"No, she does not have any identification...I do not know where she has left it. I, I, I..ughhh." a local Chadian UNHCR employee rambled to me the other morning, in a slur of French and English while we were in Guerada. He was gesturing towards his wife, the woman who had misplaced her ID.
"Look, you guys make the rules, and then expect us to follow them. And those rules, my friend specifically state that one must have either an NGO badge, or an international ID card along with an Order of Mission from the UN. Period. When we do not follow the rules we get in trouble. Ironically you guys who are the ones who yell when we break them, are also the ones who ask us to break them the most often." I fought the urge to make ridiculous noises with my tongue while making faces towards the man.
The man grew ever more frustrated and anxious, pacing and wilding gesticulating to his new wife who stood close by, timidly observing the show. I knew him. I had seen him a few times before, where I could not recall but I knew I recognized his face, and it wasn't negative emotions that came to mind at his sight either. He was extremely thin and frail, with a freckled and sun-wrinkled light black skin covering his bony face. He thrust his arms back into the cargo hold and yanked out another of his raggy bags, unzipping it and nervously fumbling thru its contents.
Lauren, our new pilot, and I stood in the brisk, howling wind, that was gusting up to 35 or 40 mph and creating a dust storm. Our uniforms flapped violently in the wind like flags on poles. As with all employees in training, you want to show them the correct way how to do things at first. No ifs ands or buts, this is it and this is how we do it here. And while flying in Chad having a clear mandate and set of rules can either make or break your day. Some days it makes life simple, some days it pulls on your heart and you know you cannot in good consciousness follow the rules exactly. I, being the trainer, was intent on showing the correct way of doing things still. We stood, flapping in the wind alongside other locals who observed the man with a look of true concern.
Papers and clothing continued to shuffle frantically from wild hands and gale force winds. "Listen, we may fly here tomorrow, and if not, then it'll be on Monday. Why don't you just go back and find her ID and wait an evening or three at most." I suggested. He seemed not to hear. My thoughts, unisonly in tune with the papers, fluttered with annoyance at myself for failing to bring a jacket, and at this man who was causing me to stand in this whipping wind.
A brief moment after I said these few things I heard an 'AHEM:' come from behind. I cocked my head and rolled it slowly around to find a female IMC passenger whom I had already screened and put on board, squatting in the door way and beckoning me discreetly. I slid across the riveted aircraft skin to where she crouched in the doorway and asked what I could do for her.
"Look, I know it's none of my business, and you have your rules that you must follow, but...well...I know these people and they need to get out. We were hoping to get them out yesterday when you were supposed to come "(I had refused to land because no one, in a stroke of sheer geniousness, turned on the radios in their trucks to give me a security report as we circled precariously overhead the airfield for 10 minutes. I think their necks still must have been sore from craning to watch our airshow for that 10 minutes...another story altogether).
"Look," she continued, in a middle eastern accent, "if you can, please get them out. Please. Otherwise...otherwise...ok, look let me put it to you this way: that man, that man who is looking thru the bags, he found his family dead two days ago, with their eyeballs cut out of their head and laying beside them. You see, he is from XXX tribe and they are rumored to be cooperating with YYY rebel movement, which most of them are not. It is about to get even uglier here, which is quite a feat. He and his wife are XXX, and he and his wife are most likely awaiting the same fate as the rest of his family if you cannot get him out of here today.
I have no problem telling a woman who has been sitting in an airport bar for 3 hours and who wanted to finish just one more martini before boarding and because of this failed to hear the final boarding call "tough luck sweetheart, try again next time.". Or anyone who shows up without proper ID anywhere else in the world, or someone who shows up incredibly late, or someone who is just a jack ass: that they can all wait as far as I'm concerned.
I do have a problem telling a newly married husband and wife that I cannot take them because of a one line sentence written in our "RULES" book that will effectively cause them death and/or disembowelment. Yeah, bit of a different ballpark...shit, different galaxy. What else can you say about it?
We found a piece of paper, a newly printed Marriage certificate, with both their names on it, and welcomed them on board. I learn almost everyday that the consequences for following or not following the rules here are a bit more obtuse than those back home. There is no cut and dried. But there can be cut, gouged and dead.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Monday, December 25, 2006
Merry Christmas + pics
Merry Christmas from Tchad!
High Frequency radio squelch is my lovely Christmas music this morning as I sit inside our little Ops room in our compound. When one cannot have Bing Crosby singing holiday classics, the next most logical choice is alien/robotic C-3PO sounding noises belching from a small desk mounted unit. I wish I could tell everyone that I'm feeling the holiday spirit and that I'm presently making paper snowflakes to assuage my pent up festive creativity, but...ummm....well its a bit hard when it is 100 degrees everyday, lizards scamper about, automatic weapon fire resounds every few nights, there is a war going on outside your cement walls, and your monkey refuses to brush your leg hair anymore because she's moody. So, no. No paper snow flakes. Je suis desole.
I decided, at some point last evening (I believe after my 4th drink at the French base) I'd get into the Christmas spirit if, and only if, I woke up this morning to a white, fluffy blanket of fresh snow. What? Stranger things have happened. George Bush was elected to a second term, wasn't he? So I went to bed and prayed for snow. And guess, what? Morning came too quickly, especially because .J'ai beaucoup bu la nuit dernière , et Je me sens malade. But suddenly out on the (sand) lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang (slowly) from bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a bunch of angry Muslim men, a tiny dog and a cat that's queer! Yep, there was no snow. What there was though besides the items listed above, was the smell of human feces wafting in from our overflowing cesspool directly below my window. It didn't exactly inspire me to shout a la tiny Timmy, ''God bless us, every one!" All well, there's always next year.
Christmas Dinner with the $70 turkey Darcy donated...
That all being said, with the help of the great team we have here in Chad, especially Darcy, I am going to be coming home...December 30th, and words can't describe how excited I am. There are many reasons for my returning, but one, family reasons aside, that I hope will be resolved at least slightly, is my increasing level of cynicism. While I do believe that to grow, learn and open your eyes to the world around inevitably leads to a certain amount of cynicism, and emotional fatigue, I feel that its quantity should, and can be mitigated. I think if not curbed, it spreads with such speed and scope, in exponential terms, into all realms of your life. So go home I must, and try and to put my head back on straight again, hopefully recharging me for another six months of African mayhem, ridiculous UN political games, barking cats, blazing heat, and wafting sewerage. Its amazing what a little of Grandma's cooking will do for you.
The part of Africa I love...
The past few weeks have been quite interesting though. We received our new pilot, Lauren, from Alaska and both Myriam and I have been busy showing her the ropes of Abeche existence. "Don't drive here. Don't take pictures of this, this, this, this and that. Don't slow down when you pass here. Don't make eye contact with these guys. Don't rear end the truck packed with explosives. Don't kick the live bullets on the tarmac. And don't stand behind a donkey." have been some of the finer points. She seems very down to earth, has a great sense of humor and will make a great addition to the team. BUT....now I'm part of Team Femme Chad. Yeah. I am now, besides our engineer (who is leaving in a week) and some animals, the only male expat here. (Strange, I was saying that like the animals are ex-patriots.) Count down to soap opera...5, 4, 3... Naw, I can't say that, and I hope it will never materialize into any drama. I am just drawing unfair parallels with other situations when I lived amongst an all female population that I was not in any way romantically involved with.
We are running out of people to fly now, as we have evacuated most everybody out of the field. Therefore UNHCR is finding creative ways to utilize our time and Jet fuel. "Can you go check out this airstrip, that airstrip and the other one? Can you run these loaves of bread to Bahai? Would you please take this can of Coke to Billy in Goz Beida...he says he really needs it. Could you go fly around aimlessly in circles for our viewing entertainment? Yipee."
A Recent Runway Incursion in Koukou. Patience is key...
So nothing too much to report from here, just the usual chaos of conflict. I hope to be able to fill many of you in on the happenings, politics, and melodrama of Chad, in person, in Rhode Island soon. Merry Christmas!
A sophisticated refueling procedure in Goz Beida...something we didn't do to often on the CRJ in Chicago O'hare...
Peace for all animals, big and small...
High Frequency radio squelch is my lovely Christmas music this morning as I sit inside our little Ops room in our compound. When one cannot have Bing Crosby singing holiday classics, the next most logical choice is alien/robotic C-3PO sounding noises belching from a small desk mounted unit. I wish I could tell everyone that I'm feeling the holiday spirit and that I'm presently making paper snowflakes to assuage my pent up festive creativity, but...ummm....well its a bit hard when it is 100 degrees everyday, lizards scamper about, automatic weapon fire resounds every few nights, there is a war going on outside your cement walls, and your monkey refuses to brush your leg hair anymore because she's moody. So, no. No paper snow flakes. Je suis desole.
I decided, at some point last evening (I believe after my 4th drink at the French base) I'd get into the Christmas spirit if, and only if, I woke up this morning to a white, fluffy blanket of fresh snow. What? Stranger things have happened. George Bush was elected to a second term, wasn't he? So I went to bed and prayed for snow. And guess, what? Morning came too quickly, especially because .J'ai beaucoup bu la nuit dernière , et Je me sens malade. But suddenly out on the (sand) lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang (slowly) from bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a bunch of angry Muslim men, a tiny dog and a cat that's queer! Yep, there was no snow. What there was though besides the items listed above, was the smell of human feces wafting in from our overflowing cesspool directly below my window. It didn't exactly inspire me to shout a la tiny Timmy, ''God bless us, every one!" All well, there's always next year.
Christmas Dinner with the $70 turkey Darcy donated...
That all being said, with the help of the great team we have here in Chad, especially Darcy, I am going to be coming home...December 30th, and words can't describe how excited I am. There are many reasons for my returning, but one, family reasons aside, that I hope will be resolved at least slightly, is my increasing level of cynicism. While I do believe that to grow, learn and open your eyes to the world around inevitably leads to a certain amount of cynicism, and emotional fatigue, I feel that its quantity should, and can be mitigated. I think if not curbed, it spreads with such speed and scope, in exponential terms, into all realms of your life. So go home I must, and try and to put my head back on straight again, hopefully recharging me for another six months of African mayhem, ridiculous UN political games, barking cats, blazing heat, and wafting sewerage. Its amazing what a little of Grandma's cooking will do for you.
The part of Africa I love...
The past few weeks have been quite interesting though. We received our new pilot, Lauren, from Alaska and both Myriam and I have been busy showing her the ropes of Abeche existence. "Don't drive here. Don't take pictures of this, this, this, this and that. Don't slow down when you pass here. Don't make eye contact with these guys. Don't rear end the truck packed with explosives. Don't kick the live bullets on the tarmac. And don't stand behind a donkey." have been some of the finer points. She seems very down to earth, has a great sense of humor and will make a great addition to the team. BUT....now I'm part of Team Femme Chad. Yeah. I am now, besides our engineer (who is leaving in a week) and some animals, the only male expat here. (Strange, I was saying that like the animals are ex-patriots.) Count down to soap opera...5, 4, 3... Naw, I can't say that, and I hope it will never materialize into any drama. I am just drawing unfair parallels with other situations when I lived amongst an all female population that I was not in any way romantically involved with.
We are running out of people to fly now, as we have evacuated most everybody out of the field. Therefore UNHCR is finding creative ways to utilize our time and Jet fuel. "Can you go check out this airstrip, that airstrip and the other one? Can you run these loaves of bread to Bahai? Would you please take this can of Coke to Billy in Goz Beida...he says he really needs it. Could you go fly around aimlessly in circles for our viewing entertainment? Yipee."
A Recent Runway Incursion in Koukou. Patience is key...
So nothing too much to report from here, just the usual chaos of conflict. I hope to be able to fill many of you in on the happenings, politics, and melodrama of Chad, in person, in Rhode Island soon. Merry Christmas!
A sophisticated refueling procedure in Goz Beida...something we didn't do to often on the CRJ in Chicago O'hare...
Peace for all animals, big and small...
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Ummm...what?
And now to John at the WABC weather desk:
"Well Tom I'm sure you noticed those dark clouds moving in last night, but truth be told we won't be seeing any moisture out of them. Yep, sure enough folks, they'll just keep rolling thru ahead of this frontal system that's been slowly creeping up on us for quite sometime. Associated with that frontal system you can expect light to moderate unorganized rebel activity. Sporadic, ya know Tom? Ha, ha ha. Yes folks I'll even go so far as to say we have a 30 to 40 % chance of moderate rebel activity by midmorning tomorrow, followed by a 60% chance of looters and bloodthirsty armed bandits. Afterwards pack up the towels and the sunscreen, cause it's gonna be a great day for the beach! Ha, if only we had water to go with all this beach, eh Tom? Back to you..."
And so it goes.
"Ok folks, quiet, quiet please....thanks for coming tonight to the UNHCR's non-emergency mandatory if you want to come meeting. Rebels may be coming tonight or tomorrow. We are not sure. Limit all unnecessary traveling today, tomorrow and the rest of your time in Chad unless you can think of a necessary reason why you must be unnecessarily traveling. We don't want to say who but if we should have a slip of the tongue we might say it could be the UFDD that's approaching. Then again it could be FUC. That being said, it could surely prove to be SCUD, SLA or JEM if they should be in the mood for a rustle. Can anyone think of any other acronyms that sound goofy that we could throw in the mix here? Hmmm...anyone? Or it could be any one of Abeche's neighboring villages that wish to see Abeche fall as regional trade hub. Or it could just be some angry Muslim guys on horseback, the aahhhhh, Janjaweed...oooh, but we really don't like using that word in Chad. Matter of fact it might not even be the rebels or the ethnically charged and angry villagers or angry Muslim guys, it could just be the Chadian military who we all should really be watching out for. I mean seriously, have you seen those guys lately? Cmon gentlemen, a comb and some deodorant please!!!"
"So we will be issuing a quasi-lets not call it an evacuation-evacuation. Lets just call it, a 'Umm, we think all NGO workers should simultaneously leave for R&R right now thingy' We wouldn't want anyone to get excited here. So everyone out of the field now, unless you want to stay longer, which we neither condemn nor encourage. But seriously, everyone needs to be getting away from the battle zones and the carnage, unless you have a note from your Mom, Dad, or, ahhh, hell anyone. If you want to go back up there we neither condemn nor encourage, we condage...no wait, we ahhh, we encodemn, yes, that's it. It is the UN's unofficial stance to encodemn what is happening here. That sounds pretty good, huh guys....jeez, I came up with that one all by myself...aahhhhemm. Sorry. So you see, everyone out! Everyone but AirServ. Ok, everyone but AirServ and WFP, even though WFP will refuse to fly because they are afraid of flying when the UN issues a state of Encodemn-age. But in any case, it'll be nice to have the WFP plane here on the tarmac for symbolic purposes. It shall symbolize that...that..ummm..if we really wanted to fly somewhere in that Caravan we could damnit!...we just choose not too. Ok so nice job with the symbology WFP, aaaaannnnd... well that leaves everything else as far as the not really evacuations but actually they are evacuations-evacuations to you, AirServ. Ha! Yep. good luck. We will be sure to make our further dealings with you as incredibly confusing and convoluted, and political and encodemning and grammatically incorrect as this speech has been. Oh, and just to let you know, this policy may change any day now because we are changing all of our head staff over in 3 days with new super-incredibly-in charge-talented-phenomenally eduacated-decisionally oscillating-unfireable international staff. "
"So, any questions?...........Umm, yes, you...Jesse...go ahead?"
ME: 'WHAT?'
"Ha! Idiot. You see, you should leave governance and decision making to those who have the brains, competence and talent in the world. Go back home and watch TV or something, maybe play with that monkey of yours...we'll call if we need you."
"Well Tom I'm sure you noticed those dark clouds moving in last night, but truth be told we won't be seeing any moisture out of them. Yep, sure enough folks, they'll just keep rolling thru ahead of this frontal system that's been slowly creeping up on us for quite sometime. Associated with that frontal system you can expect light to moderate unorganized rebel activity. Sporadic, ya know Tom? Ha, ha ha. Yes folks I'll even go so far as to say we have a 30 to 40 % chance of moderate rebel activity by midmorning tomorrow, followed by a 60% chance of looters and bloodthirsty armed bandits. Afterwards pack up the towels and the sunscreen, cause it's gonna be a great day for the beach! Ha, if only we had water to go with all this beach, eh Tom? Back to you..."
And so it goes.
