daydreams

I find myself more frequently staring off into oblivion, as Myriam or whomever I am flying with is at the controls, daydreaming excessively. I’ve had incredibly vivid memories and imaginings of food, places and people, the things I miss most about home. Last week during all the security concerns, during all the evacuations and chaos, after the airplane would level off in the cooler, more peaceful, thin air at 10,000 feet and all souls on board seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief, my mind would drift. With my left temple leaned against the plexi-glass window and the African sun scorching my shaved head I’d suddenly be standing in my favorite pool on the Animas River waving my fly-rod around meditatively watching the trout rise on a summer afternoon’s Cadis hatch. The fluttering clouds of Cadis flies sparkling as a million wings reflected the setting sun’s warm glow. Then I would be sitting with a massive chicken burrito smothered in melted cheese, guacamole and sour cream, a basket of chips and salsa and margarita nearby, or hiking with Jen along a branch of the idyllic San Juan River towards the peaceful Rainbow hot springs, as a light mist fell. Sleeping in the back of a pickup truck in Oregon’s high eastern plains alongside a bubbling river listening to lonely coyotes sing in the distance, or at a table 15 years ago with a dinner plate heaped high with my Dad’s famous spaghetti and my little brothers head covered in marinara sauce opposite from my seat across the table. Chaos below, Abeche ahead, grateful passengers behind, Mexican food, trout and rivers within. If nothing else, Chad has made me realize that it’s the little things in life that make it beautiful.

Invertebrate molestations and other security issues...

Her fingers were slowly moving up the inside of my leg, teasing me as she went. I squirmed and she stopped, I was greatly disappointed. She picked up on my disappointment and started again, this time also walking her fingers up my chest. Then something struck me as not right, something was askew, strange…my chest itched and her finger was scratching at my leg. What the hell is…?

I opened my eyes and instead of finding a beautiful, voluptuous girl on top, sensually teasing me I found something which made me scream like a little girl and curse like guys I used to work with on fishing boats. On my chest slowly crept up towards my mouth the biggest, blackest, largest eyed and antennaed desert cricket I had ever seen. It remained the largest cricket I’ve ever seen for approximately three tenths of a second before my eyes darted to my crotch where another of the black behemoths was casually strolling towards a nice warm place to hang out. This fellow now took the prize of largest cricket Jesse has ever seen, and I wasn’t pleased that he was so close to being intimately involved with me. Elizabeth laughed after realizing what was going on as I kicked and scratched and rolled out of the mosquito net onto the dirty tile floor. She laughed carelessly until noticing that other black, privacy invading villains had surrounded her as well and were attempting to overthrow our sleeping spot. No need for a caffeinated cup of coffee in the morning when one awakes to mutant sized crickets attempting a molestation, you’re already wide-awake. Damn N’djamena fire ants must have passed the word along.

Confusion still reigns in Chad as to the current and future happenings of the rebels and government forces. After the Goz Beida seizure the rebels seemed to have split into separate columns and set out west towards the capital city of N’djamena. Reports pour in from everyone and their dog that this town has fallen or that town has been blown to pieces, and that the rebels are marching down Avenue Charles de Gaulle in N’djamena, or outside our compound in Abeche at the very moment in pink ballerina dresses singing songs from the musical Cats. And like the previous sentence, most are not true. I remember when I was about six we used to play the telephone game. Everyone sits in a circle. Someone whispers something into the adjacent child’s ear and it is passed around at a whispered tone until it comes full circle, where it’s voiced aloud, followed by the original message. It’s usually a gross exaggeration of the original text, and sometimes nothing of the original remains. This is the current situation in Chad with the international community, and it gets frustrating trying to sift thru the garbage to find the truth. It is also amusing at times.

Upon the fall of Goz Beida, the WFP (World Food Program and principle aviation entity of the United Nations Refugee Commission) announced they would absolutely not fly anywhere near the town. The UNHCR then came to us: ‘Will you fly down there?’. Sure for a twelve pack of beer and some chewing tobacco we’ll do anything.

