Chadian Aerial Photos...

Shhh...don't tell anyone I took these, I'd hate to see what'd happen to me.

This is the super exciting, lavish, extravagant, temporarily muddy, mosquito-filled, metropolis of N'djamena, the largest city in Chad, and capital. The city's population is a suprisingly high 721,000, though I constantly wonder where all them live, especially now that half the northern section is underwater and people use canoes to paddle home. The town's name means 'Place of Rest' in Arabic, and in Archabic it means 'Place with lots of garbage, really muddy roads, homeless children, and aerobics loving Air Traffic Controllers', though this translation has yet to be fully adopted by the current regime. The airport is to the left, to the bottom on the opposite side of the Chari river is Cameroon. Do you notice the difference? Neither do I, all well. Also on the city side, exactly on the banks of the river, farther to the left is the Novoutel, the pool, and scantily clad westerners. Its not visible in this picture but to the upper right, about 20 miles Northwest is Lac Chad, or atleast its remnants.



This is final approach into Sarh's Runway 22. Huge. Absolutely huge. Actually its long enough to make it boring, but its still quite muddy when it rains, which is everyday lately. Notice the people carrying things on their heads in the foreground and the blob on the runway about 1/2 way down on the right. Yeah thats a villager just kinda hanging out for a nap. I noticed him as I put the camera down, and we gave both each other a good scare. Lesson to everyone out there: A runway, as tempting as it may be, is not the most ideal location for a mid-day nap. While we are discussing it, neither is an interstate freeway.



This is a picture that means more to me and people that are familiar with Abeche then the majority out there. When I arrived 2 months ago everything was brown, desolate and dead anywhere near Abeche. It made the southern New Mexico dessert appear a lush oasis. Now its a million shades of green, an appearingly fertile landscape dotted with tilled fields, camel trains, and donkey gangs, yet its only temporary. Come late October the rains will cease and the colors will slowly fade, and shift again to khaki and burlap tones. From November until next July there will be little to no rain, and my favorite little mud frogs will go back to sleep for 8 1/2 months. Damn.


Still most of the dessert looks much like this, in Chad's mid section. Brown with green brush strokes through...the flooded Ouadiis (arroyos, streambeds, though it literally means flat space or field in Arabic). After a big rain, when we fly into Abeche its interesting to see what is floating downstream towards the vacant dessert in the distance. Maybe pieces of the market again? A camel, a donkey, a house, a white guy who took to many pictures of locals? Saw a horse one day. Sorry Mom.

A random one...

In the 4 years I flew the Beech 1900 I had never realized the rear most cabin wall was easily removed. Recently we ripped it down in a sweating, heat stroke bordering frenzy to accompany the carriage of the limp, lifeless body of a 10 year old boy who was beaten into a coma by rebels in the vicinity of my favorite locale, Goz Beida. Where were you on this one Sultan? We threw 2 seats to the ground and pulled his body through the cargo bin into the last rows of the aircraft while his helpless father watched with limpid, yet hollow eyes, appearing resigned to the fate at hand. Black flies buzzed around the boy’s torso, ambled along his eyelids, and lazily crawled into and out his mouth. The smell, that rancidly sweet, nose stinging stench of decaying, infected flesh and unwashed body parts filled the airplane as I finished securing this inculpable mass to the floor. My eyes raise to meet another set, close by, those hollow and tired eyes again. I’m sorry, I try to say thru silence and stare, yet the hollow eyes do not see me, they see only the fading life lying behind me, internal flame flickering down quietly. A month ago I asked of what hope would remain if one witnessed his parents or siblings killed, yet this day the hollow eyes spoke of a worse fate. What hope would remain in one’s heart if one’s children were beaten and brought down before him, the life drained from their innocent veins? This day we provided, if nothing else, a glimmer of hope, a shimmer of the honorable side of humanity, to this unfortunate duo.

We were plagued most of the previous 8 days with weather and lack of onboard weather detecting equipment. The aircraft radar remained unusable for the better part of the week, making my decision making more and more unpopular with UNHCR staff. Its difficult to explain to people who do not have an intimate understanding of aircraft systems and air law, that I cannot, legally or sanely, just launch off into a mass of dark clouds that most likely contains towering thunderstorms hidden within. “Well the other airplane took off!”...is the usual vexed response. One particular morning I arrived at the airport in a massive downpour, thunder booming constantly and frogs hopping with exuberance all about the tarmac. I took shelter inside the control tower, with many other foreign pilots while we all awaited the storm’s end.

Downstairs, in the flight plan filing division, if that’s what you’d call it, 12 men stand around dressed in their flowing white traditional Islamic outfits. The majority of the faces are pointed towards a television that is mounted to the wall above and in the corner, next to the smiling picture of Idris Deby, the President/Dictator/Humvee and Wife collector. On the crackling screen dances rhythmically a white woman wearing a headset, and a spandex yet unrevealing jumpsuit, with others dancing rhythmically around and behind her. Wow. 8 Chadian Muslim air traffic controllers sit enamored watching a French aerobic video and seem not to be aware of anything else in the world. Behind them, along the walls are piles and piles and piles of paper that have run out of the printers above. The paper pours out over the floor, in loose rolls and crumpled folds, much of it has only black footprints on it, the ink being long since bleached with time; there must be 5 years of print outs of who knows what. I’m betting they aren’t quite sure what the paper says either.

I slowly climb the concrete stairs twisting up the lightless tower, to the weather room, if thats what you’d call it. The door is plastered with meteorological pictures, cloud formations and their associated hazards, catching my attention briefly. Hmmm, that looks funny, never seen one of those clouds before...wait...oh. Further examination reveals the majority of the pictures are glued on the door upside down, creating reverse formation cumulonimbus monsters, that rarest and most deadly of meteorological events and many others.. Does anyone know, or more appropriately, does anyone care???? I snicker as I open the door, revealing another 12 men in flowing white gowns, watching the same pitiful aerobic program on another flickering screen placed on one of their desks. This is like a dream, one of those you have leaving you confused concerning its meaning the following morning. “Bonjour!” I say, and slowly one head turns my way, all others are unreachable, busy, occupied, glued and concentrating on the constant ‘Un...deux...trois...ce bon!...Un...deux...”. Ah, Chad.

