My First Hijac!@$%

Not even a week ago I wrote of Goz Beida as a picturesque valley, inundated with birds but almost a bit idyllic nonetheless? I rescind any peaceful leaning I may have implied. Chadian reality slapped me hard in the side of the face today and I was snapped out of my dreamy romanticized view of the landscape and thrown into the situation that IS Chad.

Last night while eating dinner, Darcy’s phone rang, on the other end the UNHCR, and we found ourselves with an abnormal flight routine for this morning’s dawn. The description vaguely entailed the need for two trips, one with fully malleable and functional passengers and the other with lets just say some passengers who were a bit stiff and not too talkative, aka, D-E-D, dead. We were asked to pick up bodies in Kou Kou, sans body bags. Yeah, BYOBB. Most certainly not a predicament which popped up often during my flying career at Mesa. Most of the mission was a bit shrouded in mystery, which concerned both Steve and I, and we were both uneasy about slopping corpses into zip lock baggies and tossing them into the cargo and cabin areas, especially because of the length of time these corpses had, uhhh, been corpses, and the fact the cause of death was not divulged. (Not too many refrigerated morgues in the Kou Kou area these days.)

Luckily, as we sat debating the predicament, my dinner no longer appealing, another call was received and we were off the hook. Seems the UNHCR decided that 3 days without embalmment and/or refrigeration was sufficient grounds for deposition into the grounds. This however lead us to our second adventure, one that will cause some shock waves throughout UNHCR and Goz Beida communities in the coming weeks. The UN decided that instead of wasting JET A for aerial hearse service we would now pick up a load of lonely, tired ex-pats in the south, and we were to do it early.

This morning we arose early and headed south, south to the land of suicidal kamikaze birds and my pal the Sultan. We arrived overhead the airstrip around 750 am and as usual called the radio base for the field security situation…”aah, yahhhhh, U.N. Tango One, Seguuuriddee es gooood, you land, ok?” . Apparently someone wasn’t looking out their window this morning.

I landed and rolled out down the bumpy gravel runway pleased and relaxed that we had avoided making more Chadian Chicken Chop Suey, and I lazily studied the new abundance of military trucks surrounding the UN and NGO trucks. Military trucks in Chad are all the same between both rebels and state forces. All use Toyota and other miscellaneous stolen pickup trucks, mount AK47s to the roof, drape RPGs over the sides and go barreling around outfitted in raggy and randomly assorted camo fatigues wearing turbans and Ray Ban aviator looking glasses. They do not look like the group who would sit down and peacefully read one of those different “Chicken soup for the…soul” books. More appropriately they look like a hungry, rabid and intoxicated group itching for an excuse to fondle a trigger.

Every morning as we set forth from Abeche we receive a list of names the UN requests us to find and carry from the field. Every day we arrive at the airfields finding chaos ensuing and only a portion of those listed on the manifest actually present. The rest of the airfield’s NGO population that is on the standby list, haggle and argue over who goes and who stays and we watch the childish behavior for a short time before the desert sun makes it unbearable. Only those who have a written, signed and stamped document from the UN saying they need to be on the airplane can go with us, and the local UN staff are required to let the AirServ office know who actually stepped aboard the aircraft via a Sat phone call immediately after our departure.

We stop. The engines spool down and the turbine whine fades. Kids can be seen at the edge of the runway, barefoot, tending a herd of goats or cattle. I jump out, manifest in hand, dawning my sunglasses, in a good mood, and am greeted by the Goz Beida base manager whom I already dislike. I do not like him because he seems inept at following simple rules and directions, therefore putting us pilots in difficult situations where we are either forced to bend the rules he is supposed to have enforced or enforce them ourselves making it appear that we are making them up as we go. He also lies.

The Greeting: “We have a problem”
“What?”…
”We have a very important official here who wants to go. I sent his request in yesterday (LIE), and you did not approve, why?” …
“ I don’t know, the UN must have their reasons for it, its way beyond my job scope, I do not create the passenger manifests, you know that”….
“Ok, he is not on the list…can you take him?”
“NO, not unless he has an order from the UN”

Problem solved, right? Ha! Wrong. Rules apply to civilized nations, not to Central Africa. Somehow I forgot for a brief moment that the armed trucks were looming in the tree shadows. In one of them sat a punk of an official who decided he needed to be in Abeche for a Friday night. According to the base manager, this guy and the Sultan are both up there, about the same in rank, but this guy was maybe only 10 years older than me and as soon as I saw him I did not trust him. We’ll just refer to him as VIP, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

After checking in a majority of the passengers I was approached hastily by the base manager and the VIP. The fat manager was visibly nervous, looking at me, the VIP, and the ground in quick succession. “You have 1 no show. You take him now?” “NO, we have been over this, you know as well as I do that I cannot just take a government official who wants to go for a ride over these people(pointing to the crowd of MSF, CARE and UNICEF workers who were standing by for a seat)” “Aaaah….ooooooo….kkkkk.”

At this point my mute VIP buddy decided to make it known he spoke English, and quite well. “You think about this Captain. Either I go, or YOU (sticking his finger in my chest) do not. Think about it.” And I suddenly was aware of the trucks, the AK47s, the bloodshot eyed, turban wearing sweaty soldiers, the RPGs. Its amazing how many thoughts, or blurs of thoughts can rush through your mind in a moment. What to do, what to do, what to do????? Well, I bit my lip, as I was tempted to say something to defend myself to him, but instead looked at the manifest and walked away from his disgusting presence, admittedly a bit nervous.