Ok, I’m kidding but I tentatively said yes, to the dismay of my copilot, pending our receiving bona fide security information stating that all affairs were normal. A few hours later an entourage of the UNHCR’s top security personnel in Chad approached our plane with what they’d learned from investigation.

“It seems the majority of the rebel forces have moved south and west from Goz Beida, and are no longer occupying the town or camps. It’s true they shot a rocket-propelled grenade at a French aircraft yesterday, but they’ve apologized now and stated it was an accident. They have also repeatedly stated that they are not purposely targeting humanitarians or their organizations. We BELIEVE this information to be true and correct, but cannot ascertain for sure its validity, and we THINK your OK flying down there to Goz Beida. Just do not fly over any hills or the town.”

I voiced the fact that the report they just gave us was about the shittiest piece of intelligence I’d ever been privy too. I never would have thought 6 months ago that in October 2006 I’d be standing on the tarmac of an African desert town’s airport telling a bunch of high ranking UN officials I basically thought they were idiots. Yet I was a little more couth than that. We discussed the fact that not over flying hills is not an option, seeing as how Goz Beida was surrounded by hills. I further voiced my frustration with their obvious lack of organization in the field and with the fact that if so many UN personnel had spoken with these rebels and been assured that NGOs would not be targeted, why hadn’t anyone thought to mention that a humanitarian aircraft may be coming down to evacuate some people? Hmmm??? ‘Please don’t shoot at our silly looking white and blue aircraft that is so slow that it cannot get out of its own way’ is what I suggested they state the next time they had a heart to heart chat with the rebs.

A few more matters were discussed and I felt confident (mostly) that we could execute the flights without incidence. We boarded the few individuals who for some masochistic reason or another wanted to go to Goz Beida before hopping up into the cockpit. The security entourage waved goodbye and it’s head officer approached for a last pertinent piece of advice. “Good luck, just come back in one piece” was o so wisely stated. He then walked away leaving Myriam and I looking at each other dumbfounded and me with the burning desire to run after him and kick him in the ass. We then took off.

In flight, passengers and pilots kept a vigilant eye on the desert floor below, scanning for military convoys crossing in pursuit of another victory. Occasionally we’d hit a pocket of turbulence that made everyone gasp and grip the seats in front of themselves before looking up to the cockpit for a glance from Myriam or I assuring them that the bump was not a missile strike. We picked an altitude that put us just feet below the cloud bases, making us very difficult to spot from the ground below (I told myself repeatedly) and maintained it until we were directly overhead the dirt strip. Scanning the surrounding hill tops and arid landscape below we deemed it safe and I partook in a ‘fun for the pilots, scary for the passengers’ maneuver, making a steep circular dive 9000 feet to land on the runway below, much as they do flying into Baghdad.

After the parking brake was set and we hopped out a group of anxious passengers happily greeted us and for a while I really appreciated my job incredibly, gloating in the praise we received. The base manager approached us and asked why we did our spiral approach to land. When I explained it was for safety and security, avoiding the surrounding hills he calmly stated that ‘there are no rebels here…they left days ago…it’s calm and boring’.

I felt silly. The next morning made me feel better, in an odd way, when we learned his version of the story was not correct either.

The intermission is over.

And so it begins.

Elizabeth called me last night after I cancelled our dinner plans, and I answered thinking she was intent on rubbing in just how good the curry she cooked was. Instead she informed me that rumors were flying that Goz Beida had been overrun by Chadian Rebel forces, a new conglomerate of old separate groups, now known as UFDD (United Front for Democracy and Development). She new we were supposed to fly to Goz Beida in the morning, so it was welcome info.

I hung up and between Myriam, Georgiana (our new base manager), and I, we began investigating. Immediately we ran into the UNHCR roadblock.

“Hello?”
“Hello. This is AirServ. As you know we are scheduled to fly to Goz Beida tomorrow, and we have heard there were events that took place today that could jeopardize our safety and security tomorrow. Can you confirm or deny?”
“…(long pause—thinking of how to best answer as vaguely and ridiculously as possible)…we have no information for you at this time. If information becomes available we will inform you. Thank you.” Click.
“FUCK STICK”

The red flag is up folks…somethings a happenin!