My new weather office friend galumphs my direction, sinks in a chair, and without uttering a word pulls up the latest water vapor image on one of the 20 or so computers in the office that are from the early 90’s. “Merci...”, but before I can finish thanking him he’s gone, glued back to the super entrancing French aerobic wonder, leaving me to stare at the ugly, impossible to accurately read, image on the archaic computer screen. From the Red Sea, across to central Nigeria is a band of thick, rain laden clouds. Rainy season fun. My glare drifts about the office, across the dusty desks and cobwebs, the mountainous piles of unravelled roll printer paper, to the windows overlooking the runway which has now disappeared in the heavy rain. Geckos and black/orange lizards cover the window screens, staying under the eaves of the building and out of the rain. Between the precipitation and reptiles it would be impossible for a controller to stand up here and issue viable instructions to an aircraft on the taxiway below. The window squirms and wiggles, tails slithering all over, and
I drift off imagining for a brief moment this drab, concrete structure is no longer in Chad, it towers above a runway in Japan. The controller upon receipt of a call from an aircraft arises with binoculars to try and spot the incoming airplane and monitor its approach. The binoculars scan the skies through the windows, searching, searching, when suddenly...what’s that!?...an ugly, horrid, reptilian looking head pops into the magnified field of vision. The controller begins to shimmy and shake, petrified with the belief that Japan's mortal enemy has arisen again and now is in his field of view...he's about to make a screeching broadcast over the VHF radio, "G..O..D..Z..I..L", his clenched, clammy fist inches above the big red PUSH HERE IN CASE OF OVERGROWN REPTILE ATTACK button when he lowers the binoculars, slowly, and shaking, greatly relieved to be finding a gecko had crossed the screen in front of him. "Creared to rand" he says instead, and Japan sleeps safely another day awaiting its' nemesis' return.

I chuckle at the thought and at the state of affairs around me, but stop myself and look self consciously towards the group of white robed controllers, a bit embarrassed about my outburst. No response. Of course, how could I forget,...all they hear is “Un...duex....trois....Bon! Ce Bon!....Un...”.



Found a refuge of scantily clad western civilization here in Chad. The Nouvotel, and it's marvelously unimpressive yet relaxing warm pool where one can lounge and pretend he/she is not in Chad for a few lovely hours. African rhythms pour forth from a live band by the bar, every so often a song is sung in broken English, though usually one I'd rather have forgotten, only to have it invade my consciousness and play repeatedly for the next 4 days. A few beautiful girls from some of the various NGOs swim and sunbathe and a disproportionately larger population of horny French soldiers, UN workers, NGO workers and diplomats sit and gaze wishfully at the most skin we've all seen since leaving North America or Europe. It is expensive, 5000 CFAs($10), with beers running $3 or $4, but it is well worth escaping from the reality that surrounds. Overlooking the Chari river, with Cameroon not a stones throw away, I passively work on changing my skin to a color mildly closer to the men navigating and fishing from dugout canoes in the muddy waters outside the fence. Cognizance of the fact my skin isn’t the only portion of my being that is Africanizing washes over me here and there; my whole persona is slowing, my tempo beating slower than it has in a long, long time. Realizing that there is nothing to do or that must be done, no where to go, nothing productive to accomplish, is difficult for many of us to come to terms with. You can either accept and resign, slowing yourself and allowing your self to heal from years of western rush, stress, instant gratification and expectation, or you can let it drive you nuts. I'm still working on finding that middle ground amidst the two, for when I return home I'd rather not resemble the humanoid version of a three toed sloth.

The security situation in Chad remains dubious. Last week in Guerada, a locale 40 minutes north of Abeche by Twin Otter, or about 11 miles (kidding), the International Medical Corps (IMC) compound was stormed, ambushed, and completely cleaned out. Two Western aid workers are hospitalized, one serious injured with a skull fracture resultant from a rifle butt blow, and there is speculation that this is only the beginning of an ugly trend. Apparently many men dressed in military fatigues, armed with AK47s cut the barbed wire, climbed a wall, hid out atop the roof and waited for all the workers to exit the house before attacking. All were forced to lay face down in the mud and pouring rain as the Operations manager was held at gunpoint until he opened and emptied the safe. One problem with the situation is the question of who the perpetrators are. They were wearing camo fatigues, had AK47s being aimed by dark, bloodshot eyes and drove pickup trucks outfitted with gun turrets and RPGs. Sound familiar? That is every Chadian and Western Sudanese man who is employed by one of the government armies, militias, rebel groups, or just crazed, doped up rapist factions. Narrows it down tremendously. A female friend recently confided her justifiable fear of what awaits her, as she is required to transport large sums of cash to these questionable places on a regular basis, and its a well known fact what her cargo is.

Besides inclemental weather, poorly functioning aircraft equipment, corrupt and vile armed men, and constant proximate death and disease, I was reminded this week of another challenge that faces us all here in the dark continent. Cynicism is a condition as widespread and potentially devastating as any insect borne disease, and just as easily contracted, and just as difficult to avoid. There is a easily and occasionally justifiably accepted attitude that the NGOs and humanitarian aid organizations do more harm than good, that involvement of any form creates reliance and dependency, corruption and greed, creating a viscous closed circuit that powers and feeds off itself. It is my personal opinion that if you wholly embrace this atrophic disparagement then you allow the circuit to remain in force, and you grow disillusioned and angry. Is it not more of a challenge to actually find some good in what is being accomplished, to strive to stay positive and to donate a piece of yourself to those less fortunate? Gross infatuation with the negative implications of helping anything or anyone on this planet is easily accomplished...couldn’t you argue that saving someone from drowning is in a sense problematic? Are you not interfering with Darwin’s law of Natural Selection or aiding in the overpopulation of the planet, or who knows, maybe that person will someday after their salvation, down a few too many beers and collide with a bus carrying the Dali Lama. If only you hadn’t helped. So what’s worse? Philanthropically using the resources you have to try helping those in need, truly believing you are doing good, or standing back and letting history play its course, hoping for the best? I cannot answer the question with absolutism, but I can say that personally I’d rather attempt helping, in almost any way I can, being aware of possible negative tangents, but not being ruled by their possible existence. Be smart, but follow your heart and help when it says to do so, whenever it may say so.