“Mahammat Irib?” I called, for it was the next name on the Standby list, a doctor for MSF (Doctors without borders) a far worthier passenger I thought. “Fuck you, I don’t react well to threats”…was throbbing thru my head as I heard the skirmish behind me. I resisted the urge to turn and look. When I eventually did I saw more armed men swelling around the VIP, and the manager more squeamish and sweaty then ever. We casually walked by, making no eye contact and loaded the doctor and his bags, closed the aircraft up and were about to hop in the cockpit when we heard the manager’s voice squeak…

“Please!? Can we …this, please, can we talk this? I am worried, very worried.” It was pitiful. At that another player emerged, one who had previously remained silent, a UN Security Coordinator in our passenger load, and we all gathered round, while the VIP glared at me with his eyes now bloodshot.

It was voiced that the airplane may actually be in grave danger if he were refused boarding, and that it might be better to sort the mess out in the relative safety of Abeche. The trucks and guns hovered. Steve and I thought. It was like dealing with a stubborn child, they will kick and scream for being left out, but are they really going to cause a bigger problem if left out, or is it better to exclude them and teach them a lesson? These guys are like children in a sense, their reasoning has seemingly not progressed beyond that which we relate to adolescence, but they have fully automatic weapons at hand.

We caved and removed the Doctor, and notably upset, loaded the “V-I-P”. The trucks backed off, the doctor seemed not to understand, and our new found friend took a spot front row, glaring into the cockpit, and I found myself glaring at the rusty crash axe by my left foot, wondering if it would ever see action.

The rest would bore most, but upon arrival in Abeche we caused more waves by having armed personnel meet the Twin Otter upon shutdown. It seems that security works for our VIP, as evidenced by the nods, confused looks and random salutes as they helped him with his bags instead of reprimanding and detaining him. Then came the screaming by the Commissioner, as he attempted to save face in front of his boss for deploying security onto such a noble individual. Steve and I stood red faced, tempers boiling, and the crash axe seemed to call like a siren from the nearby airplane.

It went deeper than that though. It seems this individual is a threat, to the point that we will no longer be flying to Goz Beida, so he will no longer be able to hop a ride whenever he feels impulsed to. He is banned from all UN aircraft and a formal complaint is being presented to the President of Chad, Mr. Deby himself. Also, we dug up the fact that we are not supposed to be carrying government personnel anywhere at anytime, it makes us a target especially in an area swarming with rebel forces. It seems one of the bosses here in Abeche has gotten a bit soft hearted for the travel needy officials and allowed an exception. Then another. Another, and another. The repercussions? NGOs in Goz Beida now need to find an alternative means of transportation out of the ‘idyllic’ valley, the chicken shit base manager may find himself 1. A new job, 2. Unfortunately in pain depending on how our now not so VIP takes the news, and finally, Jesse gets to add another few Chadians who do not like him, to the ever growing list. WTF. In the meantime I have been sent to the capital, Ndjamena for a week, then to ferry an aircraft to Entebbe, Uganda where I’ll be allowed to unwind by the shores of Lake Victoria for 6 days while the dust settles in Abeche. Hopefully Mr. Deby takes my side and fires Mr. VIP. I’m holding my breath…NOW!….

Abeche Mosques and women on asses.

The view west from our house, across the Sultan's seat of the Chadian Ouaddaï Region and the 4th largest city in Tchad, home to over 55,000 people, Abeche. To the left, though its invisible, is one of Ol' Idris Deby's grand houses. Mr. Deby is the current 'elected' president who continues to change the Chadian constitution to allow himself further terms, a standard in African democracy. I mean what kind of country would a democratic nation be without a dictator, eh?



Abeche has 2 REAL roads. The rest are paths that weave between the mud shacks, markets, children and donkey caravans. Its like one big obstacle/rally course, Nick you'd dig it. And the markets...I still need to find a way to take a picture or two of them...the markets have been obliterated twice in the past week by torrential flooding. Sounds chatostropic huh? Well, would you, as an intelligent business owner, set up shop in a stream bed that violently floods everytime a good rain passes within a 10 mile radius of the city? If you answered yes then the Chadian Better Business Bureau and the Abeche Chamber of Commerce would love to help you set up shop selling piles goat heads or ant infested dates!

And here Necole, is one reason why Jean Pierre would despise Tchad. Jean Pierre would be subject to this, and worse, trust me. Donkeys are used for everything here and are everywhere. Check out the vibrant colors the women are wearing. Its only the women who wear these beautiful colors, the men all wear khaki colored or white robes. Its refreshing to see some of these women on the road sometimes, you forget these colors exist.






Finally, heres a quick picture made from a speeding car (about the only way I feel comfy taking pics now!) of a local village. When we fly in any direction out of Abeche, civilization as Westerners know it, ends. Roads cease to exist. Power? HA! Water? Equally HA! But these villages scatter the desert below, some of them look soooooooo cool too. I wish I could wrap myself in a white robe, paint my face black, put on a pair of shades and leather gloves and head off on my bactrian camel into one of these encampments. I have no idea what I would do once I got there though. I'll try to get some better pictures soon, hopefully this weekend when I may get the chance to spend a the night in one of the Sudanese Refugee camps.

The Boyds, the boyds!