Further investigation revealed there was in fact an emergency meeting taking place and it was being debated just how to break the news to the children (the rest of us NGO workers out here).

As we all sat out on the porch talking sporadic automatic weapon fire was heard nearby. Our guards seemed on edge, the monkey sat atop the roof sentinel like, providing incoherent and squeaky reports in Monkeyic (official language of most monkeys), and I sipped a whisky and coke. After sunset Myriam and I sat marveling at the Milky Way’s cloudy expanse waiting for more information to come our way. Three heavenly bound rockets shot off from somewhere in town, trailing a red afterglow as they made their ascent to quickly join the stars twinkling above. The gunfire and rockets were isolated cases, and ended soon thereafter.

A messenger arrived from the UNHCR and the news about Goz Beida was confirmed, seems the war is back on.

As they predicted: end of Ramadan=end of light military action. I cannot say =end of peace…because there is never peace here. Its like the US Postal service in its consistency. Rain, sleet, snow or sun…we’ll fight, though sometimes we’ll tone it down a bit so we may observe religious holidays.

For its part, the new UFDD has publicly stated that NGOs and UN workers are not a target. They have requested that all humanitarians stay inside their compounds where they will be safe, as only Chadian military garrisons and bases are the enemy. This being said, witnesses have reported that in the refugee camps nearby Goz Beida government military personnel have been seen changing into civilian clothing and hiding amongst the refugees.

“One can make this generalization about men: they are ungrateful, fickle, liars and deceivers…they would shed their blood for you, risk their property, their lives, their sons, so long as…danger is remote; but when you are in danger they turn away”
--Niccolo Machiavelli

Can I blame them for being cowards? To an extent, but it has its limits. What I cannot blame them for is not wanting to die for the materialistic good of one man, a greedy, exponentially more fickle, seemingly heartless fiend, or his wealthy entourage (I will draw no parallels). If its due, I hope Karma will even the score.

In the meantime we sit idly by here in Abeche. Waiting for word to evacuate someone, something or someplace, and waiting to see what the week brings. Speculation is everywhere, and everyone has an opinion as to what happens next. Abeche? Who knows. For our part we’ll start stocking up on food, water and beer.

Guns and more guns.

Bright, shiny new Chinese knock offs of the classic Kalashnikov automatic rifle, known world wide as the AK47 are seemingly everywhere in Chad these days. (Its amazing what a little oil money can buy…yep we’re buying the brown stuff from them and helping to keep the cycle going!). At the airport men nap in the shade of dwarfed trees, fatigued from heat and Ramadan fasting, with the glistening black steel instrument of death used as a pillow in the blazing inferno that is eastern Chad now that the rains have ended. An erratic tide of soldiers washes into and over Abeche every few days. Their numbers increase and the rumors and security concerns grow in the NGO community exponentially, before the troops presence seem to ebb, pulled away in camouflaged C130s and helicopter gunships. A collective sigh of relief then ripples across the community upon their departure, as most despise or at very least, do not trust their presence.

I witnessed a very confused expression covering a boy’s face the other morning as I was driven to the airfield in a hulking Toyota Landcruiser, air conditioned frigid air blasting away, and separated from the reality of the outside world by a 1/8 inch pane of glass. The dark, sweaty and immature face was sheepish at first, glancing down to avoid eye contact. He looked scared, alone and out of place, much like a 9th grader showing up for his first day of high school, afraid of the potential hazing. Then in a flash the innocence or childish look was gone, his eyes quickly raised to meet mine, and instantly the expression metamorphosed to bitter defiance. How dare you look at me with pity it seemed to scream as our eyes locked for a brief second of passing.