This all being said, there are negatives to Peacekeeping forces, and NGO presences, the human side to humanitarian aid. Humans are humans, some are depraved, and cannot resist human urges, causing pain to others...and some of these humans are soldiers on the UN payroll, or field workers for MSF or UNICEF, or AirServ. I agree with critics that call for higher moral fiber in the ranks, there’s no questioning the need, yet it‘s also needed in every other industry on EARTH. I also agree that West answers are not always best answers, that some problems require abstract solutions and we should be cognitive of this. Finally, last but very not the least, I whole heartedly agree with people's frustrations with the UN. It could do so much good, and should do so much good, and it does do good, but there is a magnificent level of bureaucracy involved in everything that's done, (if it actually gets done) that its difficult to stomach. Its quite reminiscent of the powers that be residing on the banks of the lovely Potomac.

More Ugandan Pics

Due to the overwhelming demand, the Chad to Chad Broadcasting Network has decided to provide further pictures of Uganda. These pictures, it should be noted, are not very exciting. In recent studies, viewing these pictures has caused narcolepsy in 67 out of 92 viewers. In further research, it should be noted, it was proven that viewing these pictures may cause discomfort whilst sitting atop a fire ant mound, being pelted in the eyes with spitballs. Therefore the Chad to Chad Broadcasting Network, on behalf of Chad Norris, CEO, and Jesse Archambault, Geek, take no responsiblity for any such discomfort felt while viewing.


Everyone either has one themselves, or knows someone who has one, that is, a rubber plant in their house. I gave mine away to Jen before I left, and at the time was extremely proud of the fact it stood 3 feet tall. Check out this one in Entebbe! Bit bigger than in temperate US suburbs...



Speaking of big...this is an Orb Spider, called so because when the sun shines thru it from above it glows, like an orb, I guess. They were EVERYWHERE in the thick forest, and were about 5 or 6 inches from front to rear legs. Not a place for an arachnophobe. sorry bout the gray streak...(photobucket hiccup)



This is the patch of forest that according to local Entebbe legend, the original soundless Tarzan, King of the Jungle film was shot. Sounded good atleast. I have a hard time believing that Hollywood actors would have crossed the ocean, risked malaria and hostile tribes to come here to this tiny patch of woods where Orb Spiders reign, for the purpose of shooting a cheezy movie. But you can see its quite African-esque in appearance. (For some reason, Photobucket, which SUCKS!!! has decided to invert this picture, I have tried to correct it, so hopefully you see the image right-side-up, otherwise feel free to stand on your head and view.)



I have many more pictures that are equally or more interesting/boring as these, but with the horrid internet connection here in Chad it takes about 35 minutes to upload each picture, so we'll see how my patience goes. Goodnight.

9 Days in Uganda

FRUIT MARKET OUTSIDE KAMPALA, with avacodos the size of softballs!



The other morning I awoke from a dream that I was at home, nestled in bed with an ex-girlfriend. It was safe, comforting and warm…soothing for the soul. I felt peaceful. The alarm went off and she stared at me quizzically yet still smiling, ‘Well, are you getting up?’. I smiled and opened my eyes, immediately finding the room dark, no sweet smelling girl lying next to me, just light rain pattering the palm fronds outside my window and the distant sounds of ambitious roosters announcing the forthcoming dawn. My brooding thoughts of disappointment were soon muted by the rumble of thunder from faraway, and quickly replaced by a concern for the reality which is at hand. In a couple hours I am supposed to fly the 1900 back across the jungle, over the towering peaks, and the central African scrub, back to N’djamena, that wondrous wonder of wonders.

I struggle to get up, ambition sapped, light a candle (there is no electricity) and saunter outside to the porch where I watch the pink lighting bounce from cloud to cloud in the south, over expansive Lake Victoria. Great, just what I need, I just want to crawl back into bed with my dreamt up friend. Planting myself a mile deep in a black Ugandan electrical storm last Friday has left me shell shocked to the extent that my stomach tightens and I cringe when I look south now and see another threatening menace flashing away in the indigo sky. Not again, not today. I get dressed in the flickering candlelight while sipping a cup of bitter Nescafe instant coffee, and outside my window a bird awakes and begins singing what I swear sounds like ‘youuur sc-a-a-a-a-a-a-red’. Shut up bird, its too early for your imbecilic taunting.

My new first officer, the engineer and I make it to the airplane, taxi it to the fuel stand, and I busy myself fretting the advancing storm. I fuel the aircraft myself, as the designated fueler guy is about 326.9 mph too slow for my anxious, twitching self. The new South African FO and the engineer wander off towards the control tower at an unhurried pace to file the flight plan, check enroute satellite maps and pay the departure taxes. Fifty five minutes later I am covered in Jet A, my face burning, the fueler chuckling, the ominous storm nearly overhead and out slowly strolls my two S.A friends with chocolate bars and cigarettes from the duty free store, simply classic. My temper soon joins my face in experiencing the burning sensation. Come ON, quick, faster, faster…c’mon guys, get your lazy Afrikaans asses in gear, have you looked behind you at that wall of rain??????? We start up, run through the checklists, and line up on the runway waiting impatiently for take off clearance, but there’s a delay, seems the flight plan wasn‘t filed correctly after all. We are now underneath the anvil of the massive morning storm and I can feel the rudder dancing around and the elevator fluttering with the shifting, gusty winds. Then a raindrop, and another hitting the windshield with resounding thuds. To hell with this, I had my excitement with tropical thunderstorms, lying radars and airplanes last week. Another day in Uganda with its beautiful green hills and beautiful smiling people is better than fighting my way through the hostile African skies towards a country whose people don’t even like me.