Even while huddled beneath the protective veil of my princess like green tent I can still hear them. They want me. They desire me. They, as I’m sure you’ve by now guessed, are the disease laden mosquitoes that Africa is soooo famous for, and they are out in swarms now that the rains have arrived. It seems not a matter of ‘if’ but more of ‘when’ I will get that illustrious mind and stomach distorting disease (yeah, just what I need) that rhymes with Bulgaria (well, kinda).

The rains have brought much more than just mosquitoes though. There are flowers bursting thru the crusty sand in assorted colors and fragrances, there are the freshly tilled fields, seeded by the fatigued, yet determined looking women whose vibrantly colored saris are of incredible contrast to the drab earthen tones that surround. My personal favorite are of course the desert toads who awaken with the exotic moisture. While on an exploratory drive last weekend, Darcy and I found what I dubbed the Valley of the Frogs. In a mud puddle probably 30 feet long, and 15 feet wide swam, played and sang thousands of the love struck and happy little hopping desert toads. It was an amphibious oasis amongst the arid land of reptiles. I returned the following day with camera in hand, only to find the puddle dried and the enraptured toads returned to their subterranean slumbers.


Speaking of rainy season…

The runway in Goz Beida is a wonderful place. It sits in a cradle surrounded by desert mountains and comparatively lush vegetation. As one flies over this time of year, in the mornings after the rainy season thunderstorms have flooded its bowl, the sun dances and reflects off the many pools of standing water in the depressions below, such as the local runway. Its quite an idyllic sight; craggy mountains, muddy overflowing oudais (Chadian equivalent to an arroyo or seasonal stream bed), thatch roofed mud huts, children and goats scrambling to the sound of the noisy tin dodo overhead, and birds, lots and lots of birds.

They are everywhere, the birds that is, no exaggeration. Above, below, behind, overtaking you (this is not an incredible feat for a bird, the Twin Otter has been passed by desert tortoises while on final approach). Imagine if you will, a classic Africa image: The Serengeti’s expansive plains turning black with waves of thousands upon thousands of wildebeests and other migratory four hoofed animals. Now, put wings on those wildebeests, reduce their size by 1/100th, allow them to occupy the air rather than the plains below, and take their horns away (leave the tails though, I think it makes them look funny) and you’ll have what the airspace in southern Chad looks like right now. My first thoughts upon seeing this mass of winged targets were…

1. Holy crap!
2. Holy crap!
3. Wow, this is actually kind of fun, its like playing a game: dodge bir…
4. Holy crap!
5. Wow, that would’ve hurt.

Therefore I was relieved when Steve and I flew on over the ‘airfield’ (loosely used term here) yesterday and spied no such aviary zoo lounging below. I commenced a circle for the runway I guessed most favorable (the wind sock has long since been removed by the local population and used for a much more practical purpose I‘m sure) lined myself up on final approach, configured the aircraft and found myself fat, dumb and happy for a brief moment or two. At about 25 feet AGL(above ground level, for non pilots) Steve and I glanced at each other then back at the runway. Back at each other, then back ahead again. I could tell his thought process in that 1.8 second expanse was proceeding as follows:

1. Holy crap!
2. Holy crap!

In a matter of seconds the black ‘rocks’ that had been scattered all over the gravelly surface decided to spring up and take flight, just as we were trying to conclude ours. The aircraft was suddenly placed into an overdone scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s corny masterpiece. My thoughts closely resembled those examples listed above as I began the feathery slalom at 15 feet AGL, and I found myself amazed that I was winning. The amazement ended with a resounding thump, thump, thump, blap, ewwhh.

After the dead were counted and our damage assessed, the battle victory trophy was handed to Steve and I and there was much rejoicing. We determined that the dents, blood and feathers that now littered the aircraft would most likely(KEYWORDS: most likely) not affect the flight characteristics too significantly, and we finished the last two legs of the day. The aircraft was grounded the following day while the company and DeHavilland Corporation decided what to do, and I ate chicken out of spite.

Two days later the A/C was returned to service under the premise that it wasn’t THAT big a problem, and that by the time they found a metallurgy or airframe expert in Tchad it would be close to my 63rd birthday. It was Friday and we were to head north for Iriba, Guerada and Bahai, but on the taxi out we blew the brand spanking new left hand tire and I was just glad we weren’t flying my buddy the Sultan around, as that may have put a crimp in my chances of acquiring my own harem. Unknown to us, it did mean that an 11 year old boy in Bahai whose weekend plans weren’t off to the best of starts, had to wait even longer.




When we finally arrived there in Bahai we were greeted by the usual entourage of white landrovers and landcruisers and suped up militia trucks(that have been stolen from the NGO’s and revamped for less peaceful missions, outfitted with roof mounted AK47s. They were surely there to invite us to the local mosque bake sale.) But as I was checking the passengers Ids and scanning them for concealed weapons I saw the boy, and I felt a twinge of despair rush thru my heart. This kid had little chance of making it, and he still had 2 hours of bumpy flying to go before he would be transported to the infamous Abeche hospital where he would most likely die soon, away from his possibly nonexistent family. It would appear that some Janjaweed pillager took a disliking to this poor child, being that he was of slightly different ethnicity and male, and brandished upon his skull an unmerciful machete strike. Pure sad pity is about the best way to describe what was overwhelming my senses as I stared into his glassy, glazed over eyes, and I truly wished I could have conveyed to him just how much my heart ached for his impossible predicament.