Our mammoth vehicle raced on past the child and I swiveled in my seat to follow his actions. Pausing in the eddy of choking dust left by the vehicle he seemed frozen in step, as if forgetting his intended task. I wondered if it was due to a moment of intense introversion, momentary consideration of just how ludicrous this life he’d chosen or been chosen for was. In whirling and slowly settling khaki colored dust cloud stood a boy of adolescence wearing lacy silver painted women’s sandals, arctic (white-blue-black) issue camo men’s sized slacks rolled up 1/3 of the way, a jungle print camouflaged shirt about 5 years too big for him as well, a turban, and a glistening AK47 outfitted with razor sharp bayonet. When I was fourteen I was draining my parents liquor cabinet and refilling the bottles with water. I was contemplating smoking marijuana for the first time and trying to convince gas station clerks I was 18 in order to by Marlboro Lights. I was wondering whom I’d take to the homecoming or Sadie Hawkins dance. I was shooting things with BB guns and slingshots, such as apples and my neighbor’s windows…I wasn’t perfect, but I was not skewering others with an 8-inch blade attached to the barrel of my automatic rifle. Our 4x4 whirled around the corner onto the airport tarmac where gunships were being loaded with more bombs and more child soldiers destined to die for a greedy leader who I’m sure won’t bat an eyelash at the thought of their expendability.

I hope you have a childhood next time around my friend.


A day or two later Myriam and I flew the southern rotation together, heading to Goz Beida, KouKou and Dogdore. In Dogdore we serve mainly Medecins San Frontiers (Doctors without Borders) bringing them medicine, food, tools and new physicians so they might help those in need at the nearby refugee camps. The south has been afire with a confusing mix of strife lately: a stewed combination of tribal skirmishes, newly formed energetic rebel groups, older more established rebels, government forces and malicious bandits. It’s just a great place to be these days, a real gem.

Upon landing and slowing I noticed a higher than usual number of military outfits intermingling amongst the girly looking white frock coats the Doctors wear. Still, I trusted that if the physicians had felt it unsafe for us to land they would have advised us by a predetermined signal from the ground (which if I told you, I’d have to kill you all). We feathered the propellers, shut down, hopped out and I was again aware of the gun trucks parked all around, in the shadows behind the white MSF ambulances. “Great…a Goz Beida repeat,” I thought.

No one in Dogdore speaks English, no one. Luckily for me and my incorrigible French, Myriam was there to save the day (Swiss-Canadian, and native French speaker). I unloaded the cargo and bags while vertically impaired Myriam disappeared within a crowd of anxious passengers hoping to go somewhere that wasn’t Dogdore. When I was finished she waved me over to wear she stood surrounded by soldiers armed with enough guns and ammunition to make a run on Fort Knox. They all smiled cheerily and waved, requesting handshakes and the normal civilities. I approached cautiously and saw the passenger in question, a goofy looking old man of about 65 or so with a limited number of teeth and a wrinkled, sun scorched, black leather face. In his hand he held an equally wrinkled piece of lined paper, ripped from a child’s school notebook.

“He says he needs to go…he’s on the manifest, but…well you look at his authorization and tell me what you think…” Myriam sighed.

In order for us to carry a Chadian government passenger it needs to be deemed by the UNHCR that the traveler in question is traveling for the better good of humanitarian needs. They then make out an authorization, or Order du Mission, on official UN letterhead, stamp it a million times, spit on it, and sprinkle it with fairy dust. This produces the desired effect: we let them on the airplane.

Everyone hushed and watched as I took the old man’s authorization from him and examined it, immediately chuckling. The only way it would have appealed more to my sense of humor would be if it had been written in crayon with a few sparkly stickers thrown on for good measure. Scribbled in chicken scratch across a piece of torn, lined notebook paper, was this man’s authorization, written in two ink colors and stamped with an evidently dying inkpad by none other than the old man himself. ‘I hereby give myself permission to ride on your airplane. Sincerely, me.’

At least he smiled as I laughed. Even the other dangerously armed men smiled too which comforted me as I scanned the crowd of faces immediately huddled about my position. The MSF doctors had backed off and were distancing themselves from the conversation, obviously wary of what would happen if his scribbled Lav pass of an authorization were denied. I hesitated, hemmed and hawed, kicked some rocks and made it known that I was not pleased with the situation he was putting us in…then I yielded and let him on…not wanting another situation like my Goz Beida confrontation from 2 months back. The men in uniform all rejoiced and I thought were about to break out into song and dance had we not barked at them to make expedited farewells.