THE BOATS IN ENTEBBE HARBOR


I am staying here in Entebbe with the African Chief Pilot and the new Director of Operations for AirServ, the GGUDS as I‘ve acronymly nicknamed them. Both gentlemen are older, intelligent, personable and great individuals, but I am ready to pull my hair (if I actually had any right now) out. It takes 4 hours to accomplish a matter that should take 30 minutes, and that’s on a good day. When I arrived last Friday I was asked if I had anything on my agenda to see or do. I answered with a resounding ‘hell yeah!’, followed by the list. Fishing for Nile perch, hiking, rafting the Nile, maybe bungee jumping at the headwaters(!), bookstores, souvenir shopping, botanical gardens, girls…you name it, I’m ready, lets go!

Everyday after started the same. ‘Ok, Jess, have any ideas on what you’d like to do today?’ they'd implore as we all sat on the porch overlooking the lake… “Yes, I’d love to head over to Jinja and raft the Nile, or go to Kampala and explore”…

Then came the NASA space shuttle countdown announcer from somewhere in the skies above, slowly and methodically stating, “5, 4, 3, 2, 1!” Let the ridiculous debating begin! The two gray hairs would then spend an hour discussing and debating how this task would be best accomplished while swishing coffee around in their cups. Car or van? Which do you prefer to drive anyway? Taxi? Weather, did you hear rain last night, hmm, think it'll affect the (PAVED) roads? Best day to do it? Moon phase, favorite colors, and astrological signs? Really, Gemini, huh? Probably should stay off the roads on Thursday then. When debates were complete it was ALWAYS decided that one or both absolutely must to go to the office to make sure no one had sent them emergency emails requiring their immediate response. One hour was always stated, "one hour, that’s all, don’t go anywhere, we‘d be happy to take you, sounds fun!". Five hours later when they both returned home, to find me sitting and steaming outside on the porch, they’d ask me as if completely unaware of the commitment made earlier… ‘Hey Jess, how's the day been? Have any ideas on what you’d like to do with the rest of the day?’ “Nope Guys, not a F#*^%ng clue, thanks for asking though!” Then the debating would resume as to what the best course of action would be for the remainder of the afternoon. The Great Geriatric Ugandan Debating Society, a marvelous thing indeed. After a few days I conceded defeat, learned to recognize the humor in it all, and found traits in both of them I enjoyed.

I helped the Director of Ops barter for a bicycle at the Kampala Bike Market, a colorful collection of completely random, scrappy used bikes which arrive by the container load from Japan and Korea, and sit half sunken in a muddy, red clay yard in the middle of downtown’s chaos. I had an incredibly entertaining and informative time test driving about 134 bikes, being giggled at by a proportionately higher number of Ugandan girls and children, and making a few new friends.

We'd browse slowly, and the sellers would gawk at us both, pushing bicycles into our crotches, implying we should take them for a ride. I’d present the sellers with questions ‘Why should he buy this bike?’
“Its pure aloo min ium” (pronounced as the British say it, adding a mysterious ‘I’ in the mix). ‘They’re all aluminum man! Ha, ha! Just watch.’...looking out into the crowd of bike sellers, singling one out... ‘Hey bud!, hey, why is your bike better than this one?’...and with no delay, the response: “Its pure aloo min ium!”
‘See! Who taught you guys to say that? You need something more interesting as a selling point. Try this: This bike? Aah, my pasty white friend, this is pure aircraft grade aluminum, without the i, and coincidently its recycled from the Concorde. It has a bi-actuated, tri-nebulous, quasi static chain inverter, top of the line, top of the line indeed, a cable controlled friction generating momentum arresting device, and of course this girly little pink bell! What’d’ya say mon???’ They all got a good kick out of it, I’m sure wondering what in the hell I just said. Geek.

On our return thru Kampala hordes of shoeless and hungry looking children would stare blankly, and inoffensively into the car when we slowed in the merciless traffic. “They are refugees from the north” Hussein, one of AirServ’s drivers explains. In northern Uganda, for years now, a group of rabid, violent guerrillas has been torturing and slaughtering the local populations, often in the name of God. No, not Allah, but God. The LRA, Lords Republic Army, led my a deranged Joseph Kony, whose immoral and disgusting tactics have garnered world attention, well, the world outside the USA. Check out: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/3462901.stm for a brief rundown on them.

I rolled down the window and emptied my pocket change into the dirty hands of the smallest children I could find. When I’m out of change I have only big bills left, the smallest being the equivalent of 10 US dollars. The eyes destroy your protective shell, they cut right through it. 12 innocent, beautiful, brown little eyes staring at me, speaking to me in silence, suddenly awaken a realization of how unfair this world is, and how hypocritical I am. I turn from the pleads, direct my attention back inside and see my backpack, with my $500 camera, my $200 MP3 player, my wallet with $300 worth of Ugandan schillings, my $100 dollar glasses, and what do I do? Ignore them. I gave them something. Yeah, I gave them maybe $3 worth of change, but I have souvenirs I want to get for myself and friends, so I cannot toss more away. How horrible is that? Hussein, a native Ugandan, says “just ignore them”, ignore his own country’s children, and he’s sitting next to a disgustingly wealthy individual (by local comparison) from a disgustingly wealthy nation. How can my thoughts go from pure pity and sympathy to greed and materialism in the flash of a second? We pull away from them and my conscience is allowed some breathing room.

