We’re close,” Joseph said, his voice maddeningly calm. “Just a little further, until we get to the Bridge of the Buried.”

Close to what? Tripoli? I couldn’t see anything for miles.

The highway stretched endlessly. We had only been driving for twenty minutes, but it felt much longer. The glistening Mediterranean was on our left and sandy bluffs on our right. It's ironic that this area, now lined with KFCs, McDonald's, and Starbucks, was once a dark strip of danger.

But wait, did Joseph just say once we reached the Bridge of the Buried, we would be safe? Did I hear him right?

“The Bridge of the Buried?” I asked aloud, making sure my senses weren’t failing me.

“Yeah, I know it sounds strange,” Joseph sighed. I nodded, wide-eyed.

Joseph's tone darkened. “Checkpoint Bridge of Madfoun. During the war, they threw the dead off that bridge. It’s still a permanent checkpoint from the south to the north. But once we get through, the bandits won’t follow us. Hang in there...”

“How much longer until the bridge?” I asked, trying to hide the quiver in my voice.

“Just a few more minutes,” he said smoothly, racing down the lonely highway. 

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Alright, I trust you. Just get us there!”

Joseph turned to me, his expression serious yet reassuring. “You did good back there.”

I nodded, still trying to catch my breath. “Thanks. I guess I’ve got a lot to learn out here.”

He smiled, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Stick with me, and you’ll be fine, I promise I won’t let anything happen to you. Let’s just take a moment to calm down before we head through the checkpoint.”

As the GMC Jimmy slowed down and the Bridge of the Buried came into view, my heart rate began to normalize. I realized just how much my life had changed since meeting Joseph. The journey ahead was uncertain, but with him by my side, I felt strangely ready to face whatever came next. I was still holding my breath as we rolled into the checkpoint. The soldier at the checkpoint looked at us and said: “Papers!”. Once again, going against everything I was told, I gave yet another stranger my passport to examine. While we sat in the car waiting to be cleared through, I kept wondering if where we were going was worth all that we just went through. The soldier returned our papers and said: “Welcome to the North”. Joseph drove off but his eyes never left the rearview mirror…