11 years old. At 11 I was fishing with my father, shooting apples with BB guns, and building dirt jumps for my BMX bike, not watching my parents slaughtered like livestock, sisters raped, house burned and having to run as fast as I could for my life away from demons that were really, truly there, not imagined and hiding beneath a bed. I say again, this IS a different planet. Those eyes said so much of the suffering they’d seen and of the potential suffering to come.

Here’ a thought most Americans cannot fathom, and we are truly blessed for it not ever entering our lives. Could you go on living if you had nothing to live for? Visualize the events I’ve spoken of happening to you, as horrible as it sounds. Your family killed, your land and home reduced to ashes. Your only source of lively-hood destroyed, and you are swept away from the only place you ever knew as home with little chance of ever returning for there is nothing there to be had now after the scorched earth policies of the enemy who was your neighbor. You are surrounded by the fiery red eyes of hatred, every night they encircle your refuge like rabid wolves seeking the straggler. What reason do you have to live any longer? You have no future. No other country or person is going to give you a brand new shiny lease on life, as they may do for a displaced European refugee, which you are not, you are only African. Your past has been reduced to cinders and bones. You live in fear constantly. Why would you wish to continue this earthbound experience? Faith? You’d better hope it’s damned strong. Now picture that its not just you, but there are 100,000 others who are left with the same pile of shit for hope.

We as Americans have this ingrained sense that everything will be alright, that there is always something bright on the horizon to look forward too. These people have nothing to look forward to, but they keep on living and breathing. This is the other side of humanity, the either pitiful or commendable side, I’ll leave that judgment up to you. I’m ashamed to say it but one of the only things I can think of that might give me hope if I were in that situation, is the prospect of revenge. Making those who have bestowed such horrific atrocities upon me pay dearly in blood. I think this crude example might somewhat be what keeps the violence flowing here in Africa, in the West Bank, in Chechyna and other places on this crazy globe.

Anyway…

Other news to report: Darcy and I have begun building a shrine to our western culture, a bar. Its kind of shameful huh? We got a load of donkey doo mud bricks (you think I’m kidding) and mortar and have begun the construction. Soon we will need a name, suggestions are welcome.

I have a new nickname: Kodak, for my lucky picture taking endeavors. PS: Bryce, your photo suggestions would not all work here, one does not just need to hide their camera from soldiers.

The Monkey is fine, he has figured out he has a tail and now chews on its end obsessively in between grooming the humans looking for bugs.

I forgot, for about 2 hours, my Anglo Saxon heritage and wound up with a great back sunburn from the merciless Equator sun.

Ok, that’s the news from Lake Wobe-Chad, and I’ll stop yammering away for now….

The Camel tree...

Ailments, part 1

Tonight I realised I am a bit worried. The picture thing? No. Worse. My insides truly disapprove of Africa. I always prided myself on being the owner of an iron stomach. I have eaten some nasty things in nasty places, yet here I find myself the greenhorn, the rookie, the WUSS. And my organs aren't diggin it so far. Hopefully the tolerance will build to the point that I'll be able to munch on dead goats I've scraped off the street corner, not that I'd ever do that...really. Oh, and the eye twitch thing is beginning to bug me as well. I guess you were right Nick...theres some nasty little single celled micro-organisms floatin around over here, and they, unlike the Muslim men of Abeche, LOVE ME.

Steeeeeeeeeeeeeerike Three!!!!!

For those of you who read this post last night and wrote me since then, I apologize. I was pretty confused and pissed off about the '3rd' strike I received in regards to picture taking.

Therefore I have edited it and subtracted the 3 beers I had in me when I wrote it as well. Anyway, for those of you who did not read it...good, lets just keep it that way.

What happened was this: On our way to another local NGO's (World Food Program) barbecue we stopped at one of the local bars, the very one I went to my first day here, in order to buy some beer for the cookout. While we were stopped a thunderstorm advanced led by a huge wall of orange dust reaching 3000 to 4000 feet in the air, it was an unbelievable sight. I had already seen a few others last week, preceeding some of the other thunderstorms, but this one was wild, and it was too perfect as far a photo-ops go. So, we all began clicking away...shooting this wall of dust advancing across the city, turning everything to orange, turning everything eerie. It was awesome. I took 4 pictures or so of different things around me, from the back seat of the car when suddenly I heard shouting coming from my left. Amazingly, once again I had been caught taking pictures, this time of the most sacred of Chadian subjects...DUST! The thing that upset me about the event was that I had been done taking pictures for a good few minutes, yet the others were just putting their cameras away. We were all discrete, and all made sure we did not aim them in the direction of women. Yet for some reason I was once again the one who was picked out of the group and violently approached.

An evidently intoxicated and hypocritical Muslim (hypocritical because of the intoxication...a big Quran no-no) ran up to my window with buddies in tow and begin screaming at me in slurred Arabic. At first I was quite freaked out, then as the slurring continued I started to get mad, real mad, and confused. Why me? Huh? What had I done differently from the others? Did you know I was intentionally underexposing the pictures 1/2 a F-stop????? Does that make you MAD?? Do you not like the shirt I'm wearing???? Is my deodorant offensive??? Well then WHAT!!??!?? It escalated to a point that I was mad, and a bit afraid that it was on the verge of turning into something worse. Jihads against Anglo Saxon tourist/photographer/NGO guys is not my idea of a relaxing intro to an afternoon barbeque. Next time no appetizer please...thank you Ahkmed.