Driving in Uganda is an adventure in itself. The task is 4 dimensional, with other vehicles, motorcycles, animals, pedestrians, road debris, fruit, monkeys, sometimes fruit covered monkeys, and anything else you could possibly imagine, coming at you from every direction possible, even above. At a busy intersection in Kampala two traffic guards stood amidst the honking mass of blue smoke belching vehicles and gave contradictory instructions to the traffic. “What are they doing!?” I asked Hussein. “One of them works for the bus taxi company, the other for the boda bodas (the motorcycle taxis) and so they are trying to help out their respective drivers.” In the end the two men were basically ignored and ultimately anarchy reigns over the highways and byways of Uganda, making everyday an exciting day.

The return drive from the festive bike market was under a full moon, weaving thru the electricity less neighborhoods, dodging the black ghosts who’d run thru the headlight beams ahead. We’d pass a group of 10 or 12 people sitting in a circle outside their shack or business, candlelight illuminating their facial features, and above a few of them I noticed signs reading “Praise the Lord Jesus and be thankful for everyday!” or “Thank Jesus for Life!”. Here are people sleeping on mud floors, constantly battling malaria and other diseases, making just enough money to stay fed, and they are thankful. They are thankful for life, for a life that we would loathe. The candlelit faces are just happy to exist, happy to have peace, and they cling steadfastly to their faith. Businessmen in America question their faith or their God when a deal fails to materialize as they hoped. Though I do not consider myself a very religious person, I find it refreshing to see these people so drunk with love of their Lord, and for their lives. Similarly, a Sunday morning in Entebbe is a sight to behold. Throngs of beautifully dressed women, and classily dressed men and children walk in rain or sun, through mud or garbage, blocking the road for minutes at a time, to stream into their neighborhood place of worship. If you sit outside on the porch at 11am like a good heathen, the breeze carries in mixed sounds of vibrant and energized hymns from the surrounding churches, and it sounds beautiful. No monotone druid like chanting of classic God fearing Christian hymnals, just beautiful Africanized versions that you almost want to dance to. This coming from a white guy with no rhythm.

A TYPICAL HOUSE IN THE WOODS


Ugandan children are something wonderful. Every experience I have had with them so far has put a huge smile on my face. Venturing off either on foot, or bicycle into some of the mud hut neighborhoods surrounding Entebbe I constantly find myself a spectacle to behold and therefore the center of attention. “M-Z-U-N-G-O!!!” (white person in Kiswahili, though not meant in a degrading fashion) they scream as I go by, their hands waving high above their smiling faces, sometimes swarming around me wanting to slap hands or practice their latest handshake. On one bike ride thru a neighborhood that probably never sees any whites, I coasted by three small children getting a sponge and hose bath in the front yard. All were stark naked and covered in soap suds, their mother standing behind them scrubbing away, as they stared at the ground. Upon hearing my tires crunch over the gravel all eyes were raised in unison, all three respective mouths arched into gigantic pearly white smiles, and all three bodies quickly forgot the sponge bath taking place. The roar of their greetings and laughter far outdid the irritated shout of their mother as the three naked bodies charged down the street behind me, undoing all the scrubbing their mother had done, obviously without a care in the world. “Helloooo Mzungo! How are you?!!!” shouted repeatedly as mud replaces the soap suds that have wafted away. It was a hysterical sight to see. I said my hellos, they all giggled, and stood in the middle of the road naked, dripping, hands in the air waving goodbye as I rode off toward town laughing. Mr. Mzungo, that’s me.

AS CLOSE AS I CAME TO RAFTING THE NILE


I finally was able to visit the Nile, yet was not able to raft its incredibly huge rapids. Next time. I was also unable to fish for Nile Perch. Next time. I did, however, spend two days completely incapacitated with illness, shivers, and shakes so I must get tested for malaria when I return to Chad. I also fudged a haircut, so had to completely shave my head, leaving me looking somewhere between a convict and a chemo patient. I soaked in the equatorial sunshine, enjoyed the local sights, sounds and smells and got some good laughs. In conclusion, I vote for Uganda over Chad and South Africa both, hands down, and I have only scraped the surface of the surface here. The land, the people and the atmosphere are all beautiful, and I highly recommend East Africa to all. Back to N’djamena for me.

THE NILE RIVER, JINJA, UGANDA

Two adventures for the price of one

Friday was a good day for a smoke.

Can nothing go smoothly for me here in Africa? I admit that if it continuously did then I would be complaining about the lack of spice and adventure in life, but how bout some moderation(?) for those of you listening in upstairs. Huh guys? The ‘epic’ Beechcraft 1900D trip for N’djamena to Entebbe, Uganda proved nothing but.

I sit relaxed with a full stomach, beer in hand, overlooking the mist shrouded green hills of Kampala which lays on the shores of the Oceanus Lake Victoria and just miles from the origin of the Nile. Its funny to sit here and think that just barely over 100 years ago Europeans like Speke, Livingstone, Baker, Burton and Stanley were sacrificing theirs and others lives, time, resources and sanity to find the place that I now casually sit staring out upon. Its so nice to see green. Its beautiful here, absolutely stunning. There are a million birds chirping and singing, flowers adorn most the shrubs, palm fronds whisper with a breath of wind. In the distant background, competing against the roosters, a pick up truck is driving around with a man preaching the word of Jesus in Kiswahili thru a loudspeaker seated in the back. Did I mention its green? Music too, beautiful African music, drums, steel guitars, and joyous sounding women, not the shreikish, ear piercing yelping of Chadian Arabic played through blown out speakers. Aah, it is cool, a perfect 75 degrees or so in the evening breeze. I too, love Entebbe now.