"Ok folks, quiet, quiet please....thanks for coming tonight to the UNHCR's non-emergency mandatory if you want to come meeting. Rebels may be coming tonight or tomorrow. We are not sure. Limit all unnecessary traveling today, tomorrow and the rest of your time in Chad unless you can think of a necessary reason why you must be unnecessarily traveling. We don't want to say who but if we should have a slip of the tongue we might say it could be the UFDD that's approaching. Then again it could be FUC. That being said, it could surely prove to be SCUD, SLA or JEM if they should be in the mood for a rustle. Can anyone think of any other acronyms that sound goofy that we could throw in the mix here? Hmmm...anyone? Or it could be any one of Abeche's neighboring villages that wish to see Abeche fall as regional trade hub. Or it could just be some angry Muslim guys on horseback, the aahhhhh, Janjaweed...oooh, but we really don't like using that word in Chad. Matter of fact it might not even be the rebels or the ethnically charged and angry villagers or angry Muslim guys, it could just be the Chadian military who we all should really be watching out for. I mean seriously, have you seen those guys lately? Cmon gentlemen, a comb and some deodorant please!!!"
"So we will be issuing a quasi-lets not call it an evacuation-evacuation. Lets just call it, a 'Umm, we think all NGO workers should simultaneously leave for R&R right now thingy' We wouldn't want anyone to get excited here. So everyone out of the field now, unless you want to stay longer, which we neither condemn nor encourage. But seriously, everyone needs to be getting away from the battle zones and the carnage, unless you have a note from your Mom, Dad, or, ahhh, hell anyone. If you want to go back up there we neither condemn nor encourage, we condage...no wait, we ahhh, we encodemn, yes, that's it. It is the UN's unofficial stance to encodemn what is happening here. That sounds pretty good, huh guys....jeez, I came up with that one all by myself...aahhhhemm. Sorry. So you see, everyone out! Everyone but AirServ. Ok, everyone but AirServ and WFP, even though WFP will refuse to fly because they are afraid of flying when the UN issues a state of Encodemn-age. But in any case, it'll be nice to have the WFP plane here on the tarmac for symbolic purposes. It shall symbolize that...that..ummm..if we really wanted to fly somewhere in that Caravan we could damnit!...we just choose not too. Ok so nice job with the symbology WFP, aaaaannnnd... well that leaves everything else as far as the not really evacuations but actually they are evacuations-evacuations to you, AirServ. Ha! Yep. good luck. We will be sure to make our further dealings with you as incredibly confusing and convoluted, and political and encodemning and grammatically incorrect as this speech has been. Oh, and just to let you know, this policy may change any day now because we are changing all of our head staff over in 3 days with new super-incredibly-in charge-talented-phenomenally eduacated-decisionally oscillating-unfireable international staff. "
"So, any questions?...........Umm, yes, you...Jesse...go ahead?"
ME: 'WHAT?'
"Ha! Idiot. You see, you should leave governance and decision making to those who have the brains, competence and talent in the world. Go back home and watch TV or something, maybe play with that monkey of yours...we'll call if we need you."
Thursday, December 07, 2006
POP
The relative peace and organization that is the fluid inside the shell or the bubble that surrounds the beautiful country of Thailand cataclysmically exploded into a million tiny pieces and was strewn everywhere as soon as we stepped inside the Ethiopian Airlines departure lounge a few evenings ago.
Pop.
From single file lines, scrumptious seafood pad thai and glistening coral filled waters we were catapulted headfirst back into the mass mayhem-fried goat, boiled goat, goat on a stick-brown, cholera infested waters of the African experience(which I still enjoy in a strange way) with that one crucial step. I stepped thru the metal detector back into disorganization, energetic chaos, loud animated Arabic orations, flatulence, and body odor half expecting to hear Axl Rose's screeching voice resonate in my ears, screaming 'Welcome to the jungle-Watch it bring you to your knees, knees - I wanna watch you bleed!!!'. I cautiously stopped and waited a moment, readying for a hasty retreat and eliciting a strange look from Elizabeth, until I felt assured there was no 80's sleaze rock coming my way. I proceeded, though carefully.
As the departure hour nears a Thai worker lifts the microphone to announce that boarding will commence shortly and I watch the comedy happen again, in slow motion, as I had the previous two Ethiopian Airlines flights. His right hand grasps the microphone which lays on the podium beside. He glances down and contemplates what could potentially be the last thought he contemplates until he recovers from the upcoming trauma. His muscles tense as the microphone is slowly raised just inches off the aluminum podium. Suddenly it happens. His eyes raise and lips crack, he is evidently intent on announcing the boarding of certain rows of seats aboard the outgoing aircraft, but his eyes grow wide and his mouth forms the shape of a gasp. My mouth forms a tainted smile, slightly crooked from pity and sadism.
An explosion of bodies violently slams against and over the poor, frail Thai gate attendant and a gurgling "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! only.....Rows 25 thru.....WAIT!!........noooo.....aaaaahhhhhhh" can be heard emminating from the drowning man as he feebly attempts to fight the tsunami of brown skin which now engulfs him and is flowing down the jet way with their tickets still in hand. The body grows limp and chaos reigns. Someone will have to come onto the airplane and collect the tickets. The boarding process which should take 25 minutes will take 2 hours and I sit back and reflect on the past weeks' peace, as Axl Rose screeches away.
I flew last week from Abeche to N'djamena to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia to Bangkok, Thailand. On the flight from Addis to Bangkok I was blessed with being assigned a seat next to a broken seat which was unserviceable. HA! Problem was it was also coveted, being near the front of the airplane. It seems in most African societies that there is a strong, strong desire to remain in the front 10 rows of an aircraft, to the point where men will leave 20 plus rearward rows empty and practically sit on each others laps, cuddling in a very unmanly way, in order to have those holy first seats. The 'inoperative' placard was quickly ripped off and in hopped a Nigerian businessman on his way to Guangzhou, China. Greetings were made, my head phone jack was stolen, Bill Clinton's amazing political attributes were reflected upon, and I subtlety tried hinting I'd like to watch the movie.
Fourty minutes after takeoff he went for the bathroom, providing me the opportunity to reclaim my head phone jack and commence viewing Pirates of the Caribbean 2. I got about 15 minutes of movie watching before my headphones were plucked from my left ear. "Do ya dink Meesta Clinton will wrun agan?" I wondered if he noticed my face turning crimson in anger. I took a deep breath and answered curtly 'NO', removed his hand from my ear and finished watching Johnny Depp play a pirate ship captain.
When the movie was over I fielded his political questions for a while before we both had nothing to add. I started reading my book but my eyelids grew heavy and my book fell to my knees where it stayed for only a moment. My seatmate gently removed my hand from the book's binding and picked the paperback from my lap, commencing to read and chuckle at the pages of Getting Stoned with Savages as I giggled silently to myself about the different cultures sitting side by side here. I drifted off. Later I awoke to find myself in a very awkward pose, spooning my Nigerian seatmate as he had invaded my seat by thrusting his ass backwards and was practically curled up in my loving embrace. I shifted and slid toward the window hoping Bangkok was nearby.
In Bangkok I found Elizabeth who had been attending a conference there for the previous week. We were given a room at a luxurious resort hotel where amenities abound and were found everywhere and I basked in the loveliness of the frivolous pampering doing things I never do, like taking a bubble bath, knowing in a weeks time I'd be back in the desert where things like bubble baths do not present themselves on a regular basis. The following day we hopped aboard another airliner for Krabi and then caught a ferry to the heavenly isle of Koh Phi Phi, which my eternally immature mind found hilarious because of the pronunciation (Pee Pee), making me crack a smile every time we were asked if 'you want ticket for Pee Pee?'. I struggled to stifle the ridiculous giggles. It amazes me at times the things I find amusing now, at age 27 are not so different from those I found amusing at age 7.
In Koh Phi Phi we spent 4 days lounging on the beautiful beaches, sampling as many different restaurant’s Pad Thai's, Tom Yum spicy soups, and assorted curries, and exploring the surrounding islands beautiful above and underwater terrain. On more than one occasion I received strange looks from waiters when Elizabeth ordered food for the two of us and being that we both enjoy really spicy food, added "I want you to make me cry." She felt if this tidbit was not added the food would be boringly benign. The waiters would immediately turn to me, as if asking permission to hit her so that she might cry, or maybe looking to me to show they thought it my job to make her cry. I'd shrug my shoulders and sometimes whisper "She's been drinking..." which would bring a smile to their face before sauntering off. Aah, but I digress.
One evening we rented a tandem sea kayak and paddled out in search of our own secluded and clandestine strip of sand untrampled by the hooves of other dirty western tourists like ourselves. We found a beautiful stretch with an incredible coral reef just 100 feet offshore. The icing on the cake for me was that the beach actually had a population of sunbathers already...MONKEYS. "C’mon! We gotta go play with the monkeys, don't worry, I speak Monkeyic" were my choice/intelligent words of encouragement. We paddled the kayak ashore, tossed the paddles on the snowy white sand and I anxiously started down the beach towards the plump little monkeys who looked as though they were patiently waiting to catch an admirable sunset. I tried Monkeyic, the language our monkey in Abeche, Maryann, and I use to communicate, and it was no use. Finally Elizabeth shouted "Hey MONKEY!" and they turned slowly towards us, but seemed to look thru us. "Nice honey, smooth. Real smooth.”
Still the monkeys continued to pay us no attention, looking between our legs at something down the beach before they arose and ambled that way. “Jesse, I think they’ve out smarted us.” came from Betsey’s lips as we both turned in unison and saw a troupe of 12 monkeys or so rummaging thru and pillaging our kayak.
“Damn, I’d be screwed on Planet of the Apes”.
We ran down the beach shouting and waving our arms as all of our things were being chewed, thrown or taken up into the trees by the brown little bandits. As we neared and our paced increased, 3 or 4 monkeys decided the timing was perfect for a counterattack, screeching and chasing right back our direction. We, being the incredibly brave souls we are, chose to screech and run into the ocean for protection, which seemed to work. The avenger monkeys returned to the boat and resumed the pillage, bearing their teeth and running towards us hissing only whenever I emerged into water shin deep or less vehemently cursing them.
So we sat helplessly in the tropical water watching monkeys make off with our water bottles, beer bottles and an item of clothing or two. Whenever I’d shout something at them they’d all pause for a moment or two, staring off into oblivion, then slowly turn towards me and stare uncaringly with cold pirate monkey eyes which seemed to say “keep yelling and this could take all night you ass. We’re in no hurry, are you?” We were late returning the kayak, well after dark.
After Koh Phi Phi we headed north to Phuket, where I was slightly disappointed as anyone would be going from paradise to sub-paradise. Just something about that whole sub thing. The last two days were spent lounging, eating and drinking again, enjoying the simple pleasures that are unavailable in the NLZ (no logic zone, a.k.a. CHAD). On the way home we enjoyed a day in Ethiopia sampling the various toxic, local brews and taking harrowing taxi rides thru crowds. We landed in N'djamena at 4am and were quite suprised to find out that we should have been checking our email all along. No one was there to pick her up. Seems her organization evacuated everyone from the country and if she had read the messages in her Inbox, she'd have found instructions to stay on the beach. Instead she graciously accompanied me back to the war zone for a few days before being whisked away again to return who knows when.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
The Adventures of Not Lloyd and HS2
A mud caked, sickly, and emaciated puppy was found curled up beneath a bucket in CCF's Abeche compound about 2 weeks ago. In the 'big' scheme of things it was just a drop in the bucket...actually more like a single molecule of H20 in the bucket...but it still got our minds and hearts' attention. Elizabeth washed the whiny bag of uncoordinated and clumsy bones, and began nursing it back to health before the day I stopped by to say hi and met the wan looking thing.
One of the guards at the CCF compound had decided he needed a dog, so promptly stole an unbelievably young puppy from it's mother's care after only about 2 weeks of existence. We guess that about 2 days after this incident the guard decided he couldn't bear the feeble animals whining therefore placing it beneath the bucket in the sweltering African heat and leaving it to the inevitable. Unfortunately for Mr. Inevitable Betsey found it and cleaned it up, screaming at the guard for his profound negligence which evidently confused the hell out of him.
Fast forward now....The puppy now lives with us, is fat and is still clumsy, but is still alive. His name is Not Lloyd.
Around the same time of the canine discovery we were having a problem with a rodent infestation at our house here in Abeche. The rats were large and bold, casually strolling in to the living room while we would all be sitting around watching a movie or discussing the days events. Rat traps were bought in the market and placed strategically about the kitchen where the rats were making havoc on our food stores. After a couple of nights we finally scored a victory, catching one of the large buggers but that was the limit of our success. They continued to amble in and out of the house unconcerned with our presence. If they had opposable thumbs or more human like digits I'm sure that they would have given us the finger every time they made an entrance..."yeah, whatcha gonna do about et? Eh??" (of course its a well known fact that Chadian rats, could they speak, would speak with a Italian mobster accent). After an epic late night battle between Myriam, myself and a ill fated rat, one that we (the humans) were victorious in, and that the opposing party (the rat) ended smashed by a broom in the corner . Panting, yet feeling invigorated from the battle, Myriam and I sat back down to a movie, only to have our privacy invaded about 3.12 minutes later by another large rodent who ran in, looked at the blood on the carpet, looked at us and then stated "Ya killed Vinny ya bastaad! Youz gonna pay for dat I swear!!!!" and then continued on to the kitchen where he ripped open our flour bag. The next day we requested a cat. Enter Harold Sparks, II.
Harold Sparks, II, is an extremely young and vociferous individual, forever meowing about nothing. He also only stands about 4 inches high and weighs maybe 3/4 of a pound, by no means a threat to rats, and is most likely a potential and tempting morsel for the rats. Yet he and Not Lloyd have bonded to a degree that is rather unspeakable, so we cannot within due conscience give him up now. Poor HS2, you see, misses suckling on his mother’s nipples, and is constantly fantasizing about it, seeking anything that even remotely resembles a nipple for his oral fixation. So, free of charge, he treats fat little Not Lloyd to some simple pleasures...ahem...oral sex...about 20 times a day, making N. Lloyd either one of the most lucky, confused or gay dogs out there, depending on how you look at it. For his part, N. Lloyd has yet to retreat from ‘being serviced’ by the cat.
The Abeche zoo continues to grow in size daily. As of now we have on hand:
1. Not Lloyd (the dog)
2. Harold Sparks, II. (the ambiguously gay cat)
3. The monkey formerly known as Mary Ann--named for the Gilligan’s Island character (the monkey)
4. Pedro (the ancient desert tortoise)
5. Numerous unnamed lizards and toads (numerous unnamed lizards and toads)
And the names? Well the dog’s went something like this:
Me: What shall we call the dog?
Someone else: How about Lloyd?
Me: No, not Lloyd.
Someone else: Ok, then what?
Me: I don’t care, just not Lloyd.
PAUSE FOR DEEP THOUGHT
Me again: That’s it! Not Lloyd!
Someone else: What?
Me: Not Lloyd.
Them: Ok, got it, but what else then?
Me: Not Lloyd.
Them: Ok, ok, I understand, we will not name the dog Lloyd, any better ideas?
Me: Yes, Not Lloyd.
And the cat’s followed as follows:
Me: How bout the cat’s name?
Someone else: Harold Sparks the Second?
Me: Perfect.
Yep, think I need a vacation.
One of the guards at the CCF compound had decided he needed a dog, so promptly stole an unbelievably young puppy from it's mother's care after only about 2 weeks of existence. We guess that about 2 days after this incident the guard decided he couldn't bear the feeble animals whining therefore placing it beneath the bucket in the sweltering African heat and leaving it to the inevitable. Unfortunately for Mr. Inevitable Betsey found it and cleaned it up, screaming at the guard for his profound negligence which evidently confused the hell out of him.
Fast forward now....The puppy now lives with us, is fat and is still clumsy, but is still alive. His name is Not Lloyd.