So, my camera now only goes in the plane with me, in my backpack if we venture out of town, or in my backpack when I go on vacation. I'm not sure what it is that these cantancerous old bastards dislike so vehemently with my looks or photo taking style, but I'm not tempting 'Strike 4' for quite sometime. Its too bad, as well, because I see so many things that would make incredible images to share with you all, but now I'm afraid there might be some other pugnacious freak lurking behind me looking for an excuse to pick a fight, and I think I'll just have to write more descriptevely instead to make up the difference.

Anyway, here's a few pictures from the moments before the storm and sand cloud. If it hadn't been for Akbar the Asshole I would have taken more of the amazing eeriness. Sorry if I worried anyone, I'll cool it from now on...


Notice the ORANGE GLOW in the air...it was a bit spooky in a way. The most amazing thing about it all was watching the sand cloud wall, which rose about 4000 feet in the air, advancing in front of the thunderstorm, racing across the desert towards the town, us and our beer.

Abeche pictures...

I am quickly realizing that photography in Chad is a touchy subject, sometimes literally, and the 'touching' isn't very enjoyable. Twice, in one week now I have gotten into situations due to my even-quite-discreet taking of pictures. Both times made me quite uncomfortable so I need to find an alternate solution. It seems that a majority of Chadians: 1. Hate the French 2. Think I am French 3. Hate French people taking pictures and will turn violent in a split second in the face of photography. 4. One of our local workers here even noted to the agreement of the others, that I look like Im in the CIA and that everyone is already paranoid of being spied upon by the government anyhow.

Great, just what I need. Bad enough that my President is openly and blatantly supporting Israel as they bombard Lebanon (yeah, its been noticed here) but that now I'm possibly thought to be a CIA operative. Just what I need in a hostile Muslim country. I'm suddenly not liking this shaved head thing so much. So here's a couple of mediocre pictures I took that almost cost me dearly...


The only Chadians who consistently love to have their pictures taken are the children. Some of them will find you in the street and ask you to take their picture so that they can see it. It puts a huge smile on my face to take it, then show it to them thus producing their ear to ear smile. Even thru the cultural barriers I have small ways to show I'm not so alien.

All that being said, its usually not even those whose pictures are being taken that make a fuss, its someone that seems to be looking for a reason to make a problem against a skinny white guy like myself...theres always one in a crowd.
Like this example. I took this picture of the old man handmaking woodsnake skin shoes after I had the nod of approval from him. Afterwards a late teens punk took it upon himself to get in my face about the matter even though he was not the picture's subject. I wrote it off until last night as a freak testosterone induced event.

Old man making snake skin shoes in the market...



Have you ever gone to take a picture and found that someone walked right into it...then just stayed there...thinking obliviously that you were taking a picture of them, not the surrounding setting. Yeah. Thats Frederic, our 'French' Chief Pilot. I say again, our FRENCH Chief Pilot.



Finally, heres the wondrous bar that Darcy and I went to this evening. Its amazing what good friends you can make over a few beers and even fewer words(aah, the wonders of alcohol, huh?). I had one guy tell me he would sacrafice his life for mine in broken English and French. I asked him to please retract his last comment but that I really appreciated it. But his friendship did prove useful when two beligerent drunks got the nerve to storm our table demanding in a quasi French-Arabic, that I destroy my camera for the pictures I had taken nearly 1/2 hour earlier. Talk about delayed reaction time. I pleaded the Fifth, which seemed to confuse them even further.

A calm after the rainy season storm...





Our Twin Otter, N899AS at rest momentarily in the premier African vacation destination, Iriba



Ok, logic puzzle for pilots, and everyone else for the matter. You've heard of Where's Waldo? books...how bout this one...Where's Iriba airstrip? Its in there, I promise.

Cripples and Kings

The rainy season has arrived suddenly and clamorously, literally with a bang. It went from crystalline blue skies seeming to stretch from Indian to Atlantic Oceans to towering thunderstorms reaching high into the heavens in the span of two hours.

Yesterday I flew for the first time on a ‘revenue’ flight, as a FO, not a Captain (thankfully, because I had only 1.2 hrs in the airplane at that time). I awoke early and began preparing for the unknown, as no one has sufficiently explained what is anticipated or expected from me, I just keep getting the ‘don’t worry bout it, you‘ll see!’ responses to my questioning. As I climbed into the airport bound Landcruiser I found my stomach and lower abdomen practicing what I believe was Olympic gymnastics or just crazy ol’ contortionism. Nervous? Mmmm, maybe a little, but it wasn’t ample enough to cause this discomfort. It seems a well known and betrayed Aztec Indian king isn’t quite content with just torturing Central American bound gringos, he has expanded his geographic empire of agony. As I walked across the tarmac towards the airplane I found myself cursing the damn Spaniards whose deceit of Montezuma warranted centuries of suffering. Crazy thing to be thinking of as one set out towards the African bush.

The day’s flying was done to villages north of Abeche, along the Sudanese border. Iriba, Guerada and Bahai. Look them up on Mapquest or Google Earth and if your lucky you will maybe, maybe find Guerada.

The stark, desolate and unforgiving landscape still strikes me as something more suited for the moon. Surely no one could possibly survive out there…but they do, they are, and what’s more, they are leaving other places to come here. I cannot fathom the situation that would necessitate a family to pull its roots, pack their meager belongings onto a camel, donkey or horse’s back and quickly set out as stealthy as possible across the parched desert to this lifeless void. Yet more and more do it everyday, and when they arrive they look like walking skeletons from the land of death.