The journey here started quiet, on schedule and calm, as smooth as a baby’s ass. We timed our departure perfectly and our arrival into Bangui, Central African Republic was precisely on schedule with what I had planned out. The Bangui airport sits just 2 miles north of the international border with Democratic Republic of Congo. We landed, fumbled our way through parking instructions, communicated through mixed French and finger puppet shows that fuel was needed, and negotiated a price. I then paid the amazingly flexible airport landing fees. “How much for fees?” “Quat million US dollars, Monsieur” “WHAT!! (chuckle) you want 4 million dollars for landing here!!! Wow, you’ve been watching Austin Powers movies haven’t you! (good laugh that lasts at least 30 seconds)…How bout I give you 20 dollars and you stamp my little piece of paper?” Long thought with the look of confusion on his brow… “Aaah,…o…k”

I then discretely emptied a water bottle containing a trace amount of urine into the trees and tossed the empty container back into the airplane.

So it was done. I sat relaxed for a few minutes looking over my flight plan for the next leg, making sure it matched up with the route charts. Through my thoughts I heard an electronic double beep and looked up to see Anis walking out the aircraft door with his camera. “Hmm” I thought… “I wonder what the picture situation is in Central African Republic vs. Tchad…hmmm”. Not four seconds passed between the flash of this thought and when I heard my name being feverishly called from outside the aircraft.

I laid the paperwork down, arose and peeked my head out the doorway to see Anis being escorted by 3 large men in military/police uniforms towards the airport government buildings. “What the f#$k”. I grabbed my sunglasses and rushed out the aircraft, our engineer sheepishly looking on from behind the wing.

Catching up with the men and Anis, I followed them into the dark, electricity-less building where we were led thru a labyrinth of concrete corridors, geckos scattering about the walls, to a small room with a desk, and three chairs. 2 on one side, for us, the perpetrators, and 1 on the other, for the head honcho. His hench men towered over us. The door was slammed shut. Everyone smoked. It was straight out of a movie.

“What the hell is going on?” I demanded, a bit more comfortable now that I was not dealing with jihad happy Muslims.

In French which I barely understood it was explained that Anis was under arrest for the taking of illegal pictures in a security sensitive area. I had to laugh, what else could I do? A few seconds passed, my giggling was grimaced upon. It was then decided that I was under arrest as well for emptying my urine bottle into the trees. This time I really had to laugh. I mean, where else in the world could you be ‘arrested’ for such heinous crimes?

Then another man was brought in, this was our supposed ‘savior’. He spoke English to a minute degree, but helped translate the yelling from both sides to both sides. “He says there are…deux…crimes. The fine is very, very big and he hopes you pay because otherwise he be forced to jail you.”

The crimes were explained. The henchmen stared down at us. Everyone still smoked. I knew it was just a game, just a great Central African money making game, so I played along, albeit a bit nervously. First I told them all that the urine was actually Gatorade, but that it was too warm so I needed to throw it out. When they did not buy it I confidently (at least outwardly) slammed my chair back, shot up and sternly stated that I will take them all to smell the dirt to prove it, waving my fingers around demonstrating how I would dip them in the dirt taste and smell it. This obviously did the trick, or maybe they just found my actions comical. I was now free from jail sentences, Anis remained.

“It is very, very unfortunate. You have made a very big crime taking pictures of secret things, he says” our translator told us.

“I do not see how taking a picture of our own aircraft is a secret!” I blurted, “but I will make sure that this man is FIRED and heavily disciplined when we get to Uganda. Tell him we are very sorry but that we must go!”

The message was relayed. The police chief stared at me, tapped his 3rd or 4th smoke against the filling ashtray and then rambled a series of numbers to the translator in French while shaking his head and sighing in between words. I understood most of it and began laughing again. Everyone stared.

“He says that it is unfortunate, but for this big crime the fine is…”

“I know, I know, I heard him. He said 500,000 CFAs. That is 1000 dollars US. Tell him we cannot do that. We have only enough money to get to Entebbe where his grandmother is in the hospital and my car is broken. Then there is the problem with the flux capacitator (?) in the airplane which needs to be fixed! We don’t have any money, I’m terribly sorry.” I decided to have fun with it, and confuse the hell out of the whole team. Maybe now would have been the ideal time for the 10,000 year old squirrel comment.

Another round of bargaining, and another. I stared everyone down while they spoke, I laughed at them when they came back with more outlandish figures. After 20 minutes or so I bartered to get my FO and his camera back for 20 US dollars and a pack of Marlboros I had been carrying for situations just like this. I slapped the goods on the table and we both stormed out before another word could be said. As soon as we were clear of onlookers, I began laughing hysterically. It was actually kind of fun, in a frustrating kind of way.

After Bangui the sailing was smooth. We glided for hours over the Congo with nothing but an ocean of green forest and stratus clouds below. Approaching the mountains that form the border between Congo, Uganda, and Rwanda an armada of massive black thunderstorms drifted into sight. Thus started phase two of the epic with me being overly confident in my recent victories. First mistake: there’s no room for a big head in aviation.

CALM BEFORE THE STORM

The weave started, I preformed a beautiful slalom like ballet thru the towers and we made it to within 30 miles of Entebbe when we hit the wall. On the approach down I made the fatal mistake of putting too much trust in our airborne weather radar, and did not use the clues outside the window as well as I should have. Ahead and to the right was black, it was ominous, it was nothing but intimidating. Straight ahead was a black-grey, still ominous, still scary. Mr. Weather Radar 3000-xp.42, though, had else to say. Straight ahead he said was fine, nothing but a little rain. He agreed that ahead and to the right, at our 1:30 position was bad, and agreed with my resistance to trying that route. But Mr. Weather Radar 3000-xp.42 also said that to my immediate right at 3 o‘clock, which looked like the best bet to me from my looking outside the window, was the worst of all. He said that if I were to go that way I would meet an instant demise. Aah, Mr. Radar, how your ways are faulted!

I put my shaky confidence in the radar and chose to trust its precipitation detecting array. (Game-show wrong answer buzzer inserted here) We flew straight ahead, into what was supposed to be just precipitation of medium intensity and found instead what the moisture laden tropics have in mind for a thunderstorm. When it became readily apparent that I made the very wrong decision for the matter at hand my confidence and arrogance stepped up, my ego kicked in, and the two little voices in my head began arguing. One said “aah, no big deal, your experienced with thunderstorms, just slow it down, and punch thru this thing, worst case scenario is you’ll bump around. Nothing you cannot handle!”. Then of course there was the other “RUN AWAY, RUN AWAY” in the Monty Python-ish voice. I chose arrogance.