Around the same time of the canine discovery we were having a problem with a rodent infestation at our house here in Abeche. The rats were large and bold, casually strolling in to the living room while we would all be sitting around watching a movie or discussing the days events. Rat traps were bought in the market and placed strategically about the kitchen where the rats were making havoc on our food stores. After a couple of nights we finally scored a victory, catching one of the large buggers but that was the limit of our success. They continued to amble in and out of the house unconcerned with our presence. If they had opposable thumbs or more human like digits I'm sure that they would have given us the finger every time they made an entrance..."yeah, whatcha gonna do about et? Eh??" (of course its a well known fact that Chadian rats, could they speak, would speak with a Italian mobster accent). After an epic late night battle between Myriam, myself and a ill fated rat, one that we (the humans) were victorious in, and that the opposing party (the rat) ended smashed by a broom in the corner . Panting, yet feeling invigorated from the battle, Myriam and I sat back down to a movie, only to have our privacy invaded about 3.12 minutes later by another large rodent who ran in, looked at the blood on the carpet, looked at us and then stated "Ya killed Vinny ya bastaad! Youz gonna pay for dat I swear!!!!" and then continued on to the kitchen where he ripped open our flour bag. The next day we requested a cat. Enter Harold Sparks, II.
Harold Sparks, II, is an extremely young and vociferous individual, forever meowing about nothing. He also only stands about 4 inches high and weighs maybe 3/4 of a pound, by no means a threat to rats, and is most likely a potential and tempting morsel for the rats. Yet he and Not Lloyd have bonded to a degree that is rather unspeakable, so we cannot within due conscience give him up now. Poor HS2, you see, misses suckling on his mother’s nipples, and is constantly fantasizing about it, seeking anything that even remotely resembles a nipple for his oral fixation. So, free of charge, he treats fat little Not Lloyd to some simple pleasures...ahem...oral sex...about 20 times a day, making N. Lloyd either one of the most lucky, confused or gay dogs out there, depending on how you look at it. For his part, N. Lloyd has yet to retreat from ‘being serviced’ by the cat.
The Abeche zoo continues to grow in size daily. As of now we have on hand:
1. Not Lloyd (the dog)
2. Harold Sparks, II. (the ambiguously gay cat)
3. The monkey formerly known as Mary Ann--named for the Gilligan’s Island character (the monkey)
4. Pedro (the ancient desert tortoise)
5. Numerous unnamed lizards and toads (numerous unnamed lizards and toads)
And the names? Well the dog’s went something like this:
Me: What shall we call the dog?
Someone else: How about Lloyd?
Me: No, not Lloyd.
Someone else: Ok, then what?
Me: I don’t care, just not Lloyd.
PAUSE FOR DEEP THOUGHT
Me again: That’s it! Not Lloyd!
Someone else: What?
Me: Not Lloyd.
Them: Ok, got it, but what else then?
Me: Not Lloyd.
Them: Ok, ok, I understand, we will not name the dog Lloyd, any better ideas?
Me: Yes, Not Lloyd.
And the cat’s followed as follows:
Me: How bout the cat’s name?
Someone else: Harold Sparks the Second?
Me: Perfect.
Yep, think I need a vacation.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
A bit of a RANT.
Today a pasty white woman, with entangled varicose veins covering her face, who looked like she belonged in a sealed and sterile bubble approached me as she got on the airplane. I had seen the pasty white woman the previous day greet the NBC Today Show reporter Ann Curry after we had brought her NBC TV crew back from Goz Beida.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/15655588/
'Good morning Jesse, my name's Mia Farrow...(pause, I'm guessing waiting for me to jump up and down at the idea I was shaking a famous someone's hand?, to which she got no joy)...I hear you are the Captain taking us to Goz Beida this morning. Well its very nice to meet you, here I'd like you to meet my assistants...' I couldn't get over just how repulsive this woman looked, as horrible as the thought was. Denny and Remy, two of the Chadian workers looked at her in almost shock, most likely at her color.
TV cameras focused in and out on the airplane, Mia, and Steve and I as we stood looking like two confused animals. TV cameras everywhere on a military controlled airport in a military state, which recently outlawed freedom of the press when it declared a state of emergency, and we are surrounded by gun toting, rabid soldiers. Mia, I think you need to tell your fan club to put the cameras away.
"Jesse, nice to meet you, I'm George(?), OOOOHHH, you don't have a bracelet! (pointing at my naked wrist and digging thru his knapsack to find a green rubber bracelet)...Here you are...now you can show your support for the embattled people of Darfur! Thanks for the flight!"
A bracelet. A green rubber bracelet. This is how I am supposed to show my support for the embattled people of Darfur. Thanks jack ass. I stood for a second debating whether to throw the thing at his now turned head, out of principle only you see. A bracelet. "Maybe you have mistaken me for one of the many Americans vacationing here in the Sahel, sir? Hmm? Or maybe it wasn't that, maybe you failed to think that possibly I hadn't made any sacrifices to be where I am now, trying my best to not let this crazy and hellish place and people like you offering me rubber bracelets get the best of me and my attitude, so that I can continue trying to help the 'embattled Darfurians' out. Or maybe you think it will help remind me of the issue and of Africa, as if awakening every morning and looking outside at barbed wire, and flying dying children over burned villages and hearing the stories from the camps, and personally getting sick almost every week doesn't remind me enough of where I am and what I'm doing. Hmmm? Is that what it was? Well here, take your bracelet back please, it's not my color anyway." I didn't say it, but I wanted to. I bit my lip and pondered. Everyone here is saving the world if you ask them, but they'll also tell you that everyone else here isn't. Later I used the bracelet as a rubber band and shot one of the local staff members between the legs, which gave us both a laugh. I guess the thing wasn't so useless after all.
Chad has declared a state of emergency, and has basically reigned in a state of martial law across the country. This just 2 weeks after all our local staff failed to show for work one day. When asked why they responded it was a National holiday. Upon talking with other NGOs we learned this to be the truth, and that it was indeed a National holiday, and none other than "Freedom and Democracy Day". To put it into perspective it would be like Blacks celebrating "Racial Equality and Civil Rights Day" in Montgomery, Alabama in 1935. Maybe they were just satisfied it got them a day off.
The declaration of emergency spawned an emergency meeting between AirServ, UNHCR and the WFP tonight to discuss the various security concerns that are blaring in all our faces daily. Attending as AirServ's chief pilot I was excited to share my thoughts, concerns and suggestions. Instead I walked out feeling insulted and extremely pissed off. I decided I'm going to focus my energies on building a spitball gun that I'll from now on begin shooting all UNHCR and WFP high management employees with whenever I might run across them. If anyone out there thinks that the United Nations, the World Food Program, or most likely even the US Government is run by highly intelligent and down to earth individuals who have a grasp on common sense, you are severely mistaken. What a bunch of immature, feuding, bickering, ridiculously self toting and inflated idiots.
I need a vacation, and next week I get it. Next Thursday, when I'd much rather be sitting down to a Thanksgiving dinner with my family at home, I'll instead be hopping an Ethiopian Airlines 757 heading for Thailand where I hope to forget my daydreams of UN employee strangulation.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/15655588/
'Good morning Jesse, my name's Mia Farrow...(pause, I'm guessing waiting for me to jump up and down at the idea I was shaking a famous someone's hand?, to which she got no joy)...I hear you are the Captain taking us to Goz Beida this morning. Well its very nice to meet you, here I'd like you to meet my assistants...' I couldn't get over just how repulsive this woman looked, as horrible as the thought was. Denny and Remy, two of the Chadian workers looked at her in almost shock, most likely at her color.
TV cameras focused in and out on the airplane, Mia, and Steve and I as we stood looking like two confused animals. TV cameras everywhere on a military controlled airport in a military state, which recently outlawed freedom of the press when it declared a state of emergency, and we are surrounded by gun toting, rabid soldiers. Mia, I think you need to tell your fan club to put the cameras away.
"Jesse, nice to meet you, I'm George(?), OOOOHHH, you don't have a bracelet! (pointing at my naked wrist and digging thru his knapsack to find a green rubber bracelet)...Here you are...now you can show your support for the embattled people of Darfur! Thanks for the flight!"
A bracelet. A green rubber bracelet. This is how I am supposed to show my support for the embattled people of Darfur. Thanks jack ass. I stood for a second debating whether to throw the thing at his now turned head, out of principle only you see. A bracelet. "Maybe you have mistaken me for one of the many Americans vacationing here in the Sahel, sir? Hmm? Or maybe it wasn't that, maybe you failed to think that possibly I hadn't made any sacrifices to be where I am now, trying my best to not let this crazy and hellish place and people like you offering me rubber bracelets get the best of me and my attitude, so that I can continue trying to help the 'embattled Darfurians' out. Or maybe you think it will help remind me of the issue and of Africa, as if awakening every morning and looking outside at barbed wire, and flying dying children over burned villages and hearing the stories from the camps, and personally getting sick almost every week doesn't remind me enough of where I am and what I'm doing. Hmmm? Is that what it was? Well here, take your bracelet back please, it's not my color anyway." I didn't say it, but I wanted to. I bit my lip and pondered. Everyone here is saving the world if you ask them, but they'll also tell you that everyone else here isn't. Later I used the bracelet as a rubber band and shot one of the local staff members between the legs, which gave us both a laugh. I guess the thing wasn't so useless after all.
Chad has declared a state of emergency, and has basically reigned in a state of martial law across the country. This just 2 weeks after all our local staff failed to show for work one day. When asked why they responded it was a National holiday. Upon talking with other NGOs we learned this to be the truth, and that it was indeed a National holiday, and none other than "Freedom and Democracy Day". To put it into perspective it would be like Blacks celebrating "Racial Equality and Civil Rights Day" in Montgomery, Alabama in 1935. Maybe they were just satisfied it got them a day off.
The declaration of emergency spawned an emergency meeting between AirServ, UNHCR and the WFP tonight to discuss the various security concerns that are blaring in all our faces daily. Attending as AirServ's chief pilot I was excited to share my thoughts, concerns and suggestions. Instead I walked out feeling insulted and extremely pissed off. I decided I'm going to focus my energies on building a spitball gun that I'll from now on begin shooting all UNHCR and WFP high management employees with whenever I might run across them. If anyone out there thinks that the United Nations, the World Food Program, or most likely even the US Government is run by highly intelligent and down to earth individuals who have a grasp on common sense, you are severely mistaken. What a bunch of immature, feuding, bickering, ridiculously self toting and inflated idiots.
I need a vacation, and next week I get it. Next Thursday, when I'd much rather be sitting down to a Thanksgiving dinner with my family at home, I'll instead be hopping an Ethiopian Airlines 757 heading for Thailand where I hope to forget my daydreams of UN employee strangulation.
Ignorance...
I usually awake in the mornings to a muffled rumble of a struggling generator, a high pitched whine whose intensity rises and falls as the perpetrator's wings beat about my head, and to the constant 'thwump-thwump-thwump' of the overhead ceiling fan. I lay only in my boxer briefs atop sheets that as of lately have been dampened from my sweat due to my air conditioner's inoperativeness. Some days, like today, I just lay there for a little while, letting further muffled rumbles, those of thoughts, swim around in my head with no destination nor purpose nor specific subject matter. I hear birds outside that momentarily remind me of home, and I try to imagine how nice it would be to step outside into the cool, mountain morning air of Durango. The imagining fades as I hear the distressed braying of a donkey standing outside the razor-wired wall of our compound. Just don' find asses roaming Willow Drive that often these days, I hear.
When I finally do rise, often times it's rather begrudgingly, with a noticeable lack of energy due to the noticeable lack of quality sleep the evening before. Motivation for the day is slow to make an appearance, and I'm often reminded of a crusty old Captain I used to fly with on the 1900 in Farmington, NM. Immediately after the first takeoff of the day, as we climbed thru the ruby colored winter skies he'd stretch his arms out, yawn, then slump down in his chair stating 'well, I've already lost interest in the day...'. Not too long afterwards he'd usually pack his lower lip full of Copenhagen snuff, pull a ball cap down over his eyes, turn down his VHF radio, and take out a book. If one were unobservant enough one would never have noticed that he never seemed to flip the pages, and that he was forever reading this same silly, sultry paperback novel, creased from years of being stuffed in his flight bag.
Thankfully I'm not at that point as of yet. Outside it's 6:30 am, and its relatively cool still, a mere 85 degrees with a light, peaceful breeze blowing from the east, from Sudan and the camps and the horrific violence. A few brave birds chirp, the donkeys bray, the generators moan, and members of our local staff are walking around the compound shouting at each other in a mix of French and a southern Chad dialect, where many of them are from. Someone once told me before I left for this job that the Central African countries are the ideal locales to learn French, as most speak it slow and accentuatedly. I'd like to find that person and tell them just how wrong they are...problem is I can't remember who it was. Most of the local population speaks numerous languages, many around 3 or 4. Depending on what tribe they are from, where they are from, where and if they were schooled, and what their religious leanings are the results sound different in every person. The mix is often times a masterpiece as close to French as Creole, and just like a Cajun gumbo, its all stirred up with little spicy bits of phonetic everything.
Linguistic gumbos are tossed back and forth outside my window, causing the lizards clinging to the window's metal screen to nervously twitch their heads looking for the best escape route. At night the screen becomes inundated with the scaly critters, they huddle together and camp out for the evening, seemingly unworried when I open the glass and pet their bellies. During the day they are more aware of my presence, but occasionally allow me some fun. I once wasted almost a whole liter bottle of spring water on such 'fun' activities. I'd fill my mouth to its capacity and with as much pressure as possible I'd spray a stream of water out the window thru the screen and against an unfortunate reptile's belly blasting him right off the screen. The others would pause, twitch their heads, do some spasmodic-epileptic like push ups then scramble for the new vacant lot, sucking the moisture from the tiny squares. I'd find a new victim and start again, providing wholesome fun for the easily entertained - ahem-...me. In the midst of the new game Elisabeth came by and caught me in the act, cheeks swelled like a chipmunk, window open and hot air rushing inwards. When I explained myself and my actions she looked at me quizzically, as if I were a 4 year old for a brief moment who tried to use 4 year old logic. It didn't take long before she joined in the lizard-water blasting festivities. It's make your own fun in Chad, any way you can get it.
After a quick frigid shower in water that often smells of rotten eggs and that sometimes leaves me smelling worse than when I entered (which is quite a feat), I usually try and check my email while sipping a bitter, and lip puckering cup of Nescafe. Every morning seems to bare a striking resemblance to those old Keystone Beer commercials touting 'no bitter beer face!'. I have yet to understand how so much of Europe can thrive on this artificial garbage. I click the little blue E on my computer screen, a message is relayed thru a dish antenna outside to a satellite above to a dish somewhere in Belgium and then to God knows where. I wait patiently and am then greeted with more GARBAGE...Yahoo gossip garbage rivaling STAR, US Weekly or Soap Opera Digest. Six days out of seven when I open internet explorer to my homepage of Yahoo! I feel sick at what I see, especially because I believe it is an embarrassing but often times accurate representation of our youth's interests and what the rest of the globe thinks we care about.
LATEST HEADLINES ON YAHOO!:
Celebrities who like Bull riding!
Jessica Simpson's newest fall fashion and potential romances!
P-Diddy wants to be the next James Bond...
Click here to see what the latest and coolest ringtones are for your phone!!!
What's your favorite interactive smiley face?
Who's got the best Kelly Clarkson karaoke voice? Vote here!!!
Tom and Katie's wedding! Who's on the invitation list?
Paris Hilton, Paris Hilton, Paris Hilton, PARIS FUCKING HILTON!!!!!
Is this what America craves? Garbage? Mindless, brain numbing, trivial shit??? I hang my head low knowing that a large percentage of the American public eats it up. And then a large majority of this same percentage of people I could approach and ask them if they knew what was happening to innocent people in Darfur? Do you know where Darfur is? Do you know where Sudan is? Do you know what genocide is? Can you name 4 countries in Africa? I am reminded of Jay Leno interviewing some fine specimens on the streets of LA who don't even know a thing about the immediate world around them, let alone one that exists thousands of miles away. Ignorance is bliss, and "Where ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise."-Thomas Gray.
A frothing orgy of ridiculous sensory stimulation awaits to numb one's brain, much as prophesized by Orwell('IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH'-Orwell, 1984), keeping us pleasantly 'content' and ignorant to what exists outside the walls of our rooms, houses, communities, or country. So much time and energy seems expended on the worship and idolization of individuals I believe worthless if it were not for their physical appearance; individuals who contribute nothing positive to the spinning world around. Actors, singers, the disgustingly rich, the alcoholic yet attractive nobody's and politicians, sometimes a strange medley of all these. Consumerism gone terribly wrong...or right? blares out from everywhere on each web page I click. Why you absolutely need this latest phone, PDA, SUV, ring tone, smiley face, video game, designer purse, diamond earrings, or GAP jeans is beaten into your cranium every blink of an eyelash. I look outside the window and wonder where we went wrong.