So, with these thoughts, in Guerada, I was handed a crumpled, yet official looking piece of paper that put my introspection on pause: a request for an emergency medical evacuation of a Sudanese refugee and his wife. The man had been shot and was on the verge of further existence. Janjaweed? (which is not a form of good bud sold in dime bags guys, you know who you are!) Civil unrest in the camps? I haven’t a clue. All I know is that we were this guy’s only chance for survival, so I said NO.

I’m kidding, really. Ok, ok, where was I? Yeah, so we were this guy’s only chance of making it somewhere he might receive medical attention and I got to feel I was doing something truly worthwhile that wasn’t just sightseeing at the U.N. Refugee Agency’s expense. There was something that struck me as a bit ironic though. The male African equivalent of an EMT accompanying the patient was wearing a baseball cap with the L-U-C-K, spelled out on its front and back. I hope for the patient's sake it was of the G-O-O-D brand. What the poor soul didn’t realize, though I alone did, was that he had one formidable threat lying ahead of him still, one of my Twin Otter landings.

Today, was another story, and of formidable contrast to yesterday’s events. Today I flew royal blood. Today I flew the King of Goz Beida, yep, the ‘Man’ himself. He is actually the Sultan, and I tried to act as sheepish and impressed as possible to not injure his ego. He was actually quite the nice guy and laughed at me while I stared wide eyed and confused following a 2 minute monologue he gave me in French. I picked up something about Hellos, you’re the new guy, washing machines, pesky squirrels always grabbing his breakfast cereal, etc., etc. I tend to believe I misinterpreted his oration and that he was actually offering me riches and a harem if I came and took over the throne in a few weeks. I’ve gotta work on my French.

We dropped the Sultan off in Goz Beida and continued to Kou Kou (yes, its pronounced Coo Coo) a runway that lives up to its name. It is about 25 feet wide, and about 2500 feet long with trees, huts and dancing kids at both ends. And it was mush, a thick slop of clay mud that sticks to the tires. Combine these lovely conditions with the fact that one of the engines spools up in reverse twice as fast (the right one) and that the right brake pads had just been replaced that morning, and you will understand the drunken sidewinder--like tire marks I left down the runway. When I hopped out afterwards to let the people off it was my turn to laugh. Now I wasn’t the one who was wide eyed and scared/confused. I’ve never seen blacks so white.

And now the desert I conceived as the geographical simile of death has proved me so wrong, as most things in life do when you think you have got the answer. It is far from dead, it was just sleeping and only needed a little wakening. The desert that just 6 hours ago I was over-flying, marveling at its lifeless hostility has, under the cover of darkness, thanks to the afternoon’s drenching, become a masterfully orchestrated symphony. Toads, gazillions of them, have appeared from their subterranean slumbers to sing the night away, accompanied by the various new born insects, bats squeaking over head, and the occasional owl hoot. The thick, temporarily humid air, carries the sounds for a lengthy distance. Of course there are interruptions to the symphony as well…donkeys braying (and not like Jean Pierre’s soprano solos either Necole), kids shouting in Arabic and the one that makes me feel like I’m camping in a U.S. National Park campground surrounded by monstrous R.V.s: the hum of the necessary generators supplying the only electricity in town.

I have been trying for the past two days to post this along with some pictures but the site seems to have had enough of me and pictures for the week. Maybe it thinks I'm going to post more monkey pics...

Chadian Pictures

Just thought I'd throw a couple pictures on here from today's activities, I'll write more later...hope everyone had a great weekend! Sorry if it reads like a childrens story. Jesse

After a rough day of automobile security watch, Monsieur Le Monkey finds himself exhausted



theres but one thing to do...nap. This is done after, and only after throwing his food at me and grooming my arm and leg hair, something I find myself learning to like (take note ladies)


What do you suppose a monkey dreams of?



Later, we tried unsuccesfully to rent some camels. It so happens that it was a holiday weekend and all the mid-size and economy camels were sold out, all they had left were the SUV models, so we opted out. Actually the camels wandered off into the desert and no one could find them. The kids here are watching their fathers ride off into the scrub on donkeys in search of the elusive economy camels.



This is the view down the road and to the right from the house I stay at. Just take a right at the dirt pile, follow the barbwire around the French military installation, wave at the AK47 and grenade launcher toting milita/rebel/army/thug/??? guys, take a left at the herd of goats, another left at the tree with all the donkeys underneath and there she is!

Monsieur Monkey and the Good Doctor (sorry...its a really long one)

Bonsoir Madames et Monsieurs


During the 5 ½ hour flight back down the dark continent from Paris I found myself surrounded by screaming Chadian children, French diplomats and, even worse…redneck American oil workers, a motley crew if there ever was one. We glided down over the amazingly expansive Sahara, such an unbelievable sight to behold, it surpasses any open and desolate space I had ever imagined. I almost did not want to look outside and risk spoiling the images I had pondered up over the years of massive sand dunes with camel trains criss crossing their cornices, remote oasis’s, and other Lawrence of Arabia relics…but it didn’t disappoint, it was still amazing at 35000 feet.

A gunshot outside, and not too far, my heart just picked up the tempo here a bit.