I can state confidently that no one has ever operated a 1900D underwater before and lived to tell about it. I am also fairly confident that yesterday, for all intensive purposes, I may have emerged from the other side of this storm being the first person to have come as physically close to flying in pure liquid H2O as possible, and I do not wish to ever do it again. Ever. Humbled is not the word to describe how I felt while stuck in the black mass whose engulfing body seemed to never end. I was absolutely, positively f-ing scared. The two voices in my head were replaced by one. One that repeatedly warned of imminent engine flame-out and becoming a smoldering mass of aluminum on the green hills below. For those who are not pilots, an engine flame-out is when either the oxygen or fuel required for combustion is no longer sufficient and therefore combustion ceases to exist, aka, your flying ceases to exist in a positive manner. Yesterday was the first time that I honestly believed I was about to douse a turbine engine out, it was as if someone were spraying a firehose into each intake.

So, we found ourselves in the mess. Now how to get out? Lower, underneath? The controller couldn’t give us lower. There were mostly invisible hills below. Back the way we came? Our entry point ceased to exist, it closed in behind us as that wonderful biblical sea did for Moses. I’ve never felt trapped or claustrophobic in an airplane before yesterday. “Which way is the least bad” we continually asked the approach controller, becoming increasingly panicked. ATC had no idea, seems they have no radar. Anis suddenly could not determine our position by reading the instruments, he began to lock up. The controller asked for reports on our whereabouts and the response from the seat next to me was increasingly incoherent and inaccurate. Panic was coming…it was coming quickly. “Just take a deep breath and take it easy” I kept quietly telling myself, but its hard to convince yourself of a bright outcome when nothing but darkness surrounds.

Then a piece of ground. A tree. Verdant green below, a couple thousand feet below actually. “Do I try and go beneath and at least try to visually avoid some of the precip?”. This, in normal circumstances is not something I would have done, due to my fear of getting too low only to find myself at the receiving end of a downdraft whose force exceeds that which my engines can create. The hell with it. “Ask for lower!”

“Negative, Kilo one, maintain 6 thousand feet, there is terrain in that area”

I ripped the chart from the center pedestal and found Entebbe. In blue letters I saw 5.7, meaning that the highest obstruction was 4,700 feet, but where? Faced with the option of flame out I chose to ignore our controller and dropped, completely illegally 1000 feet, to 5000 feet. Then to 4900 feet, and told Anis to keep telling me which way looked lighter. “Just say right, left, or straight ahead.” After two minutes or so of following Anis’s steering instructions, with my stomach burning a hole in itself and my conscious preparing for the worst, we found a tunnel thru the massive rain shafts. I fire walled the engines and made a mad dash for the escape, out over Lake Victoria, and suddenly with out a sound…it was over.

The black wall rescinded into the distance. Anis began a nervous laugh. I followed suit a moment later. Our engineer remained white as a ghost in the back, his fingernails embedded in the seat cushion. Both Anis and I turned slowly and gave him each a stupid, mindless grin confirming that we were going to make it. He stared ahead obliviously, then slowly seemed to regain consciousness. I climbed the airplane back up to 6000 feet quickly and broadcast “Entebbe Approach, UN Kilo 1 would really, really, really like to land now for a beer.”

We gave helpful instructions to a C130 that had also planted itself close to the storm, and heard their excited replies with shouting in the background. They popped thru just as we did a moment later.

With the aircraft shut down in front of the AirServ hangar, our job done, I bummed the first cigarette from Anis that I have smoked in years, and just stared off towards the lake, refusing to look back at the horrific black cloud we had just visited.

ON THE GROUND, ENTEBBE

Back to Green

18 more hours in N’djamena before the epic 1900 flight begins. 1400 miles. 4 usable emergency airports scattered hundreds of miles apart. Fuel adequate enough to get us to our destination, holding for 6 minutes then immediate diversion to an alternate airport in a different country 200 miles away. While doing the flight planning for this little endeavour the other day I realized, “jeez Todo, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore”.

Tomorrow we leave at 7am, sharp. Its our window that will put us into Bangui, the capital of Central African Republic at about 9:15 sharp, which is the ideal time. 9:15 - 9:30 am is the safe window time, giving approximately 1 hour on either side, which allows one to avoid the thick precipitation induced fog from the thunderstorms that rage all night, and the onslaught of new monstrous thunderstorms with the arrival of about 10:30 am. You’ve either got to love or loathe the rainy season. We arrive with enough fuel to hold for 25 minutes before having to make the final decision of staying and waiting the weather out, or high tailing it back to N’djamena. Why not go somewhere else close, you ask? Answer: there is no where else. To get permits to land in these backwards and corrupt countries for refueling is a circus act in itself, and if one detours and lands in a place without a permit, let the bribery and threatening begin.
Then comes the epic final leg, the 1000 mile leg over the Congolese rainforest, dodging booming thunderstorms at FL250 ( I am aware this is much better than dodging them at 8500 feet in a Caravan, Bryce, and I pity you for it, but at least you can put that thing down where you choose) allowing us to arrive over Lake Victoria with barely enough extra fuel for a few turns if the weather is bad, before we must make a run for Kigali, Rwanda. I must say that in the past few days, while planning for this, I have actually for the first time since arriving, felt like I was actually beginning to understand African flying, and accepting the unforgiving nature of it.