The other evening I was helping teach our local cook 'Nestor' how to make a proper marinara sauce, or more descriptively, one that would not make us all sick for three days. While mixing tomato paste, garlic and tiny desert grown sautéed onions I asked about his education, his wife and his children. He informed me he's intending on becoming a teacher and is 3 months from obtaining his Chadian teaching certificate. I applauded his choice and told him we need more people like him out there in the world, and that I thought he'd make a fine teacher. I asked again about his kids and their ages. He replied one was seven months and the other about 2 years old, both boys, but one is ill, most likely malaria or even tuberculosis. I expressed my shock and grief and began asking how I could personally help in the matter. A brief pause followed.
"I need...eh....un emmm peee trois...eh...yes...un emm pee trois, si vous plait."
Your child is supposedly sick with a life threatening disease and you are asking me for an MP3 player? Is this what we have culturaly exuded, this is what we have shown is important, materialistic possessions? I stared at the marinara sauce.
"Keep stirring every few minutes for another 20 minutes please. Thank you Nestor", and with that I walked off
When I finally do rise, often times it's rather begrudgingly, with a noticeable lack of energy due to the noticeable lack of quality sleep the evening before. Motivation for the day is slow to make an appearance, and I'm often reminded of a crusty old Captain I used to fly with on the 1900 in Farmington, NM. Immediately after the first takeoff of the day, as we climbed thru the ruby colored winter skies he'd stretch his arms out, yawn, then slump down in his chair stating 'well, I've already lost interest in the day...'. Not too long afterwards he'd usually pack his lower lip full of Copenhagen snuff, pull a ball cap down over his eyes, turn down his VHF radio, and take out a book. If one were unobservant enough one would never have noticed that he never seemed to flip the pages, and that he was forever reading this same silly, sultry paperback novel, creased from years of being stuffed in his flight bag.
Thankfully I'm not at that point as of yet. Outside it's 6:30 am, and its relatively cool still, a mere 85 degrees with a light, peaceful breeze blowing from the east, from Sudan and the camps and the horrific violence. A few brave birds chirp, the donkeys bray, the generators moan, and members of our local staff are walking around the compound shouting at each other in a mix of French and a southern Chad dialect, where many of them are from. Someone once told me before I left for this job that the Central African countries are the ideal locales to learn French, as most speak it slow and accentuatedly. I'd like to find that person and tell them just how wrong they are...problem is I can't remember who it was. Most of the local population speaks numerous languages, many around 3 or 4. Depending on what tribe they are from, where they are from, where and if they were schooled, and what their religious leanings are the results sound different in every person. The mix is often times a masterpiece as close to French as Creole, and just like a Cajun gumbo, its all stirred up with little spicy bits of phonetic everything.
Linguistic gumbos are tossed back and forth outside my window, causing the lizards clinging to the window's metal screen to nervously twitch their heads looking for the best escape route. At night the screen becomes inundated with the scaly critters, they huddle together and camp out for the evening, seemingly unworried when I open the glass and pet their bellies. During the day they are more aware of my presence, but occasionally allow me some fun. I once wasted almost a whole liter bottle of spring water on such 'fun' activities. I'd fill my mouth to its capacity and with as much pressure as possible I'd spray a stream of water out the window thru the screen and against an unfortunate reptile's belly blasting him right off the screen. The others would pause, twitch their heads, do some spasmodic-epileptic like push ups then scramble for the new vacant lot, sucking the moisture from the tiny squares. I'd find a new victim and start again, providing wholesome fun for the easily entertained - ahem-...me. In the midst of the new game Elisabeth came by and caught me in the act, cheeks swelled like a chipmunk, window open and hot air rushing inwards. When I explained myself and my actions she looked at me quizzically, as if I were a 4 year old for a brief moment who tried to use 4 year old logic. It didn't take long before she joined in the lizard-water blasting festivities. It's make your own fun in Chad, any way you can get it.
After a quick frigid shower in water that often smells of rotten eggs and that sometimes leaves me smelling worse than when I entered (which is quite a feat), I usually try and check my email while sipping a bitter, and lip puckering cup of Nescafe. Every morning seems to bare a striking resemblance to those old Keystone Beer commercials touting 'no bitter beer face!'. I have yet to understand how so much of Europe can thrive on this artificial garbage. I click the little blue E on my computer screen, a message is relayed thru a dish antenna outside to a satellite above to a dish somewhere in Belgium and then to God knows where. I wait patiently and am then greeted with more GARBAGE...Yahoo gossip garbage rivaling STAR, US Weekly or Soap Opera Digest. Six days out of seven when I open internet explorer to my homepage of Yahoo! I feel sick at what I see, especially because I believe it is an embarrassing but often times accurate representation of our youth's interests and what the rest of the globe thinks we care about.
LATEST HEADLINES ON YAHOO!:
Celebrities who like Bull riding!
Jessica Simpson's newest fall fashion and potential romances!
P-Diddy wants to be the next James Bond...
Click here to see what the latest and coolest ringtones are for your phone!!!
What's your favorite interactive smiley face?
Who's got the best Kelly Clarkson karaoke voice? Vote here!!!
Tom and Katie's wedding! Who's on the invitation list?
Paris Hilton, Paris Hilton, Paris Hilton, PARIS FUCKING HILTON!!!!!
Is this what America craves? Garbage? Mindless, brain numbing, trivial shit??? I hang my head low knowing that a large percentage of the American public eats it up. And then a large majority of this same percentage of people I could approach and ask them if they knew what was happening to innocent people in Darfur? Do you know where Darfur is? Do you know where Sudan is? Do you know what genocide is? Can you name 4 countries in Africa? I am reminded of Jay Leno interviewing some fine specimens on the streets of LA who don't even know a thing about the immediate world around them, let alone one that exists thousands of miles away. Ignorance is bliss, and "Where ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise."-Thomas Gray.
A frothing orgy of ridiculous sensory stimulation awaits to numb one's brain, much as prophesized by Orwell('IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH'-Orwell, 1984), keeping us pleasantly 'content' and ignorant to what exists outside the walls of our rooms, houses, communities, or country. So much time and energy seems expended on the worship and idolization of individuals I believe worthless if it were not for their physical appearance; individuals who contribute nothing positive to the spinning world around. Actors, singers, the disgustingly rich, the alcoholic yet attractive nobody's and politicians, sometimes a strange medley of all these. Consumerism gone terribly wrong...or right? blares out from everywhere on each web page I click. Why you absolutely need this latest phone, PDA, SUV, ring tone, smiley face, video game, designer purse, diamond earrings, or GAP jeans is beaten into your cranium every blink of an eyelash. I look outside the window and wonder where we went wrong.
The other evening I was helping teach our local cook 'Nestor' how to make a proper marinara sauce, or more descriptively, one that would not make us all sick for three days. While mixing tomato paste, garlic and tiny desert grown sautéed onions I asked about his education, his wife and his children. He informed me he's intending on becoming a teacher and is 3 months from obtaining his Chadian teaching certificate. I applauded his choice and told him we need more people like him out there in the world, and that I thought he'd make a fine teacher. I asked again about his kids and their ages. He replied one was seven months and the other about 2 years old, both boys, but one is ill, most likely malaria or even tuberculosis. I expressed my shock and grief and began asking how I could personally help in the matter. A brief pause followed.
"I need...eh....un emmm peee trois...eh...yes...un emm pee trois, si vous plait."
Your child is supposedly sick with a life threatening disease and you are asking me for an MP3 player? Is this what we have culturaly exuded, this is what we have shown is important, materialistic possessions? I stared at the marinara sauce.
"Keep stirring every few minutes for another 20 minutes please. Thank you Nestor", and with that I walked off
Sunday, October 29, 2006
daydreams
I find myself more frequently staring off into oblivion, as Myriam or whomever I am flying with is at the controls, daydreaming excessively. I’ve had incredibly vivid memories and imaginings of food, places and people, the things I miss most about home. Last week during all the security concerns, during all the evacuations and chaos, after the airplane would level off in the cooler, more peaceful, thin air at 10,000 feet and all souls on board seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief, my mind would drift. With my left temple leaned against the plexi-glass window and the African sun scorching my shaved head I’d suddenly be standing in my favorite pool on the Animas River waving my fly-rod around meditatively watching the trout rise on a summer afternoon’s Cadis hatch. The fluttering clouds of Cadis flies sparkling as a million wings reflected the setting sun’s warm glow. Then I would be sitting with a massive chicken burrito smothered in melted cheese, guacamole and sour cream, a basket of chips and salsa and margarita nearby, or hiking with Jen along a branch of the idyllic San Juan River towards the peaceful Rainbow hot springs, as a light mist fell. Sleeping in the back of a pickup truck in Oregon’s high eastern plains alongside a bubbling river listening to lonely coyotes sing in the distance, or at a table 15 years ago with a dinner plate heaped high with my Dad’s famous spaghetti and my little brothers head covered in marinara sauce opposite from my seat across the table. Chaos below, Abeche ahead, grateful passengers behind, Mexican food, trout and rivers within. If nothing else, Chad has made me realize that it’s the little things in life that make it beautiful.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Invertebrate molestations and other security issues...
Her fingers were slowly moving up the inside of my leg, teasing me as she went. I squirmed and she stopped, I was greatly disappointed. She picked up on my disappointment and started again, this time also walking her fingers up my chest. Then something struck me as not right, something was askew, strange…my chest itched and her finger was scratching at my leg. What the hell is…?
I opened my eyes and instead of finding a beautiful, voluptuous girl on top, sensually teasing me I found something which made me scream like a little girl and curse like guys I used to work with on fishing boats. On my chest slowly crept up towards my mouth the biggest, blackest, largest eyed and antennaed desert cricket I had ever seen. It remained the largest cricket I’ve ever seen for approximately three tenths of a second before my eyes darted to my crotch where another of the black behemoths was casually strolling towards a nice warm place to hang out. This fellow now took the prize of largest cricket Jesse has ever seen, and I wasn’t pleased that he was so close to being intimately involved with me. Elizabeth laughed after realizing what was going on as I kicked and scratched and rolled out of the mosquito net onto the dirty tile floor. She laughed carelessly until noticing that other black, privacy invading villains had surrounded her as well and were attempting to overthrow our sleeping spot. No need for a caffeinated cup of coffee in the morning when one awakes to mutant sized crickets attempting a molestation, you’re already wide-awake. Damn N’djamena fire ants must have passed the word along.
Confusion still reigns in Chad as to the current and future happenings of the rebels and government forces. After the Goz Beida seizure the rebels seemed to have split into separate columns and set out west towards the capital city of N’djamena. Reports pour in from everyone and their dog that this town has fallen or that town has been blown to pieces, and that the rebels are marching down Avenue Charles de Gaulle in N’djamena, or outside our compound in Abeche at the very moment in pink ballerina dresses singing songs from the musical Cats. And like the previous sentence, most are not true. I remember when I was about six we used to play the telephone game. Everyone sits in a circle. Someone whispers something into the adjacent child’s ear and it is passed around at a whispered tone until it comes full circle, where it’s voiced aloud, followed by the original message. It’s usually a gross exaggeration of the original text, and sometimes nothing of the original remains. This is the current situation in Chad with the international community, and it gets frustrating trying to sift thru the garbage to find the truth. It is also amusing at times.
Upon the fall of Goz Beida, the WFP (World Food Program and principle aviation entity of the United Nations Refugee Commission) announced they would absolutely not fly anywhere near the town. The UNHCR then came to us: ‘Will you fly down there?’. Sure for a twelve pack of beer and some chewing tobacco we’ll do anything.
Ok, I’m kidding but I tentatively said yes, to the dismay of my copilot, pending our receiving bona fide security information stating that all affairs were normal. A few hours later an entourage of the UNHCR’s top security personnel in Chad approached our plane with what they’d learned from investigation.
“It seems the majority of the rebel forces have moved south and west from Goz Beida, and are no longer occupying the town or camps. It’s true they shot a rocket-propelled grenade at a French aircraft yesterday, but they’ve apologized now and stated it was an accident. They have also repeatedly stated that they are not purposely targeting humanitarians or their organizations. We BELIEVE this information to be true and correct, but cannot ascertain for sure its validity, and we THINK your OK flying down there to Goz Beida. Just do not fly over any hills or the town.”
I voiced the fact that the report they just gave us was about the shittiest piece of intelligence I’d ever been privy too. I never would have thought 6 months ago that in October 2006 I’d be standing on the tarmac of an African desert town’s airport telling a bunch of high ranking UN officials I basically thought they were idiots. Yet I was a little more couth than that. We discussed the fact that not over flying hills is not an option, seeing as how Goz Beida was surrounded by hills. I further voiced my frustration with their obvious lack of organization in the field and with the fact that if so many UN personnel had spoken with these rebels and been assured that NGOs would not be targeted, why hadn’t anyone thought to mention that a humanitarian aircraft may be coming down to evacuate some people? Hmmm??? ‘Please don’t shoot at our silly looking white and blue aircraft that is so slow that it cannot get out of its own way’ is what I suggested they state the next time they had a heart to heart chat with the rebs.
A few more matters were discussed and I felt confident (mostly) that we could execute the flights without incidence. We boarded the few individuals who for some masochistic reason or another wanted to go to Goz Beida before hopping up into the cockpit. The security entourage waved goodbye and it’s head officer approached for a last pertinent piece of advice. “Good luck, just come back in one piece” was o so wisely stated. He then walked away leaving Myriam and I looking at each other dumbfounded and me with the burning desire to run after him and kick him in the ass. We then took off.
In flight, passengers and pilots kept a vigilant eye on the desert floor below, scanning for military convoys crossing in pursuit of another victory. Occasionally we’d hit a pocket of turbulence that made everyone gasp and grip the seats in front of themselves before looking up to the cockpit for a glance from Myriam or I assuring them that the bump was not a missile strike. We picked an altitude that put us just feet below the cloud bases, making us very difficult to spot from the ground below (I told myself repeatedly) and maintained it until we were directly overhead the dirt strip. Scanning the surrounding hill tops and arid landscape below we deemed it safe and I partook in a ‘fun for the pilots, scary for the passengers’ maneuver, making a steep circular dive 9000 feet to land on the runway below, much as they do flying into Baghdad.
After the parking brake was set and we hopped out a group of anxious passengers happily greeted us and for a while I really appreciated my job incredibly, gloating in the praise we received. The base manager approached us and asked why we did our spiral approach to land. When I explained it was for safety and security, avoiding the surrounding hills he calmly stated that ‘there are no rebels here…they left days ago…it’s calm and boring’.
I felt silly. The next morning made me feel better, in an odd way, when we learned his version of the story was not correct either.
I opened my eyes and instead of finding a beautiful, voluptuous girl on top, sensually teasing me I found something which made me scream like a little girl and curse like guys I used to work with on fishing boats. On my chest slowly crept up towards my mouth the biggest, blackest, largest eyed and antennaed desert cricket I had ever seen. It remained the largest cricket I’ve ever seen for approximately three tenths of a second before my eyes darted to my crotch where another of the black behemoths was casually strolling towards a nice warm place to hang out. This fellow now took the prize of largest cricket Jesse has ever seen, and I wasn’t pleased that he was so close to being intimately involved with me. Elizabeth laughed after realizing what was going on as I kicked and scratched and rolled out of the mosquito net onto the dirty tile floor. She laughed carelessly until noticing that other black, privacy invading villains had surrounded her as well and were attempting to overthrow our sleeping spot. No need for a caffeinated cup of coffee in the morning when one awakes to mutant sized crickets attempting a molestation, you’re already wide-awake. Damn N’djamena fire ants must have passed the word along.
Confusion still reigns in Chad as to the current and future happenings of the rebels and government forces. After the Goz Beida seizure the rebels seemed to have split into separate columns and set out west towards the capital city of N’djamena. Reports pour in from everyone and their dog that this town has fallen or that town has been blown to pieces, and that the rebels are marching down Avenue Charles de Gaulle in N’djamena, or outside our compound in Abeche at the very moment in pink ballerina dresses singing songs from the musical Cats. And like the previous sentence, most are not true. I remember when I was about six we used to play the telephone game. Everyone sits in a circle. Someone whispers something into the adjacent child’s ear and it is passed around at a whispered tone until it comes full circle, where it’s voiced aloud, followed by the original message. It’s usually a gross exaggeration of the original text, and sometimes nothing of the original remains. This is the current situation in Chad with the international community, and it gets frustrating trying to sift thru the garbage to find the truth. It is also amusing at times.