As we began our descent into N’djamena my face was glued to the window like a 8 year old kid. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Blackness. Then a shimmer, and a flash. Another shimmer and stars…below…? Another star below the wing. Have my inner ear and my French pilots deceived me so much that I am upside down and barely even aware? Another shimmer and star below give it away, light from the moon above aids in the veils lifting. We were crossing the remnants of the once great Lac Tchad, the once largest body of fresh water in Africa that has been reduced to marshes and waterways slicing back and forth. In those waterways sit small dugout boats with tiny lights, fisherman, I’m suddenly loving it. The lake ends and I meet the darkness again, then a light, a fire, another fire, then things that look like fire flies…but these are flying fast and most likely sting…wow, bullets strafing the desert below. (Don’t worry Mom, besides those and the shots I just heard outside that’s been it, and for all I know they may be celebrating. It may be…ah…National Sand Dune Appreciation day or something…)

We landed and walked across the tarmac to the massive International Airport’s terminal. It was not so unlike most other international airports besides the fact it had only 4 planes on the tarmac, including AirServ’’s 1900, the Customs personnel were talked into just letting me thru without any questioning or fuss by my greeters, the building’s (and city’s for that matter) lights flickered as the generators struggled to keep up, and men walked around in long Arabic robes, oh and there were the AK47s too, the final nice touch. This is great. I can truly say I am enjoying this now, its turned into an adventure.

I find myself in a place so alien, unlike anywhere I’ve landed before…Chad. My mouth agape, my forehead still plastered to the windows of the Landcruiser, we creep thru the dirt alleyways towards what proves an enormous compound, housing AirServ employees and the main operations. Upon entering I am greeted by three white South Africans (suddenly not so alien…) and I am brought to my room. It smells just as I dreamed it would…spice?…and antique wood. I’m back in the dream, the mystery, its great, its alien, its adventurous…its…then I see HIM.

He sits on a slab of wood painted blood rouge, and my sense of adventure fades slightly, replaced with irritation. He has beaten me to this distant and chaotic place. ‘Good-day Doctor’ I groan. He says nothing and I’m glad, for I would not like anyone overhearing this conversation. We lock eyes and I wonder how he arrived, who he came with, why he’s still here.

The not-so-pleasant Dr. Kurtz, Conrad’s infamous, detestable and fictional character you ask? No. This doctor is real. He stares at me, with a sickeningly ignorant smile and a receding hairline (I know, I know…pot calling the kettle black?). He’s not physically here, in flesh and blood, but it makes no difference to me. On the red painted wood that is the bookshelf, on the creased spine of a paperbound book, authored by none other than himself sits a doctor who Kurtz pales in comparison to. Its him. Its Phil, Doctor Phil, and I start planning his exodus.

At night I awake in the thick blackness…the generator has quit and its stifling hot, I’m drenched in sweat. Sexy huh? I fumble my way to the bathroom and upon opening the door hear something much bigger than a mouse, and with claws, that scampers across the tile. I’m almost glad the electricity is out.

French military aircraft awake me early, their after burners grossly overpowering the children singing in Arabic outside their window which had been incorporated into my dreams.

After breakfast we hop into the trucks and convoy to the airport. The main gate is closed so we opt for the side entrance; a dirt road thru the open air mud huts that house blacksmiths, mechanics and narcoleptics, thru a chain link fence and…oh, look here: we are on the taxiways of the international airport driving our trucks, and no one cares a bit. My eyes are large, they are bulging. In the airport’s one bathroom spiders, the size of Delaware, loom overhead, breathing heavy (really), waiting for some poor child to wander in unaccompanied to use the urinal. Poor bastard, whoever it will be.

The 1900 fills with UN personnel and I am well on my way across the Sahel before I even realize it. Its desolate. It makes the Navajo Nation look like Manhattan. Nothing. Nothing. Oh, wait…nothing. Then here and there a village appears below, thatch roofed mud huts with extensive defensive looking fences surrounding the village, then…nothing but sand.

Abeche appears after 1 ½ hours or so and on approach we pass over the charred wreckage of a Chadian C130 that crashed a few weeks back, killing everyone on board.
I am brought to the heavily guarded house here and am instantly happy. I (Laura and Chavez pay attention) now have a pet monkey…AND…a pet desert tortoise. Yep, life is good. I make acquaintances with my new French chief pilot (Frederic), Swiss co pilot Myrian), Canadian base manager(Darcy), and Pennsylvanian mechanic (?, oops) then am given the grand tour by Darcy. He takes me immediately to a local bar(!) where we down drinks in the unroofed mud walled atmosphere. Kick ass! Then the marche (market) tour complete with kids shoving bloody goat heads in my face laughing. Aah, Abeche.

And this sign means?

Answer:
The sale of 14 spherical objects from a table whilst sitting beneath an umbrella is STRICTLY FORBIDDEN, in this location, especially if you are lacking a neck.

South African thoughts...

Two days and counting until Tchad…

My impression of South Africa has been slightly skewed so far, though I plan to give it another chance to redeem itself. Everyone I’ve spoken to around here, S.A. natives included, have all said the same thing: Johannesburg is not South Africa. It would be similar to a foreign tourist visiting Detroit and assuming all of America was of it’s magnificent caliber. Not a realistic or fair representation.