The old man said his goodbyes and we all waited patiently for him to make his way towards the airplane. Finally he came, yet he had slung over his shoulder an archaic looking AK47, which he politely gestured he’d like to take on board. “Ummm, NO.” I said as I pointed at the 18-inch diameter sticker on the airplane door portraying the exact gun he had on him with a big red slash thru it. “No guns, sorry. Je suis desole.” He smiled and removed the gun. I smiled and told him to stand still so that I might wand him with the metal detector.

About 11.4 seconds worth of metal detecting work on my part revealed that this man was the Southern Chad walking ammunition depot. BEEEEEEEP….oh look, you have three handguns wrapped around your waist, isn’t that pleasant??? BEEEEEEEEEP…wow, you’ve got another on your ankle, good spot indeed sir!!!! BEEEEEEEEEEP…ummm, nice knife grandpa, good spot too, the other ankle…hmmm. What are you planning for, World War Three?????

I suddenly had visions of this old man in a Rambo outfit jumping from the airplane when we landed in Abeche and laying waste to all his enemies without suffering a single scratch, then screaming something along the lines of “ NO ONE BEATS ME AT BRIDGE AND LIVES TO TELL!!!” I smiled and he smiled toothlessly back at me.

“At least you’re not being a jerk about it.” I said, knowing he had no idea what I was saying. After the last of Rambo Sr.’s armaments were removed he happily boarded the airplane and I shut the door behind him. I walked slowly up to the front shaking my head in tune with Myriam’s at what a circus we had just seen. We both shrugged our shoulders, sighed and waved to the MSF doctors who were beginning to chase the kids, donkeys and goats off the runway. Only government employees who are traveling for the good of humanitarianism may travel aboard our aircraft. Right. And what was his job? Population control?

Later I yelled at him for removing his seat belt just before landing, confident that Rambo Sr. had no more weapons to wield and that he was just a silly looking old man in a light blue sheet trying to get to the next Abeche AARP meeting.

The not so dream

I was sitting down today with others at a large table. Many wore translucent masks that showed their faces but distorted their mouths and features, all having big red smiles permanently molded into the plastic. There was this mist of incessant bickering that made it difficult to see and my eyes were beginning to strain from my efforts to.

Suddenly the guy sitting across from me stood up very upset, as he had been the focus point of some of the garbled bickering, and yelled 'I QUIT!' in a snoody French accent. I could not understand why he felt so indignant and insulted. He tossed his paper BurgerKing crown onto the table and stormed off stomping his feet the whole way.

Everyone scratched their heads in bewilderment for a few moments. Slowly one of the eccentric, old individuals in the crowd picked up the wrinkled, ketchup stained crown and with a sheepish grin arose and marched my way. He slid up behind me and with the lobotomized nods from the others placed the flimsy ornament on my head.

For a brief, temporary moment it felt good. Then I felt ridiculous.

"What is this?" I asked.
"It is for you" they all said.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"You are now Chad Chief Pilot" they all said.
"Umm...should I thank you?" I asked.
And there was no response.

I watched as a few eyed me with delight before one who through the plastic smile mask I could still see eyes I did not trust, asked with the permanent smirk:

"Do you prefer chess or puppet shows?"

And before I could answer 'Neither' everyone had left the table.

Three Nights, Three Hookers

Comical but frustrating, is how I silently summed it up, sipping a warm beer at Club Nightriders late last night. Three scantily clad, beautiful women stood arguing in Kiswahili 4 feet from my spot, I was sure the claws would come out soon.