Upon the fall of Goz Beida, the WFP (World Food Program and principle aviation entity of the United Nations Refugee Commission) announced they would absolutely not fly anywhere near the town. The UNHCR then came to us: ‘Will you fly down there?’. Sure for a twelve pack of beer and some chewing tobacco we’ll do anything.
Ok, I’m kidding but I tentatively said yes, to the dismay of my copilot, pending our receiving bona fide security information stating that all affairs were normal. A few hours later an entourage of the UNHCR’s top security personnel in Chad approached our plane with what they’d learned from investigation.
“It seems the majority of the rebel forces have moved south and west from Goz Beida, and are no longer occupying the town or camps. It’s true they shot a rocket-propelled grenade at a French aircraft yesterday, but they’ve apologized now and stated it was an accident. They have also repeatedly stated that they are not purposely targeting humanitarians or their organizations. We BELIEVE this information to be true and correct, but cannot ascertain for sure its validity, and we THINK your OK flying down there to Goz Beida. Just do not fly over any hills or the town.”
I voiced the fact that the report they just gave us was about the shittiest piece of intelligence I’d ever been privy too. I never would have thought 6 months ago that in October 2006 I’d be standing on the tarmac of an African desert town’s airport telling a bunch of high ranking UN officials I basically thought they were idiots. Yet I was a little more couth than that. We discussed the fact that not over flying hills is not an option, seeing as how Goz Beida was surrounded by hills. I further voiced my frustration with their obvious lack of organization in the field and with the fact that if so many UN personnel had spoken with these rebels and been assured that NGOs would not be targeted, why hadn’t anyone thought to mention that a humanitarian aircraft may be coming down to evacuate some people? Hmmm??? ‘Please don’t shoot at our silly looking white and blue aircraft that is so slow that it cannot get out of its own way’ is what I suggested they state the next time they had a heart to heart chat with the rebs.
A few more matters were discussed and I felt confident (mostly) that we could execute the flights without incidence. We boarded the few individuals who for some masochistic reason or another wanted to go to Goz Beida before hopping up into the cockpit. The security entourage waved goodbye and it’s head officer approached for a last pertinent piece of advice. “Good luck, just come back in one piece” was o so wisely stated. He then walked away leaving Myriam and I looking at each other dumbfounded and me with the burning desire to run after him and kick him in the ass. We then took off.
In flight, passengers and pilots kept a vigilant eye on the desert floor below, scanning for military convoys crossing in pursuit of another victory. Occasionally we’d hit a pocket of turbulence that made everyone gasp and grip the seats in front of themselves before looking up to the cockpit for a glance from Myriam or I assuring them that the bump was not a missile strike. We picked an altitude that put us just feet below the cloud bases, making us very difficult to spot from the ground below (I told myself repeatedly) and maintained it until we were directly overhead the dirt strip. Scanning the surrounding hill tops and arid landscape below we deemed it safe and I partook in a ‘fun for the pilots, scary for the passengers’ maneuver, making a steep circular dive 9000 feet to land on the runway below, much as they do flying into Baghdad.
After the parking brake was set and we hopped out a group of anxious passengers happily greeted us and for a while I really appreciated my job incredibly, gloating in the praise we received. The base manager approached us and asked why we did our spiral approach to land. When I explained it was for safety and security, avoiding the surrounding hills he calmly stated that ‘there are no rebels here…they left days ago…it’s calm and boring’.
I felt silly. The next morning made me feel better, in an odd way, when we learned his version of the story was not correct either.
Monday, October 23, 2006
The intermission is over.
And so it begins.
Elizabeth called me last night after I cancelled our dinner plans, and I answered thinking she was intent on rubbing in just how good the curry she cooked was. Instead she informed me that rumors were flying that Goz Beida had been overrun by Chadian Rebel forces, a new conglomerate of old separate groups, now known as UFDD (United Front for Democracy and Development). She new we were supposed to fly to Goz Beida in the morning, so it was welcome info.
I hung up and between Myriam, Georgiana (our new base manager), and I, we began investigating. Immediately we ran into the UNHCR roadblock.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is AirServ. As you know we are scheduled to fly to Goz Beida tomorrow, and we have heard there were events that took place today that could jeopardize our safety and security tomorrow. Can you confirm or deny?”
“…(long pause—thinking of how to best answer as vaguely and ridiculously as possible)…we have no information for you at this time. If information becomes available we will inform you. Thank you.” Click.
“FUCK STICK”
The red flag is up folks…somethings a happenin!
Further investigation revealed there was in fact an emergency meeting taking place and it was being debated just how to break the news to the children (the rest of us NGO workers out here).
As we all sat out on the porch talking sporadic automatic weapon fire was heard nearby. Our guards seemed on edge, the monkey sat atop the roof sentinel like, providing incoherent and squeaky reports in Monkeyic (official language of most monkeys), and I sipped a whisky and coke. After sunset Myriam and I sat marveling at the Milky Way’s cloudy expanse waiting for more information to come our way. Three heavenly bound rockets shot off from somewhere in town, trailing a red afterglow as they made their ascent to quickly join the stars twinkling above. The gunfire and rockets were isolated cases, and ended soon thereafter.
A messenger arrived from the UNHCR and the news about Goz Beida was confirmed, seems the war is back on.
As they predicted: end of Ramadan=end of light military action. I cannot say =end of peace…because there is never peace here. Its like the US Postal service in its consistency. Rain, sleet, snow or sun…we’ll fight, though sometimes we’ll tone it down a bit so we may observe religious holidays.
For its part, the new UFDD has publicly stated that NGOs and UN workers are not a target. They have requested that all humanitarians stay inside their compounds where they will be safe, as only Chadian military garrisons and bases are the enemy. This being said, witnesses have reported that in the refugee camps nearby Goz Beida government military personnel have been seen changing into civilian clothing and hiding amongst the refugees.
“One can make this generalization about men: they are ungrateful, fickle, liars and deceivers…they would shed their blood for you, risk their property, their lives, their sons, so long as…danger is remote; but when you are in danger they turn away”
--Niccolo Machiavelli
Can I blame them for being cowards? To an extent, but it has its limits. What I cannot blame them for is not wanting to die for the materialistic good of one man, a greedy, exponentially more fickle, seemingly heartless fiend, or his wealthy entourage (I will draw no parallels). If its due, I hope Karma will even the score.
In the meantime we sit idly by here in Abeche. Waiting for word to evacuate someone, something or someplace, and waiting to see what the week brings. Speculation is everywhere, and everyone has an opinion as to what happens next. Abeche? Who knows. For our part we’ll start stocking up on food, water and beer.
Elizabeth called me last night after I cancelled our dinner plans, and I answered thinking she was intent on rubbing in just how good the curry she cooked was. Instead she informed me that rumors were flying that Goz Beida had been overrun by Chadian Rebel forces, a new conglomerate of old separate groups, now known as UFDD (United Front for Democracy and Development). She new we were supposed to fly to Goz Beida in the morning, so it was welcome info.
I hung up and between Myriam, Georgiana (our new base manager), and I, we began investigating. Immediately we ran into the UNHCR roadblock.
“Hello?”
“Hello. This is AirServ. As you know we are scheduled to fly to Goz Beida tomorrow, and we have heard there were events that took place today that could jeopardize our safety and security tomorrow. Can you confirm or deny?”
“…(long pause—thinking of how to best answer as vaguely and ridiculously as possible)…we have no information for you at this time. If information becomes available we will inform you. Thank you.” Click.
“FUCK STICK”
The red flag is up folks…somethings a happenin!
Further investigation revealed there was in fact an emergency meeting taking place and it was being debated just how to break the news to the children (the rest of us NGO workers out here).
As we all sat out on the porch talking sporadic automatic weapon fire was heard nearby. Our guards seemed on edge, the monkey sat atop the roof sentinel like, providing incoherent and squeaky reports in Monkeyic (official language of most monkeys), and I sipped a whisky and coke. After sunset Myriam and I sat marveling at the Milky Way’s cloudy expanse waiting for more information to come our way. Three heavenly bound rockets shot off from somewhere in town, trailing a red afterglow as they made their ascent to quickly join the stars twinkling above. The gunfire and rockets were isolated cases, and ended soon thereafter.
A messenger arrived from the UNHCR and the news about Goz Beida was confirmed, seems the war is back on.
As they predicted: end of Ramadan=end of light military action. I cannot say =end of peace…because there is never peace here. Its like the US Postal service in its consistency. Rain, sleet, snow or sun…we’ll fight, though sometimes we’ll tone it down a bit so we may observe religious holidays.
For its part, the new UFDD has publicly stated that NGOs and UN workers are not a target. They have requested that all humanitarians stay inside their compounds where they will be safe, as only Chadian military garrisons and bases are the enemy. This being said, witnesses have reported that in the refugee camps nearby Goz Beida government military personnel have been seen changing into civilian clothing and hiding amongst the refugees.
“One can make this generalization about men: they are ungrateful, fickle, liars and deceivers…they would shed their blood for you, risk their property, their lives, their sons, so long as…danger is remote; but when you are in danger they turn away”
--Niccolo Machiavelli
Can I blame them for being cowards? To an extent, but it has its limits. What I cannot blame them for is not wanting to die for the materialistic good of one man, a greedy, exponentially more fickle, seemingly heartless fiend, or his wealthy entourage (I will draw no parallels). If its due, I hope Karma will even the score.
In the meantime we sit idly by here in Abeche. Waiting for word to evacuate someone, something or someplace, and waiting to see what the week brings. Speculation is everywhere, and everyone has an opinion as to what happens next. Abeche? Who knows. For our part we’ll start stocking up on food, water and beer.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Guns and more guns.
Bright, shiny new Chinese knock offs of the classic Kalashnikov automatic rifle, known world wide as the AK47 are seemingly everywhere in Chad these days. (Its amazing what a little oil money can buy…yep we’re buying the brown stuff from them and helping to keep the cycle going!). At the airport men nap in the shade of dwarfed trees, fatigued from heat and Ramadan fasting, with the glistening black steel instrument of death used as a pillow in the blazing inferno that is eastern Chad now that the rains have ended. An erratic tide of soldiers washes into and over Abeche every few days. Their numbers increase and the rumors and security concerns grow in the NGO community exponentially, before the troops presence seem to ebb, pulled away in camouflaged C130s and helicopter gunships. A collective sigh of relief then ripples across the community upon their departure, as most despise or at very least, do not trust their presence.
I witnessed a very confused expression covering a boy’s face the other morning as I was driven to the airfield in a hulking Toyota Landcruiser, air conditioned frigid air blasting away, and separated from the reality of the outside world by a 1/8 inch pane of glass. The dark, sweaty and immature face was sheepish at first, glancing down to avoid eye contact. He looked scared, alone and out of place, much like a 9th grader showing up for his first day of high school, afraid of the potential hazing. Then in a flash the innocence or childish look was gone, his eyes quickly raised to meet mine, and instantly the expression metamorphosed to bitter defiance. How dare you look at me with pity it seemed to scream as our eyes locked for a brief second of passing.
Our mammoth vehicle raced on past the child and I swiveled in my seat to follow his actions. Pausing in the eddy of choking dust left by the vehicle he seemed frozen in step, as if forgetting his intended task. I wondered if it was due to a moment of intense introversion, momentary consideration of just how ludicrous this life he’d chosen or been chosen for was. In whirling and slowly settling khaki colored dust cloud stood a boy of adolescence wearing lacy silver painted women’s sandals, arctic (white-blue-black) issue camo men’s sized slacks rolled up 1/3 of the way, a jungle print camouflaged shirt about 5 years too big for him as well, a turban, and a glistening AK47 outfitted with razor sharp bayonet. When I was fourteen I was draining my parents liquor cabinet and refilling the bottles with water. I was contemplating smoking marijuana for the first time and trying to convince gas station clerks I was 18 in order to by Marlboro Lights. I was wondering whom I’d take to the homecoming or Sadie Hawkins dance. I was shooting things with BB guns and slingshots, such as apples and my neighbor’s windows…I wasn’t perfect, but I was not skewering others with an 8-inch blade attached to the barrel of my automatic rifle. Our 4x4 whirled around the corner onto the airport tarmac where gunships were being loaded with more bombs and more child soldiers destined to die for a greedy leader who I’m sure won’t bat an eyelash at the thought of their expendability.
I hope you have a childhood next time around my friend.
A day or two later Myriam and I flew the southern rotation together, heading to Goz Beida, KouKou and Dogdore. In Dogdore we serve mainly Medecins San Frontiers (Doctors without Borders) bringing them medicine, food, tools and new physicians so they might help those in need at the nearby refugee camps. The south has been afire with a confusing mix of strife lately: a stewed combination of tribal skirmishes, newly formed energetic rebel groups, older more established rebels, government forces and malicious bandits. It’s just a great place to be these days, a real gem.
Upon landing and slowing I noticed a higher than usual number of military outfits intermingling amongst the girly looking white frock coats the Doctors wear. Still, I trusted that if the physicians had felt it unsafe for us to land they would have advised us by a predetermined signal from the ground (which if I told you, I’d have to kill you all). We feathered the propellers, shut down, hopped out and I was again aware of the gun trucks parked all around, in the shadows behind the white MSF ambulances. “Great…a Goz Beida repeat,” I thought.
No one in Dogdore speaks English, no one. Luckily for me and my incorrigible French, Myriam was there to save the day (Swiss-Canadian, and native French speaker). I unloaded the cargo and bags while vertically impaired Myriam disappeared within a crowd of anxious passengers hoping to go somewhere that wasn’t Dogdore. When I was finished she waved me over to wear she stood surrounded by soldiers armed with enough guns and ammunition to make a run on Fort Knox. They all smiled cheerily and waved, requesting handshakes and the normal civilities. I approached cautiously and saw the passenger in question, a goofy looking old man of about 65 or so with a limited number of teeth and a wrinkled, sun scorched, black leather face. In his hand he held an equally wrinkled piece of lined paper, ripped from a child’s school notebook.
“He says he needs to go…he’s on the manifest, but…well you look at his authorization and tell me what you think…” Myriam sighed.
In order for us to carry a Chadian government passenger it needs to be deemed by the UNHCR that the traveler in question is traveling for the better good of humanitarian needs. They then make out an authorization, or Order du Mission, on official UN letterhead, stamp it a million times, spit on it, and sprinkle it with fairy dust. This produces the desired effect: we let them on the airplane.
Everyone hushed and watched as I took the old man’s authorization from him and examined it, immediately chuckling. The only way it would have appealed more to my sense of humor would be if it had been written in crayon with a few sparkly stickers thrown on for good measure. Scribbled in chicken scratch across a piece of torn, lined notebook paper, was this man’s authorization, written in two ink colors and stamped with an evidently dying inkpad by none other than the old man himself. ‘I hereby give myself permission to ride on your airplane. Sincerely, me.’
At least he smiled as I laughed. Even the other dangerously armed men smiled too which comforted me as I scanned the crowd of faces immediately huddled about my position. The MSF doctors had backed off and were distancing themselves from the conversation, obviously wary of what would happen if his scribbled Lav pass of an authorization were denied. I hesitated, hemmed and hawed, kicked some rocks and made it known that I was not pleased with the situation he was putting us in…then I yielded and let him on…not wanting another situation like my Goz Beida confrontation from 2 months back. The men in uniform all rejoiced and I thought were about to break out into song and dance had we not barked at them to make expedited farewells.
The old man said his goodbyes and we all waited patiently for him to make his way towards the airplane. Finally he came, yet he had slung over his shoulder an archaic looking AK47, which he politely gestured he’d like to take on board. “Ummm, NO.” I said as I pointed at the 18-inch diameter sticker on the airplane door portraying the exact gun he had on him with a big red slash thru it. “No guns, sorry. Je suis desole.” He smiled and removed the gun. I smiled and told him to stand still so that I might wand him with the metal detector.
About 11.4 seconds worth of metal detecting work on my part revealed that this man was the Southern Chad walking ammunition depot. BEEEEEEEP….oh look, you have three handguns wrapped around your waist, isn’t that pleasant??? BEEEEEEEEEP…wow, you’ve got another on your ankle, good spot indeed sir!!!! BEEEEEEEEEEP…ummm, nice knife grandpa, good spot too, the other ankle…hmmm. What are you planning for, World War Three?????