Johannesburg was born a mining town and it sits above one of the planets largest veins of gold. To this day it still seems a mining-industrial town at heart, as evidenced by huge tailing piles surrounding its perimeter and the billowing smoke rising from its abundant exhaust stacks. At night, from 9000 feet it is transformed into a peaceful light show, and its downtown looks as safe as Main St. in Durango on Christmas Eve. Yet it is here at 9000 feet that my CAA examiner noted the other evening, “this is about as close to downtown Joberg as I would safely come”, to which the accompanying instructor agreed promptly. Wussy South Africans? Maybe, but I’ve also heard two attempted car jacking stories, one shooting for a cell phone, and one attempted rape story from 1 cleaner who works in the simulator building we use. Its not renown for its great repertoire.

But yesterday, Sunday (which may explain it) Ed and I ventured into, thru, around, up and down Johannesburg and found it relatively benign. Its main center seems like any other city that is a bit down on its luck, or economically depressed. A few streets either side of ’Main street’ though and the area gets quite shady. It had a bit of a (African) San Pedro Sula, that Honduran shithole of a city, feel to it (dirty, impoverished and scary, you know what I‘m talking about Eric). Yet even on those roads, where we got caught amongst pedestrian crowds, and weren’t able to move a foot in either direction, while we were nervously envisioning the imminent armed car-jacking, someone would peek inside our windshield, smile genuinely and give us the thumbs up, which is the S.A. equivalent of ’Wazzup’. A friend amongst a crowd is better than none at all.

Not too far off, maybe 15kms or so from these slummy backstreets is the area known as Soweto, which is famous for its sacrificial contributions towards the end of apartheid. It was in those dusty shanty streets that a famous 1976 riot began in which police opened fire on school children, drawing the world‘s attention and condemnation. The social unrest which emanated from Soweto and other amazingly destitute shanties around the country helped spawn the Freedom Fighters whose constant attacks factored into FW de Klerk’s decision to dismantle the apartheid regime and usher in democratic elections which took place in 1994.

Here is the South Africa I’ve seen so far…

Paranoia, as I’ve mentioned numerous times before, runs rampant. At first I thought it was only the whites here that were so absorbed with the real and imagined lawlessness, but I’ve recently found its not such a black and white matter (pun intended). But this infatuation with security seems to be an epidemic that is geographical in nature, it seems to be worst around this smog shrouded metropolis.

Mistrust, as seen in the wearisome stares of many less fortunate strangers who I pass on a daily basis. There seems a question in their eyes. Yet blatant…

Reverse racism is not as evident, noticeable or existent as I thought. I’m referring to Black vs. White. It’s there, but not in the magnitude you might even find in the States. The animosity or anger towards the white population isn’t as obvious, at least outwardly, as it is in many parts of American media-pop-culture. It strikes me as odd that the majority of this country, who only a decade ago were subjects to a government which was a boiling stew of racism and repression, could now act so civilly and cordially towards a walking chalk stick like me. I would have to say that so far, the blacks here in S.A., have been much more hospitable and openly friendly than the whites. But maybe the fact that it has been but a mere decade is the reason. What was Alabama like in the 10 years after the civil rights movement? For that matter, what’s Alabama like today? So maybe its just an ingrained habit, something they’ve been taught and grew up with, to greet whites with a smile and a friendly hello, or maybe its because they now are genuinely happy to have a fighting chance to make their children’s lives better.

On the other hand, there is some open resentment from the whites towards the new African dominated government, the ANC. The new crew in place here seems to be working on balance, or what we term affirmative action (x100). Balance obviously means having to subtract resources or means from one side (white) and add it to the other (black), thus causing the deprived side to get a bit pissy. From my stance it makes perfect sense, and seems fair even if it causes temporary pain to a minority that up until recently was a selfish, hoarding bunch (not all of them). Wow, all this coming from an American…does my hypocrisy know no bounds?

Now that I’ve painted this dismal black picture I should add that the area outside city limits is picturesque, especially in the evening light with its varied mix of cacti, flowering bushes, fruit trees, (S.A. is the 3rd most biologically diverse country in the world) farmland and rolling hills, but not a place that needs too much focus. The coastal and northeast regions look absolutely beautiful, the Drakensburg (Afrikaans for Dragon Mountains) around Lesotho, and the vast stretches of the Kalahari look astounding as well. There is even trout fishing here in some of the beautiful mountain streams(I cant wait to rub that one in ROSS!). So, next time I return, I plan to make Joburg at most, a connecting point on my way to S.A.’s more deserving locales. Oh, and I shaved my head.



Death and more…

Ed and I, the only ones left down here at this point, had to make a morning run to Wonderboom Airport today so that he could fly the Twin Otter. Along the way we glimpsed a sight that put my cranium in overdrive. On the side of the road, just outside our compound, amongst a crowd of still industrious workers was a body, belly up, with a shirt covering the face. Some seemed to take notice, but most acted as if it were commonplace. It was, I imagine, a good precursor or lesson of whats to come. We in America treat death as an enigma, its there but we pretend it isn’t. Here its accepted, its everyday, its obvious, its life…why pretend it doesn’t exist, why get squeamish when its lying on the dirt 10 feet away?

The other thought provoking matter surfaced upon arrival at Wonderboom. Our instructor informed us that an aircraft, a Cessna Carravan, crashed in Mozambique on Saturday. No big deal, but is was revealed that it was the same aircraft that Bryce and Chris had flown not 12 hours before, and an aircraft that AirServ had been leasing. Unfortunately those aboard it were not as lucky as Bryce and Chris who were able to step off and walk away after their flight.