Last Sunday, upon my return from Zanzibar, and at Bill, our African Chief Pilots request, he, Ed McConnell (my Idahoan roommate in South Africa) and I went out for a beer. It had been 4 months or so since I'd seen Ed so it was hard for me to say no, despite being tired and feeling ill. We headed to Jeremiah's, a local drinking establishment where you'll find having a white epidermis makes you very much the minority...as most places will in Uganda. We sat outside next to a steel drum barbeque which was cooking various random meat parts and discussed our different flying stories accrued since Ed and I saw each other last. After an hour or so the table next to us filled up with three girls, all dressed to attract attention from the male species. It wasn't long before I started hearing whispers and faint whistles coming from behind me, so, hoping I was doing it discreetly, I turned and found three sets of lusty eyes locked on all of us. Immediate thought: COOL! One of the three after a minute got up and shimmied her chair over next to mine, and upon sitting back down frankly introduced herself: 'hello, how are you? (PAUSE FOR ANSWER) My name is #@$%. Do you like blowjobs?'. Following thought: SHIT. How's that for an introduction? I've yet to get that one in Steamworks or Carvers back in Durango, hmmm.

I laughed and it bothered her, she squirmed towards me and grabbed my shirt, directing her piercing eyes right at mine which were doing their best averting job. "Why you laugh? What's so funny?" When I explained that not many conversations in the States are started with such...directness...she seemed not to understand, and followed with a second contemplative question: "well do you? How about massage and then one?". I replied with another nervous laugh, trying to buy time, hoping for assistance from Ed or Bill, who were not being of much help. Looking up I found the other girls sitting next to both of them, asking similar straightforward, blush producing questions for us sexually conservative Americans, as I was once told by a Dane. It took a good 30 minutes or so to convince these girls that we were not interested in taking them back to our houses, hotels or tents, and that we were all happily...married, engaged, dating, priests, gay, into bestiality, or anything...anything that'd make them leave us alone. They got the hint, and slowly unlatched the GI Joe Kung Fu deathgrips that held us at bay, but not before my new found friend grabbed me again by the shirt and hopped on my lap demanding I "kiss me hard now!". Again, wow. What does one say?

Even if I had thought of something smart to say, I was not allowed enough time to vocalize it. With mouth firmly closed, lips puckered inwards, and hands pushing her softly away, I had the outside of my face slobbered up and down, I think a tongue may have even entered my nose at one point. "Ok, thank you for the...the...face washing?" I said, wiping my cheeks, chin and mouth on my shirt, Ed and Bill doing their best to fend off similar attacks. "Call me!" came girlishly bellowing out of the car from three different voices, simultaneously, as if practiced, to us three different guys, as the car sped off down the banana tree enshrouded road. I stood silent for a moment listening to the tree frogs thinking I just got molested by a prostitute. I had to laugh.

Another two nights later found me riding around on my loaned bicycle and stopping at a drugstore for something to make me feel better as I was quite sick. As I exited, I was greeted by a sensuous 'hello' again, only to find another attractive woman batting her eyes at me. As before, the conversation cut right to the chase and I made a polite refusal before escaping like a nerd on my bike down the street. I felt like a little boy hopping on his bike to run away from a little girl.

Then came last night. Leo, a Costa Rican engineer and extremely funny guy, Royal, our Director of Ops, and I sat having a gin and tonic at the hotel bar where we are staying. Bill called. "Cmon, you, Leo and I will go to Nightriders for a little while". I didn't fight, though I was tired, secretly I hoped someone else would protest. They did not. We wound up at the underground club with deafening base blasting from the large speakers everywhere, and immediately all the stains on my shirt were noticeable from the black lights that were mounted overhead. On the stage danced a mix of beautiful Ugandan girls and some fit Ugandan guys, all lip syncing in turn to different popular songs from the region. It was my second time here, making a stop last visit to Entebbe. Most of the music was great, beautiful and invigorating African beats and guitar, rhythmically being pulsed through you by the 12 foot high speakers behind and all around. Then she came.

A tall, thin and dark girl came up to our table, said hi to Bill and Leo and then proceeded to sit on my lap and introduce herself. She spoke broken English, was from Goma, in Democratic Republic of Congo, and was 'just visiting' friends in Entebbe. Mmm hmm. I spent the better part of the next 20 minutes trying to politely push her away, as she undressed herself, and me in front of a crowd 300 strong. "Umm, yeah I'm not all that up for public nudity night in Uganda today, thanks." I explained numerous times I was engaged (I'm not Mom) and that I had to go, to which she responded "SHE IS NOT HERE!!!, WE GO NOW, COME!". Thank God I'm not too easily manipulated, I think. With the intent of breaking away from her towards the door I let her lead me by the hand thru the crowd towards the exit until a comical 'salvation' hit us.