I suddenly had visions of this old man in a Rambo outfit jumping from the airplane when we landed in Abeche and laying waste to all his enemies without suffering a single scratch, then screaming something along the lines of “ NO ONE BEATS ME AT BRIDGE AND LIVES TO TELL!!!” I smiled and he smiled toothlessly back at me.
“At least you’re not being a jerk about it.” I said, knowing he had no idea what I was saying. After the last of Rambo Sr.’s armaments were removed he happily boarded the airplane and I shut the door behind him. I walked slowly up to the front shaking my head in tune with Myriam’s at what a circus we had just seen. We both shrugged our shoulders, sighed and waved to the MSF doctors who were beginning to chase the kids, donkeys and goats off the runway. Only government employees who are traveling for the good of humanitarianism may travel aboard our aircraft. Right. And what was his job? Population control?
Later I yelled at him for removing his seat belt just before landing, confident that Rambo Sr. had no more weapons to wield and that he was just a silly looking old man in a light blue sheet trying to get to the next Abeche AARP meeting.
I witnessed a very confused expression covering a boy’s face the other morning as I was driven to the airfield in a hulking Toyota Landcruiser, air conditioned frigid air blasting away, and separated from the reality of the outside world by a 1/8 inch pane of glass. The dark, sweaty and immature face was sheepish at first, glancing down to avoid eye contact. He looked scared, alone and out of place, much like a 9th grader showing up for his first day of high school, afraid of the potential hazing. Then in a flash the innocence or childish look was gone, his eyes quickly raised to meet mine, and instantly the expression metamorphosed to bitter defiance. How dare you look at me with pity it seemed to scream as our eyes locked for a brief second of passing.
Our mammoth vehicle raced on past the child and I swiveled in my seat to follow his actions. Pausing in the eddy of choking dust left by the vehicle he seemed frozen in step, as if forgetting his intended task. I wondered if it was due to a moment of intense introversion, momentary consideration of just how ludicrous this life he’d chosen or been chosen for was. In whirling and slowly settling khaki colored dust cloud stood a boy of adolescence wearing lacy silver painted women’s sandals, arctic (white-blue-black) issue camo men’s sized slacks rolled up 1/3 of the way, a jungle print camouflaged shirt about 5 years too big for him as well, a turban, and a glistening AK47 outfitted with razor sharp bayonet. When I was fourteen I was draining my parents liquor cabinet and refilling the bottles with water. I was contemplating smoking marijuana for the first time and trying to convince gas station clerks I was 18 in order to by Marlboro Lights. I was wondering whom I’d take to the homecoming or Sadie Hawkins dance. I was shooting things with BB guns and slingshots, such as apples and my neighbor’s windows…I wasn’t perfect, but I was not skewering others with an 8-inch blade attached to the barrel of my automatic rifle. Our 4x4 whirled around the corner onto the airport tarmac where gunships were being loaded with more bombs and more child soldiers destined to die for a greedy leader who I’m sure won’t bat an eyelash at the thought of their expendability.
I hope you have a childhood next time around my friend.
A day or two later Myriam and I flew the southern rotation together, heading to Goz Beida, KouKou and Dogdore. In Dogdore we serve mainly Medecins San Frontiers (Doctors without Borders) bringing them medicine, food, tools and new physicians so they might help those in need at the nearby refugee camps. The south has been afire with a confusing mix of strife lately: a stewed combination of tribal skirmishes, newly formed energetic rebel groups, older more established rebels, government forces and malicious bandits. It’s just a great place to be these days, a real gem.
Upon landing and slowing I noticed a higher than usual number of military outfits intermingling amongst the girly looking white frock coats the Doctors wear. Still, I trusted that if the physicians had felt it unsafe for us to land they would have advised us by a predetermined signal from the ground (which if I told you, I’d have to kill you all). We feathered the propellers, shut down, hopped out and I was again aware of the gun trucks parked all around, in the shadows behind the white MSF ambulances. “Great…a Goz Beida repeat,” I thought.
No one in Dogdore speaks English, no one. Luckily for me and my incorrigible French, Myriam was there to save the day (Swiss-Canadian, and native French speaker). I unloaded the cargo and bags while vertically impaired Myriam disappeared within a crowd of anxious passengers hoping to go somewhere that wasn’t Dogdore. When I was finished she waved me over to wear she stood surrounded by soldiers armed with enough guns and ammunition to make a run on Fort Knox. They all smiled cheerily and waved, requesting handshakes and the normal civilities. I approached cautiously and saw the passenger in question, a goofy looking old man of about 65 or so with a limited number of teeth and a wrinkled, sun scorched, black leather face. In his hand he held an equally wrinkled piece of lined paper, ripped from a child’s school notebook.
“He says he needs to go…he’s on the manifest, but…well you look at his authorization and tell me what you think…” Myriam sighed.
In order for us to carry a Chadian government passenger it needs to be deemed by the UNHCR that the traveler in question is traveling for the better good of humanitarian needs. They then make out an authorization, or Order du Mission, on official UN letterhead, stamp it a million times, spit on it, and sprinkle it with fairy dust. This produces the desired effect: we let them on the airplane.
Everyone hushed and watched as I took the old man’s authorization from him and examined it, immediately chuckling. The only way it would have appealed more to my sense of humor would be if it had been written in crayon with a few sparkly stickers thrown on for good measure. Scribbled in chicken scratch across a piece of torn, lined notebook paper, was this man’s authorization, written in two ink colors and stamped with an evidently dying inkpad by none other than the old man himself. ‘I hereby give myself permission to ride on your airplane. Sincerely, me.’
At least he smiled as I laughed. Even the other dangerously armed men smiled too which comforted me as I scanned the crowd of faces immediately huddled about my position. The MSF doctors had backed off and were distancing themselves from the conversation, obviously wary of what would happen if his scribbled Lav pass of an authorization were denied. I hesitated, hemmed and hawed, kicked some rocks and made it known that I was not pleased with the situation he was putting us in…then I yielded and let him on…not wanting another situation like my Goz Beida confrontation from 2 months back. The men in uniform all rejoiced and I thought were about to break out into song and dance had we not barked at them to make expedited farewells.
The old man said his goodbyes and we all waited patiently for him to make his way towards the airplane. Finally he came, yet he had slung over his shoulder an archaic looking AK47, which he politely gestured he’d like to take on board. “Ummm, NO.” I said as I pointed at the 18-inch diameter sticker on the airplane door portraying the exact gun he had on him with a big red slash thru it. “No guns, sorry. Je suis desole.” He smiled and removed the gun. I smiled and told him to stand still so that I might wand him with the metal detector.
About 11.4 seconds worth of metal detecting work on my part revealed that this man was the Southern Chad walking ammunition depot. BEEEEEEEP….oh look, you have three handguns wrapped around your waist, isn’t that pleasant??? BEEEEEEEEEP…wow, you’ve got another on your ankle, good spot indeed sir!!!! BEEEEEEEEEEP…ummm, nice knife grandpa, good spot too, the other ankle…hmmm. What are you planning for, World War Three?????
I suddenly had visions of this old man in a Rambo outfit jumping from the airplane when we landed in Abeche and laying waste to all his enemies without suffering a single scratch, then screaming something along the lines of “ NO ONE BEATS ME AT BRIDGE AND LIVES TO TELL!!!” I smiled and he smiled toothlessly back at me.
“At least you’re not being a jerk about it.” I said, knowing he had no idea what I was saying. After the last of Rambo Sr.’s armaments were removed he happily boarded the airplane and I shut the door behind him. I walked slowly up to the front shaking my head in tune with Myriam’s at what a circus we had just seen. We both shrugged our shoulders, sighed and waved to the MSF doctors who were beginning to chase the kids, donkeys and goats off the runway. Only government employees who are traveling for the good of humanitarianism may travel aboard our aircraft. Right. And what was his job? Population control?
Later I yelled at him for removing his seat belt just before landing, confident that Rambo Sr. had no more weapons to wield and that he was just a silly looking old man in a light blue sheet trying to get to the next Abeche AARP meeting.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
The not so dream
I was sitting down today with others at a large table. Many wore translucent masks that showed their faces but distorted their mouths and features, all having big red smiles permanently molded into the plastic. There was this mist of incessant bickering that made it difficult to see and my eyes were beginning to strain from my efforts to.
Suddenly the guy sitting across from me stood up very upset, as he had been the focus point of some of the garbled bickering, and yelled 'I QUIT!' in a snoody French accent. I could not understand why he felt so indignant and insulted. He tossed his paper BurgerKing crown onto the table and stormed off stomping his feet the whole way.
Everyone scratched their heads in bewilderment for a few moments. Slowly one of the eccentric, old individuals in the crowd picked up the wrinkled, ketchup stained crown and with a sheepish grin arose and marched my way. He slid up behind me and with the lobotomized nods from the others placed the flimsy ornament on my head.
For a brief, temporary moment it felt good. Then I felt ridiculous.
"What is this?" I asked.
"It is for you" they all said.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"You are now Chad Chief Pilot" they all said.
"Umm...should I thank you?" I asked.
And there was no response.
I watched as a few eyed me with delight before one who through the plastic smile mask I could still see eyes I did not trust, asked with the permanent smirk:
"Do you prefer chess or puppet shows?"
And before I could answer 'Neither' everyone had left the table.
Suddenly the guy sitting across from me stood up very upset, as he had been the focus point of some of the garbled bickering, and yelled 'I QUIT!' in a snoody French accent. I could not understand why he felt so indignant and insulted. He tossed his paper BurgerKing crown onto the table and stormed off stomping his feet the whole way.
Everyone scratched their heads in bewilderment for a few moments. Slowly one of the eccentric, old individuals in the crowd picked up the wrinkled, ketchup stained crown and with a sheepish grin arose and marched my way. He slid up behind me and with the lobotomized nods from the others placed the flimsy ornament on my head.
For a brief, temporary moment it felt good. Then I felt ridiculous.
"What is this?" I asked.
"It is for you" they all said.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"You are now Chad Chief Pilot" they all said.
"Umm...should I thank you?" I asked.
And there was no response.
I watched as a few eyed me with delight before one who through the plastic smile mask I could still see eyes I did not trust, asked with the permanent smirk:
"Do you prefer chess or puppet shows?"
And before I could answer 'Neither' everyone had left the table.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Three Nights, Three Hookers
Comical but frustrating, is how I silently summed it up, sipping a warm beer at Club Nightriders late last night. Three scantily clad, beautiful women stood arguing in Kiswahili 4 feet from my spot, I was sure the claws would come out soon.
Last Sunday, upon my return from Zanzibar, and at Bill, our African Chief Pilots request, he, Ed McConnell (my Idahoan roommate in South Africa) and I went out for a beer. It had been 4 months or so since I'd seen Ed so it was hard for me to say no, despite being tired and feeling ill. We headed to Jeremiah's, a local drinking establishment where you'll find having a white epidermis makes you very much the minority...as most places will in Uganda. We sat outside next to a steel drum barbeque which was cooking various random meat parts and discussed our different flying stories accrued since Ed and I saw each other last. After an hour or so the table next to us filled up with three girls, all dressed to attract attention from the male species. It wasn't long before I started hearing whispers and faint whistles coming from behind me, so, hoping I was doing it discreetly, I turned and found three sets of lusty eyes locked on all of us. Immediate thought: COOL! One of the three after a minute got up and shimmied her chair over next to mine, and upon sitting back down frankly introduced herself: 'hello, how are you? (PAUSE FOR ANSWER) My name is #@$%. Do you like blowjobs?'. Following thought: SHIT. How's that for an introduction? I've yet to get that one in Steamworks or Carvers back in Durango, hmmm.
I laughed and it bothered her, she squirmed towards me and grabbed my shirt, directing her piercing eyes right at mine which were doing their best averting job. "Why you laugh? What's so funny?" When I explained that not many conversations in the States are started with such...directness...she seemed not to understand, and followed with a second contemplative question: "well do you? How about massage and then one?". I replied with another nervous laugh, trying to buy time, hoping for assistance from Ed or Bill, who were not being of much help. Looking up I found the other girls sitting next to both of them, asking similar straightforward, blush producing questions for us sexually conservative Americans, as I was once told by a Dane. It took a good 30 minutes or so to convince these girls that we were not interested in taking them back to our houses, hotels or tents, and that we were all happily...married, engaged, dating, priests, gay, into bestiality, or anything...anything that'd make them leave us alone. They got the hint, and slowly unlatched the GI Joe Kung Fu deathgrips that held us at bay, but not before my new found friend grabbed me again by the shirt and hopped on my lap demanding I "kiss me hard now!". Again, wow. What does one say?
Even if I had thought of something smart to say, I was not allowed enough time to vocalize it. With mouth firmly closed, lips puckered inwards, and hands pushing her softly away, I had the outside of my face slobbered up and down, I think a tongue may have even entered my nose at one point. "Ok, thank you for the...the...face washing?" I said, wiping my cheeks, chin and mouth on my shirt, Ed and Bill doing their best to fend off similar attacks. "Call me!" came girlishly bellowing out of the car from three different voices, simultaneously, as if practiced, to us three different guys, as the car sped off down the banana tree enshrouded road. I stood silent for a moment listening to the tree frogs thinking I just got molested by a prostitute. I had to laugh.
Another two nights later found me riding around on my loaned bicycle and stopping at a drugstore for something to make me feel better as I was quite sick. As I exited, I was greeted by a sensuous 'hello' again, only to find another attractive woman batting her eyes at me. As before, the conversation cut right to the chase and I made a polite refusal before escaping like a nerd on my bike down the street. I felt like a little boy hopping on his bike to run away from a little girl.
Then came last night. Leo, a Costa Rican engineer and extremely funny guy, Royal, our Director of Ops, and I sat having a gin and tonic at the hotel bar where we are staying. Bill called. "Cmon, you, Leo and I will go to Nightriders for a little while". I didn't fight, though I was tired, secretly I hoped someone else would protest. They did not. We wound up at the underground club with deafening base blasting from the large speakers everywhere, and immediately all the stains on my shirt were noticeable from the black lights that were mounted overhead. On the stage danced a mix of beautiful Ugandan girls and some fit Ugandan guys, all lip syncing in turn to different popular songs from the region. It was my second time here, making a stop last visit to Entebbe. Most of the music was great, beautiful and invigorating African beats and guitar, rhythmically being pulsed through you by the 12 foot high speakers behind and all around. Then she came.
A tall, thin and dark girl came up to our table, said hi to Bill and Leo and then proceeded to sit on my lap and introduce herself. She spoke broken English, was from Goma, in Democratic Republic of Congo, and was 'just visiting' friends in Entebbe. Mmm hmm. I spent the better part of the next 20 minutes trying to politely push her away, as she undressed herself, and me in front of a crowd 300 strong. "Umm, yeah I'm not all that up for public nudity night in Uganda today, thanks." I explained numerous times I was engaged (I'm not Mom) and that I had to go, to which she responded "SHE IS NOT HERE!!!, WE GO NOW, COME!". Thank God I'm not too easily manipulated, I think. With the intent of breaking away from her towards the door I let her lead me by the hand thru the crowd towards the exit until a comical 'salvation' hit us.
"Why haven't you called!!!??" boomed from behind me, after a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find my first prostitute friend beaming at me from behind.
Before I could answer, "Who is this?" was the response from my new Congolese escort.
Before anyone could answer, another hand slipped around my waist and pulled me backwards too intimately to be Bill or Leo. Swiveling I found my drugstore friend smiling at me. Oh God, here we go.
"Who are you?!!!"...the rest was lost to me, as my Kiswahili is nonexistent.
The melodic African sound waves filled the dark, humid room, but between beats the ensuing argument was heard. I giggled and forgot about my intended getaway as three hookers argued over who's man I really was. Comical but frustrating, but more comical than the latter I continued to think before noticing Bill and Leo waving me towards the door. It is easy to spot a couple white guys in here flashed inside. I placed my beer on the bar behind and with a quick swivel-turn-jump-step, leapt between a few other guys and was out the door and free, my ego beaming with delight before it hit the wall.