The past week in N’djamena has been interesting, today being the highlight. No unruly passengers with playful gun trucks, it seems the 1900 commands a bit more respect than the Otter. Just lots of thunderstorm slalom, humorous transmissions with controllers who barely speak English, mosquitoes, huge lizards, gigantic bats who sleep in the trees surrounding our house, and South Africans. I had dinner and beer with some white South Africans the other evening and it proved quite interesting. One was a bush pilot here, who had recently flown National Geographic photographers into the northern reaches of Tchad, to a region known as the Tibesti Mountains inhabited solely by Tuareg nomads. He told stories of warplanes littering the desert, bombed out tanks with uniformed skeletons still at the controls, jeeps with more bleached skeletons scattered around, landmines everywhere and some of the most beautiful mountains on Earth with a mosaic of prehistoric cave paintings scattered thru their nooks and crannies. The junkyard of metal and bones is left over from the Chadian-Libyan war which raged decades ago, and ghostly skulls sit in the place still 20 years after, seeming to wait for something.

Another South African who I dined with, was in the news a few years ago, it was actually a big story from what I hear, but I failed to notice. He was at the controls of a American, British and Spanish funded 737 filled to the brim with mercenaries intent on overthrowing the government of Equatorial Guinea so that its oozing, black natural resources underneath might be made more accessible to foreign interests. However, when they stopped for refueling in Zimbabwe the aircraft was searched by local authorities and it was obvious that they were not a troop of girl scouts going round Africa selling pecan pralines. All were thrown in jail where he remained for 18 months, beaten regularly and malnourished, until he was released a year ago Sunday. He is an amazingly nice guy outwardly, and is easily liked, but I had a hard time feeling bad for him knowing that he had cognitively gone to do such a mission. Once again, this coming from an American whose government is guilty of such things 10,000 fold.

Finally, today…aah, what a great day to be in command and to know an aircraft as well as could be hoped. I felt as if I earned my salary today, which is a nice thought, in moderation. My South African FO, Anis, and I headed south today for the rotation, picking up the regular bunch of homesick NGO workers in Moundou and Sarh, in southwestern Tchad close to the border of Cameroon. The landscape is a patchwork of vibrant and dark greens, with countless rivers weaving thru the thick forest. Grey clouds and fog hang low, shrouding most everything in a primordial and mysterious look, about what I picture the Congo to resemble.

FINAL APPROACH INTO MOUNDOU, FLAT FARM LANDS



I took the second leg, Moundou - Sarh and found myself after 50 minutes, over 2000 feet above Sarh with thick overcast clouds engulfing it, creating a ceiling of about 800 feet agl, while the controller repeatedly stated it was clear with scattered clouds at 15,000 feet. Comical at the very least. I studied the chart and deemed the highest obstacle within 5 miles was about 600 feet above the ground and then executed one of the coolest quasi circling/diving/banking/praying approaches I’ve ever done (not a published one either…shhh) which worked out perfectly and landed, for the second time now, the 1900 on MUD. Never thought I would do that up until a week ago.

We picked up a few more passengers and headed off again, rushing to beat the upcoming parade of cumulonimbus boomers. On climb out, with Anis at the controls, the flaps failed to retract. No big deal, for the non 1900 drivers reading this, it’s a fairly common but aggravating occurrence. I tried and tried, hit a few switches and panels, reset a circuit breaker or two, but it was futile. A few seconds later as we continued climbing and as I started doing other things, having resolved that we must fly at Flaps 17 for 280 miles, I heard his deafening roar. “SMOKE!!!! SMOKE, HOLY SH#T THERES SMOKE!!!!”

I looked up and then back into the cabin where everyone had clearly heard the bellowing S. African and were wide eyed, and yes, it was hard to see back there. I could barely see only a few rows back. I turned my attention back to the cockpit where Anis was banking at 45 degrees to the right to make an emergency approach back to Sarh, just 15 miles behind us still. I grabbed the yoke and straightened it out, and calmly told him to “just hold on a second, there’s no need to panic”.

Glancing down at his feet where he was adamantly pointing I saw the thick mist pouring out of the floor vents. He continued “We have to go back, this aircraft has a history of electrical problems, the flap motor must have caught fire!!! Look at it!”. To his credit, he is correct. This particular aircraft, I learned upon further inquiry, does seem to have a troublesome history of electrical problems, and it may have even filled with smoke one time months back. It was a valid concern and I’m glad he had the mental fortitude to spit out this hypothetical explanation during such a stressful moment. This valid point and the terrified look of the passengers made me feel terribly and awfully guilty as I began to laugh and took the aircraft controls, telling him to stick his head between his legs and smell the ‘smoke’ coming from the vents below.

“What do you smell?” I chuckled
“Nothing! What is it? What’s going on?” was his reply in a now calmer tone.
“Its fog, that’s all. You turned the VCM (air-conditioner) on and its cooling this super moist air below the dew point. You just created an inner aircraft cloud. And now its your job, my friend, to turn around and tell all the passengers that you didn’t mean to scream SMOKE!”

Poor guy looked extremely embarrassed as I finished talking because it all made sense to him suddenly. Oops. For my part I had to quietly give myself credit for being so relaxed and blase during the whole incident, but I owe most of that to what I learned of this lovely phenomenon during my 4 year stint at AirMidwest. We once had a passenger in Charlotte, N.C. attempting to extinguish, with an aircraft Halon fire extinguisher, and imaginary and odorless fire that was coming from the air-conditioning vents. Oops, again.

The passengers continued to stare ahead wide eyed, looking as confused as if I had announced to them all in French "I am a 10,000 year old flying squirrel from Planet Zirmon, pleased to meet you." Wait, now that I think of it, I may have mummbled that. For the rest of the slow, flaps down flight back over the marsh and forest below to N’djamena, poor Anis was quite red. I expect he’ll offer to buy me a beer tonight as payment for confidentiality. Hmm.

So, tomorrow, off to Kampala, Uganda where Nile Perch eagerly await my presence. Ross, and Eric pay attention: Your Alfred the Greats will no longer mean squat to me and to you once you see the fish in Lake Victoria. HA!

VILLAGE SOUTH OF ABECHE