As we walked down the pitch black street towards our vehicle, the cartoon like light bulb illuminated inside my skull. 'Wait a second, it wasn't me they bickered about...it was my money.' The ego slowly deflates back to normal and I spent sometime wondering what economic and emotional hardships would cause these beautiful women to take up such a horrible career choice. What I was just 3 minutes earlier finding as amusing was actually probably not. Statistically speaking, and most likely enough, each one of those three women who flirted with me and batted their beautiful eyes my way will be dead soon enough from AIDS.
Last Sunday, upon my return from Zanzibar, and at Bill, our African Chief Pilots request, he, Ed McConnell (my Idahoan roommate in South Africa) and I went out for a beer. It had been 4 months or so since I'd seen Ed so it was hard for me to say no, despite being tired and feeling ill. We headed to Jeremiah's, a local drinking establishment where you'll find having a white epidermis makes you very much the minority...as most places will in Uganda. We sat outside next to a steel drum barbeque which was cooking various random meat parts and discussed our different flying stories accrued since Ed and I saw each other last. After an hour or so the table next to us filled up with three girls, all dressed to attract attention from the male species. It wasn't long before I started hearing whispers and faint whistles coming from behind me, so, hoping I was doing it discreetly, I turned and found three sets of lusty eyes locked on all of us. Immediate thought: COOL! One of the three after a minute got up and shimmied her chair over next to mine, and upon sitting back down frankly introduced herself: 'hello, how are you? (PAUSE FOR ANSWER) My name is #@$%. Do you like blowjobs?'. Following thought: SHIT. How's that for an introduction? I've yet to get that one in Steamworks or Carvers back in Durango, hmmm.
I laughed and it bothered her, she squirmed towards me and grabbed my shirt, directing her piercing eyes right at mine which were doing their best averting job. "Why you laugh? What's so funny?" When I explained that not many conversations in the States are started with such...directness...she seemed not to understand, and followed with a second contemplative question: "well do you? How about massage and then one?". I replied with another nervous laugh, trying to buy time, hoping for assistance from Ed or Bill, who were not being of much help. Looking up I found the other girls sitting next to both of them, asking similar straightforward, blush producing questions for us sexually conservative Americans, as I was once told by a Dane. It took a good 30 minutes or so to convince these girls that we were not interested in taking them back to our houses, hotels or tents, and that we were all happily...married, engaged, dating, priests, gay, into bestiality, or anything...anything that'd make them leave us alone. They got the hint, and slowly unlatched the GI Joe Kung Fu deathgrips that held us at bay, but not before my new found friend grabbed me again by the shirt and hopped on my lap demanding I "kiss me hard now!". Again, wow. What does one say?
Even if I had thought of something smart to say, I was not allowed enough time to vocalize it. With mouth firmly closed, lips puckered inwards, and hands pushing her softly away, I had the outside of my face slobbered up and down, I think a tongue may have even entered my nose at one point. "Ok, thank you for the...the...face washing?" I said, wiping my cheeks, chin and mouth on my shirt, Ed and Bill doing their best to fend off similar attacks. "Call me!" came girlishly bellowing out of the car from three different voices, simultaneously, as if practiced, to us three different guys, as the car sped off down the banana tree enshrouded road. I stood silent for a moment listening to the tree frogs thinking I just got molested by a prostitute. I had to laugh.
Another two nights later found me riding around on my loaned bicycle and stopping at a drugstore for something to make me feel better as I was quite sick. As I exited, I was greeted by a sensuous 'hello' again, only to find another attractive woman batting her eyes at me. As before, the conversation cut right to the chase and I made a polite refusal before escaping like a nerd on my bike down the street. I felt like a little boy hopping on his bike to run away from a little girl.
Then came last night. Leo, a Costa Rican engineer and extremely funny guy, Royal, our Director of Ops, and I sat having a gin and tonic at the hotel bar where we are staying. Bill called. "Cmon, you, Leo and I will go to Nightriders for a little while". I didn't fight, though I was tired, secretly I hoped someone else would protest. They did not. We wound up at the underground club with deafening base blasting from the large speakers everywhere, and immediately all the stains on my shirt were noticeable from the black lights that were mounted overhead. On the stage danced a mix of beautiful Ugandan girls and some fit Ugandan guys, all lip syncing in turn to different popular songs from the region. It was my second time here, making a stop last visit to Entebbe. Most of the music was great, beautiful and invigorating African beats and guitar, rhythmically being pulsed through you by the 12 foot high speakers behind and all around. Then she came.
A tall, thin and dark girl came up to our table, said hi to Bill and Leo and then proceeded to sit on my lap and introduce herself. She spoke broken English, was from Goma, in Democratic Republic of Congo, and was 'just visiting' friends in Entebbe. Mmm hmm. I spent the better part of the next 20 minutes trying to politely push her away, as she undressed herself, and me in front of a crowd 300 strong. "Umm, yeah I'm not all that up for public nudity night in Uganda today, thanks." I explained numerous times I was engaged (I'm not Mom) and that I had to go, to which she responded "SHE IS NOT HERE!!!, WE GO NOW, COME!". Thank God I'm not too easily manipulated, I think. With the intent of breaking away from her towards the door I let her lead me by the hand thru the crowd towards the exit until a comical 'salvation' hit us.
"Why haven't you called!!!??" boomed from behind me, after a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find my first prostitute friend beaming at me from behind.
Before I could answer, "Who is this?" was the response from my new Congolese escort.
Before anyone could answer, another hand slipped around my waist and pulled me backwards too intimately to be Bill or Leo. Swiveling I found my drugstore friend smiling at me. Oh God, here we go.
"Who are you?!!!"...the rest was lost to me, as my Kiswahili is nonexistent.
The melodic African sound waves filled the dark, humid room, but between beats the ensuing argument was heard. I giggled and forgot about my intended getaway as three hookers argued over who's man I really was. Comical but frustrating, but more comical than the latter I continued to think before noticing Bill and Leo waving me towards the door. It is easy to spot a couple white guys in here flashed inside. I placed my beer on the bar behind and with a quick swivel-turn-jump-step, leapt between a few other guys and was out the door and free, my ego beaming with delight before it hit the wall.
As we walked down the pitch black street towards our vehicle, the cartoon like light bulb illuminated inside my skull. 'Wait a second, it wasn't me they bickered about...it was my money.' The ego slowly deflates back to normal and I spent sometime wondering what economic and emotional hardships would cause these beautiful women to take up such a horrible career choice. What I was just 3 minutes earlier finding as amusing was actually probably not. Statistically speaking, and most likely enough, each one of those three women who flirted with me and batted their beautiful eyes my way will be dead soon enough from AIDS.
2 1/2 days in Zanzibar
"Well if dey didn't stamp ya passport comin in I ain't gonna stamp it now" said the Ugandan immigration woman as I passed by the podium she sat at on my way to the gate my aircraft was to depart from. My kind of country. Aaaah, its all good, lets just say you weren't here, then everyone's happy.
I climbed aboard the prehistoric 737 operated by AirTanzania and was soon on my way east southeast across Lake Victoria, to where the arid northern plains of Tanzania meet it, home to a few of the earth's last mighty hoofed migrations. Soon out the window loomed the massive shadowed hulk of that awe inspiring mountain, Kilimanjaro, though thankfully it's top was shrouded in thunderstorms. I say thankfully because to me, seeing such a massive and mighty landmark such as this from 28,000 feet is just not an adequate way to appreciate its existence. I feel the same way about taking an aerial tour of the Grand Canyon. When you circle thousands of feet above such a thing its size diminishes, and its immensity, its belittling quality, its heavenly grandeur is what draws most people to it; when you climb above you depreciate this sense. After Kilimanjaro faded, but not before my longing to climb up its sides surged again, white beaches appeared underneath and aquamarine waves rolled up and crashed onto them. The waters turned a purplish color, similar to that of the Gulf Stream as we headed 30 miles or so of shore to Zanzibar. Just the name sounds enticing.
The next two and a half days found me struggling to get out of bed in the morning after fitfully sweating thru a night. I made myself enjoy the beautiful island as best I could, but my heart wasn't in it. My thoughts each day swam around upstairs in my head and a thick fog seemed to reign over all thinking. In the evenings I'd go to a bar that westwardly overlooked the Indian Ocean and down a beer watching the sun dip behind ancient looking dhows that still cart spices from the island to the mainland, lacking much in the way of enthusiasm, though still appreciating the beauty. Afterwards I'd head to a nightly fishmarket for some delectable seafood kabobs before being totally spent and heading back to the hostel to sweat thru another evening of no sleep.
I went diving twice the first day along a reef that lies 2 or 3 miles off the coast from the old slave market town. The reef was beautiful, the fish colorful and the water magnificent, but the native dive master assigned to myself and two S. Africans, seemed intent on setting a new 'linear distance traveled on one tank of air' record and I was rushed over coral heads to traverse lengthy barren stretches of wave patterned sand. Upon getting him to slow his marathon dive to something a little bit less tour de france-ish, I began to enjoy the beauty to a larger extent, only to have him repeatedly spoil numerous moments of eye to eye gazing and meditative ponderings with various fish and beautiful coral formations, by banging a rock on the side of his aluminum air cylinder, which resonates quite loudly underwater. I'd swim quickly to his side where he'd point out a sea slug or small stingray sitting in the sand, very much like the other sea slug or small stingray I'd just been looking at in the reef. Having this happen about 10 times I began to ignore him, only to look up once when I heard the loud CLANK -CLANK -CLANK to find him nowhere in sight. Evidently the tour de reef had begun again, unbeknownst to me.
The following day I spent on a 'spice tour' being taken to the island's lush interior, playing with local kids, and sampling all the incredible spices and fruits grown. We dined in a local family's clay floored house on curried Kingfish and rice which was sooooooooo good. After lunch the group piled into the small shock absorber-less van and head for the beach, stopping first at some old slave chambers. The chambers were built in a thicket not too far from a concealed miniature harbor, used to store the freshly gathered human cargo from the mainland until a number accrued sufficient enough to warrant a shipment to the middle east or even America. It was constructed after the Zanzibar sultan was 'persuaded' to outlaw slavery by the British at a time when the island was mainly filled with Muslims of Arabic descent. The Zanzibar based Arab slavers had for years raped the mainland's interior, leaving its vast expanses at the time of the British abolishment, as Livingstone put it, much like a ghost town. The crammed, wet and moldy quarters were...sobering.
Then, the beach, and I was again blissfully drunk in the waves forgetting how miserable I was that morning feeling sick and for the first time yet, just wanting to go home.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Across Africa and Portugal continued
Awakening to a gentle rain in the morning accompanied by a cacophony of bird songs can mean only one thing. In the past, while working for the airlines and sleeping in a different bed almost every night, every once in a while I'd wake up and for a brief moment be confused about where I was. Dubuque? Pueblo? Raleigh? Phoenix? Over the past week its been a bit of the same, I've been all over the place, Lisbon to N'djamena to Abeche to N'djamena to where I awake this morning. There is no mistaking it though, the temperature, the feel, the sounds, and that rain. This rain is unlike the angry, violent yet short lived rain of Chad, which pummels you and everyone around for just a brief while before exhausting itself into oblivion. This rain whispers to you to stay in bed, to stay with your dreams, and just close your eyes for a few more minutes. Yet as I write this I am aware there is angry rain here too, as I found it or it found me on my last visit to Uganda.
It was a busy week in Chad. I arrived early last Tuesday, at 3:30am N'djamena, and as I anxiously awaited the sight of my bag on the decrepit, antique baggage carousel I became aware of something all around me, a sort of cloud. 'Oh, you guys again, kinda forgot bout you in Portugal' and I soon was hard at work methodically inflicting casualties upon the Chadian mosquito population. A quick shower and a 30 minute nap found me sitting aboard another flight, bags both under my eyes and the seat next to me, bound for Abeche for a week's worth of fun and excitement.
The days were hot and full of security concerns. Those rascally, rebellious rebels along the Sudanese border are creating havoc again, and the Chadian military alongside the French were strafing their lines daily. Seems there is a need for something to be continuously falling from the sky in Chad, a kind of queer fact of life. The rains fall from June to late September or October, destroying but also providing the most essential element for life. They wash out the roads and make everything on the ground an arduous task, therefore most military activity ceases and desists. Its revolution holiday time. Then the rains stop falling, the roads dry, the commanders wake from their soggy catonic states and the bombs begin falling in the place of water droplets. Helicopters were constantly taking off from Abeche heading north with shiny bombs and troops carrying bright new black Russian AK47s. While awaiting the fuel truck one day I heard a 'clink..clink..clink..clunk..clink...' coming from behind me. Lacking working trucks, explosive experts were using a rickety bag cart to transport massive yellow bombs across the ramp. Every clink I heard sent a shiver up my spine as I watched the explosives roll into each other, clunking and clinking. Not my idea of a respectable way to go. Death by baggage cart bombs, "sorry bout your son, Ms. Washburn and Mr. Archambault, at least it wasn't a heart attack on the toilet."
Besides flying twice the normal amount, we were constantly 'on call' for a possible evacuation of NGO staff from a few locations in the north, where fighting intensified between the different armies. A constant buzz was heard, a nervous energy excited the air around, and everyone was whispering of what was to come. For it's part the UNHCR was extremely helpful in determining the current security status when queried.
"What is the security status up north around Guerada this week?"
"Oh, fine. Just fine."
"Really...hmmm. That's kinda funny, because I heard differently and have also seen the gunships loaded with bombs and the body bags being laid out on the ramp in front of the French base, there was even talk that the rebels made it to within 15km of Abeche last night..."
...PAUSE...
"Mmm hmmm"
"huh. ok, thanks for your time"
There is a veil of secrecy around everything here. No one will officially tell you that things are detiorating, or that the proverbial shit is hitting the fan, but if you look around it seems quite obvious. Some out there speculate that its because the UNHCR is on an invitational thin ice status with the Chadian government and if it were to start shouting "WE HAVE A PROBLEM HERE!! GET READY TO EVACUATE PEOPLE!" it would endanger it's precarious good standing with the authorities. It would be like stating the rebels are winning and the government (that is allowing our presence to exist) is losing. Yet we are not asking for this, we are asking for a whispered truth, just a glimmer of what is really happening so that we all might be prepared, or at least that's what I'm asking for.
A report recently came out from 'undisclosed sources' regarding an interview with one of the rebel commanders. It soon was circulated around all the NGO's, though few will confess to having received it if directly questioned. In it the commander states that due to the French military's involvement in the conflict, any French national found on the ground, humanitarian or military, will be considered a mercenary/enemy and dealt with accordingly. Sitting on the couch reading this off my laptop's screen, with Fred, our French Program Chief Pilot sitting next to me, I had to chuckle.
"What's so funny?" he asked with an irritated French accent.
"...now you know what it feels like to be an American, buddy! Welcome to the club!"
No response.
A few days later, on Saturday, we ferried the aircraft across central Chad back to N'djamena, and escaped the (conflict generated) heat for a day or two. That night Fred and I trudged around the pattern in N'djamena in the Otter for 6 landings to get night current again (an US FAA regulation) and I shot one of my first 0/0 - window open approaches. While flying the previous few approaches, we had massacred countless swarms of bugs, until finally on my last landing I hit the jackpot of all mosquito columns and rendered the windshield completely useless, it became covered with a thick paste of bug juice and bug appendages of various colors and consistencies. Damn. Down goes the side window, and I had to fly the plane sideways to the runway while getting pummeled, myself now, with small bugs at 85 mph.
A nice humid weekend in N'djamena consisting of dinners with Elizabeth, Darcy and the gang ended at 3 am Monday morning, after only 4 hours sleep, when I arose to fly the Otter with Fred down to Entebbe. Stepping outside it struck me just how peaceful everything was, the crickets, the tree frogs, a light breeze, and a waning moon shining through thin cirrus clouds above. I had to think that, like many places on earth, Chad wouldn't be such a bad place, if only there weren't any people here. We took off southbound for Bangui initially at 4am on the dot, wielding flashlights, headlamps and a thermos full of super sugary watered down coffee, thanks Fred. Crossing the Chari river off the end of runway 23 we flew south over Cameroon initially, crossed back into Chad and then over the border of Central African Republic. The lights of industrialized civilization faded shortly after departure form N'djamena and a black hole loomed below for most of the trip, countered only by the beautiful bright stars above. I was invigorated at first by the thought of being one of only a few people who have done such a trip over this region, but it soon faded into sleepiness, and irritation with the horrible coffee flavored sugar water and the French guy sitting next to me. I began contemplating whether I had ever read anywhere in the FAA FARs (Federal Air Regulations, the 'bible' of US based aviation) stating that there was a limit to how many hours one could fly in the same airplane with a French captain before needing another vacation. Just the thought lifted my spirits and I determined I'd make the suggestion to the NTSB upon my return to the United States.
Bangui came and went in 3 hours time without any arrests for photographic or urinary reasons, just a few ridiculous bribe-payments and some silly debates with the fuelers. We were off again southeast bound across the northern reaches of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Rolling green grasslands with swaths of forest soon gave way to a thick impenetrable sea of dark green broccoli tops that appeared to continue on forever. Not much hope for someone over this sea of vegetation if they were to lose their engines, or in some of our planes cases, engine. Here and there a hole would appear, a spot where greedy, sweaty men dig below, scarring the earths crust in search of gold. Then a bizarre line would cross our path, running on for miles before abruptly turning and continuing off into the horizon. Old roads. Roads that the Belgians had constructed during their time of colonial rule, but that haven't seen attention since their hasty withdrawal in the 60's, and have since been swallowed up by the hungry jungle. After a couple hours of no one hearing us and us in return only hearing scratchy voices of far away pilots we finally stumbled upon Kisangani, which is now one of my least favorite places.
Landing in Kisangani is like landing in a large advertisement for the United Nations. Everywhere you look there is UN stamped on this and that. This airplane, that truck, this container, that guy's hat, this building, that tractor. Its overwhelming. We parked next to a massive cargo plane with Russian registration numbers and watched as they crammed its hold to the roof with random containers. The pilots, fat and shirtless, sat beneath its tail in the shade smoking cigarettes rubbing their sweaty, grey haired bellies as the forklifts loaded the aircraft. 'I hope I don't turn out like that' flashed across my mind as I simultaneously wondered if what they were sipping wasn't vodka. Fuel trucks rolled back and forth between the massive C130s and Antonov cargo aircraft ignoring us completely. I stayed by the airplane while Fred sauntered off in search of an office to pay the landing fees and file a new flight plan. As soon as he was out of sight the endless procession began...
"Bonjour! Ce Va? aaaahhhh....ok, you have to pay to park here."
"I'm sorry, I don't have any money on me right now, the other guy took it"
"ok you give me souvenir then..."
"ummm, what?"
"you give me souvenir, and cigarettes. You have any American dollars?"
"wow. Umm, hold on, I think I might have a postcard of Portugal here...oh look there it is! Here you are....here's your souvenir"
"aaah, Monsieur, noooooo, nooooo. Please, I need souvenir."
"Hablas espanol?"
"what?"
"Hablas espanol? Te gusta conyar los micos? Mmmm? Me llamo es Jesse, y no me gusta pescado del Rio de Congo o las naranjas verde en mi cabeza! Aye chihuahua. No entiendas, no comprendas? Lo siento senors, lo siento."
...wait for it...wait for it...
The classic puzzled look...a quizical look that I smile broadly too, cocking my head waiting for a response.
"aaaaahhh, ok...aaaaaaaahhhh, we come back later...."
Sweet. One down, about 25 more to go.
And so it went, groups of men would come by the airplane as I sat leaned against its tires trying to catch a brief moment's nap in the sweltering heat. I would hear their feet kicking the pebbles and dirt, purposely trying to make noise to wake me, and I would slowly raise my head and smile. It would all go down the same, each one of the encounters. They would greet in French, I'd reply in Spanish, once even in Portuguese just to stir it up a bit. The bribes-gifts-souvenirs were requested, I'd give them the rambling, ungrammatical speech in broken Spanish about how I did not like Congolese fish or the green oranges in my head. They'd look at each other, me, each other and stand around for 4-5 minutes before frustratingly making off for the next airplane, leaving me to my fitful nap. I promise on my return home to learn more Spanish just out of gratitude for what its done for me in Africa.
We took off again into the jungle, flying alongside the Congo River for quite sometime before diverting away from it for the massive tropical thunderstorms that were looming everywhere. I quickly decided that I love the Twin Otter when it comes to thunderstorms. You have a lot of time to decide what to do with a line of thunderstorms sitting in front of you when you are going 80 mph vs. 300 mph in the 1900 or 500 mph in the CRJ. Most of the monsters I just dropped down beneath, cutting between the rain shafts which hung like shadowy, translucent tentacles from the black beast above. We watched as lighting struck the rainforest below, just miles from our wingtips and I began wondering who was down there watching the aluminum dodo bird precariously amble overhead. Pygmies? Drunken Congolese rebels? Or maybe refugee Rwandan Hutus still hiding 12 years later after massacring 800,000 of their fellow countrymen? I voted Pygmies, it just sounded like someone I'd rather meet on the forest floor.
Further on, as the sun began to set we came upon the massive mountains that border Uganda, before giving way to its expansive and beautifully sweeping western plains. I squinted looking at the 16,500 foot peak off our wing tip, towering 5,500 feet above us, trying to discern if it really was snow that stuck to its craggy precipice. Yep. Wow, who would've thought...snow right here, smack dab on the equator, just miles from a misty rainforest. 10.5 hours flight time and we would land in Uganda again.
Portugal continued...
Ok, so here's what I've decided, how bout I save the Portugal stories for later, because I just think I'd be writing more than anyone would care to read in one sitting. I'll just include a few more pictures and captions. I'll try and put a link on the site so that anyone can check out my online photo album. Enjoy....
Country side between Porto and the Peneda Geres Natl. Park on the border of Spain, northern Portugal...
More countryside...
Ancient Stone village on eastern border...
Me in the mountains...
Misty coastline north of Lisbon...
It was a busy week in Chad. I arrived early last Tuesday, at 3:30am N'djamena, and as I anxiously awaited the sight of my bag on the decrepit, antique baggage carousel I became aware of something all around me, a sort of cloud. 'Oh, you guys again, kinda forgot bout you in Portugal' and I soon was hard at work methodically inflicting casualties upon the Chadian mosquito population. A quick shower and a 30 minute nap found me sitting aboard another flight, bags both under my eyes and the seat next to me, bound for Abeche for a week's worth of fun and excitement.
The days were hot and full of security concerns. Those rascally, rebellious rebels along the Sudanese border are creating havoc again, and the Chadian military alongside the French were strafing their lines daily. Seems there is a need for something to be continuously falling from the sky in Chad, a kind of queer fact of life. The rains fall from June to late September or October, destroying but also providing the most essential element for life. They wash out the roads and make everything on the ground an arduous task, therefore most military activity ceases and desists. Its revolution holiday time. Then the rains stop falling, the roads dry, the commanders wake from their soggy catonic states and the bombs begin falling in the place of water droplets. Helicopters were constantly taking off from Abeche heading north with shiny bombs and troops carrying bright new black Russian AK47s. While awaiting the fuel truck one day I heard a 'clink..clink..clink..clunk..clink...' coming from behind me. Lacking working trucks, explosive experts were using a rickety bag cart to transport massive yellow bombs across the ramp. Every clink I heard sent a shiver up my spine as I watched the explosives roll into each other, clunking and clinking. Not my idea of a respectable way to go. Death by baggage cart bombs, "sorry bout your son, Ms. Washburn and Mr. Archambault, at least it wasn't a heart attack on the toilet."
Besides flying twice the normal amount, we were constantly 'on call' for a possible evacuation of NGO staff from a few locations in the north, where fighting intensified between the different armies. A constant buzz was heard, a nervous energy excited the air around, and everyone was whispering of what was to come. For it's part the UNHCR was extremely helpful in determining the current security status when queried.
"What is the security status up north around Guerada this week?"
"Oh, fine. Just fine."
"Really...hmmm. That's kinda funny, because I heard differently and have also seen the gunships loaded with bombs and the body bags being laid out on the ramp in front of the French base, there was even talk that the rebels made it to within 15km of Abeche last night..."
...PAUSE...
"Mmm hmmm"
"huh. ok, thanks for your time"
There is a veil of secrecy around everything here. No one will officially tell you that things are detiorating, or that the proverbial shit is hitting the fan, but if you look around it seems quite obvious. Some out there speculate that its because the UNHCR is on an invitational thin ice status with the Chadian government and if it were to start shouting "WE HAVE A PROBLEM HERE!! GET READY TO EVACUATE PEOPLE!" it would endanger it's precarious good standing with the authorities. It would be like stating the rebels are winning and the government (that is allowing our presence to exist) is losing. Yet we are not asking for this, we are asking for a whispered truth, just a glimmer of what is really happening so that we all might be prepared, or at least that's what I'm asking for.
A report recently came out from 'undisclosed sources' regarding an interview with one of the rebel commanders. It soon was circulated around all the NGO's, though few will confess to having received it if directly questioned. In it the commander states that due to the French military's involvement in the conflict, any French national found on the ground, humanitarian or military, will be considered a mercenary/enemy and dealt with accordingly. Sitting on the couch reading this off my laptop's screen, with Fred, our French Program Chief Pilot sitting next to me, I had to chuckle.
"What's so funny?" he asked with an irritated French accent.
"...now you know what it feels like to be an American, buddy! Welcome to the club!"
No response.
A few days later, on Saturday, we ferried the aircraft across central Chad back to N'djamena, and escaped the (conflict generated) heat for a day or two. That night Fred and I trudged around the pattern in N'djamena in the Otter for 6 landings to get night current again (an US FAA regulation) and I shot one of my first 0/0 - window open approaches. While flying the previous few approaches, we had massacred countless swarms of bugs, until finally on my last landing I hit the jackpot of all mosquito columns and rendered the windshield completely useless, it became covered with a thick paste of bug juice and bug appendages of various colors and consistencies. Damn. Down goes the side window, and I had to fly the plane sideways to the runway while getting pummeled, myself now, with small bugs at 85 mph.
A nice humid weekend in N'djamena consisting of dinners with Elizabeth, Darcy and the gang ended at 3 am Monday morning, after only 4 hours sleep, when I arose to fly the Otter with Fred down to Entebbe. Stepping outside it struck me just how peaceful everything was, the crickets, the tree frogs, a light breeze, and a waning moon shining through thin cirrus clouds above. I had to think that, like many places on earth, Chad wouldn't be such a bad place, if only there weren't any people here. We took off southbound for Bangui initially at 4am on the dot, wielding flashlights, headlamps and a thermos full of super sugary watered down coffee, thanks Fred. Crossing the Chari river off the end of runway 23 we flew south over Cameroon initially, crossed back into Chad and then over the border of Central African Republic. The lights of industrialized civilization faded shortly after departure form N'djamena and a black hole loomed below for most of the trip, countered only by the beautiful bright stars above. I was invigorated at first by the thought of being one of only a few people who have done such a trip over this region, but it soon faded into sleepiness, and irritation with the horrible coffee flavored sugar water and the French guy sitting next to me. I began contemplating whether I had ever read anywhere in the FAA FARs (Federal Air Regulations, the 'bible' of US based aviation) stating that there was a limit to how many hours one could fly in the same airplane with a French captain before needing another vacation. Just the thought lifted my spirits and I determined I'd make the suggestion to the NTSB upon my return to the United States.
Bangui came and went in 3 hours time without any arrests for photographic or urinary reasons, just a few ridiculous bribe-payments and some silly debates with the fuelers. We were off again southeast bound across the northern reaches of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Rolling green grasslands with swaths of forest soon gave way to a thick impenetrable sea of dark green broccoli tops that appeared to continue on forever. Not much hope for someone over this sea of vegetation if they were to lose their engines, or in some of our planes cases, engine. Here and there a hole would appear, a spot where greedy, sweaty men dig below, scarring the earths crust in search of gold. Then a bizarre line would cross our path, running on for miles before abruptly turning and continuing off into the horizon. Old roads. Roads that the Belgians had constructed during their time of colonial rule, but that haven't seen attention since their hasty withdrawal in the 60's, and have since been swallowed up by the hungry jungle. After a couple hours of no one hearing us and us in return only hearing scratchy voices of far away pilots we finally stumbled upon Kisangani, which is now one of my least favorite places.
Landing in Kisangani is like landing in a large advertisement for the United Nations. Everywhere you look there is UN stamped on this and that. This airplane, that truck, this container, that guy's hat, this building, that tractor. Its overwhelming. We parked next to a massive cargo plane with Russian registration numbers and watched as they crammed its hold to the roof with random containers. The pilots, fat and shirtless, sat beneath its tail in the shade smoking cigarettes rubbing their sweaty, grey haired bellies as the forklifts loaded the aircraft. 'I hope I don't turn out like that' flashed across my mind as I simultaneously wondered if what they were sipping wasn't vodka. Fuel trucks rolled back and forth between the massive C130s and Antonov cargo aircraft ignoring us completely. I stayed by the airplane while Fred sauntered off in search of an office to pay the landing fees and file a new flight plan. As soon as he was out of sight the endless procession began...
"Bonjour! Ce Va? aaaahhhh....ok, you have to pay to park here."
"I'm sorry, I don't have any money on me right now, the other guy took it"
"ok you give me souvenir then..."
"ummm, what?"
"you give me souvenir, and cigarettes. You have any American dollars?"
"wow. Umm, hold on, I think I might have a postcard of Portugal here...oh look there it is! Here you are....here's your souvenir"
"aaah, Monsieur, noooooo, nooooo. Please, I need souvenir."
"Hablas espanol?"
"what?"
"Hablas espanol? Te gusta conyar los micos? Mmmm? Me llamo es Jesse, y no me gusta pescado del Rio de Congo o las naranjas verde en mi cabeza! Aye chihuahua. No entiendas, no comprendas? Lo siento senors, lo siento."
...wait for it...wait for it...
The classic puzzled look...a quizical look that I smile broadly too, cocking my head waiting for a response.
"aaaaahhh, ok...aaaaaaaahhhh, we come back later...."
Sweet. One down, about 25 more to go.
And so it went, groups of men would come by the airplane as I sat leaned against its tires trying to catch a brief moment's nap in the sweltering heat. I would hear their feet kicking the pebbles and dirt, purposely trying to make noise to wake me, and I would slowly raise my head and smile. It would all go down the same, each one of the encounters. They would greet in French, I'd reply in Spanish, once even in Portuguese just to stir it up a bit. The bribes-gifts-souvenirs were requested, I'd give them the rambling, ungrammatical speech in broken Spanish about how I did not like Congolese fish or the green oranges in my head. They'd look at each other, me, each other and stand around for 4-5 minutes before frustratingly making off for the next airplane, leaving me to my fitful nap. I promise on my return home to learn more Spanish just out of gratitude for what its done for me in Africa.
We took off again into the jungle, flying alongside the Congo River for quite sometime before diverting away from it for the massive tropical thunderstorms that were looming everywhere. I quickly decided that I love the Twin Otter when it comes to thunderstorms. You have a lot of time to decide what to do with a line of thunderstorms sitting in front of you when you are going 80 mph vs. 300 mph in the 1900 or 500 mph in the CRJ. Most of the monsters I just dropped down beneath, cutting between the rain shafts which hung like shadowy, translucent tentacles from the black beast above. We watched as lighting struck the rainforest below, just miles from our wingtips and I began wondering who was down there watching the aluminum dodo bird precariously amble overhead. Pygmies? Drunken Congolese rebels? Or maybe refugee Rwandan Hutus still hiding 12 years later after massacring 800,000 of their fellow countrymen? I voted Pygmies, it just sounded like someone I'd rather meet on the forest floor.
Further on, as the sun began to set we came upon the massive mountains that border Uganda, before giving way to its expansive and beautifully sweeping western plains. I squinted looking at the 16,500 foot peak off our wing tip, towering 5,500 feet above us, trying to discern if it really was snow that stuck to its craggy precipice. Yep. Wow, who would've thought...snow right here, smack dab on the equator, just miles from a misty rainforest. 10.5 hours flight time and we would land in Uganda again.
Portugal continued...
Ok, so here's what I've decided, how bout I save the Portugal stories for later, because I just think I'd be writing more than anyone would care to read in one sitting. I'll just include a few more pictures and captions. I'll try and put a link on the site so that anyone can check out my online photo album. Enjoy....
Country side between Porto and the Peneda Geres Natl. Park on the border of Spain, northern Portugal...
More countryside...
Ancient Stone village on eastern border...
Me in the mountains...
Misty coastline north of Lisbon...
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