"Why haven't you called!!!??" boomed from behind me, after a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find my first prostitute friend beaming at me from behind.
Before I could answer, "Who is this?" was the response from my new Congolese escort.
Before anyone could answer, another hand slipped around my waist and pulled me backwards too intimately to be Bill or Leo. Swiveling I found my drugstore friend smiling at me. Oh God, here we go.
"Who are you?!!!"...the rest was lost to me, as my Kiswahili is nonexistent.

The melodic African sound waves filled the dark, humid room, but between beats the ensuing argument was heard. I giggled and forgot about my intended getaway as three hookers argued over who's man I really was. Comical but frustrating, but more comical than the latter I continued to think before noticing Bill and Leo waving me towards the door. It is easy to spot a couple white guys in here flashed inside. I placed my beer on the bar behind and with a quick swivel-turn-jump-step, leapt between a few other guys and was out the door and free, my ego beaming with delight before it hit the wall.

As we walked down the pitch black street towards our vehicle, the cartoon like light bulb illuminated inside my skull. 'Wait a second, it wasn't me they bickered about...it was my money.' The ego slowly deflates back to normal and I spent sometime wondering what economic and emotional hardships would cause these beautiful women to take up such a horrible career choice. What I was just 3 minutes earlier finding as amusing was actually probably not. Statistically speaking, and most likely enough, each one of those three women who flirted with me and batted their beautiful eyes my way will be dead soon enough from AIDS.

2 1/2 days in Zanzibar

"Well if dey didn't stamp ya passport comin in I ain't gonna stamp it now" said the Ugandan immigration woman as I passed by the podium she sat at on my way to the gate my aircraft was to depart from. My kind of country. Aaaah, its all good, lets just say you weren't here, then everyone's happy.

I climbed aboard the prehistoric 737 operated by AirTanzania and was soon on my way east southeast across Lake Victoria, to where the arid northern plains of Tanzania meet it, home to a few of the earth's last mighty hoofed migrations. Soon out the window loomed the massive shadowed hulk of that awe inspiring mountain, Kilimanjaro, though thankfully it's top was shrouded in thunderstorms. I say thankfully because to me, seeing such a massive and mighty landmark such as this from 28,000 feet is just not an adequate way to appreciate its existence. I feel the same way about taking an aerial tour of the Grand Canyon. When you circle thousands of feet above such a thing its size diminishes, and its immensity, its belittling quality, its heavenly grandeur is what draws most people to it; when you climb above you depreciate this sense. After Kilimanjaro faded, but not before my longing to climb up its sides surged again, white beaches appeared underneath and aquamarine waves rolled up and crashed onto them. The waters turned a purplish color, similar to that of the Gulf Stream as we headed 30 miles or so of shore to Zanzibar. Just the name sounds enticing.

The next two and a half days found me struggling to get out of bed in the morning after fitfully sweating thru a night. I made myself enjoy the beautiful island as best I could, but my heart wasn't in it. My thoughts each day swam around upstairs in my head and a thick fog seemed to reign over all thinking. In the evenings I'd go to a bar that westwardly overlooked the Indian Ocean and down a beer watching the sun dip behind ancient looking dhows that still cart spices from the island to the mainland, lacking much in the way of enthusiasm, though still appreciating the beauty. Afterwards I'd head to a nightly fishmarket for some delectable seafood kabobs before being totally spent and heading back to the hostel to sweat thru another evening of no sleep.

I went diving twice the first day along a reef that lies 2 or 3 miles off the coast from the old slave market town. The reef was beautiful, the fish colorful and the water magnificent, but the native dive master assigned to myself and two S. Africans, seemed intent on setting a new 'linear distance traveled on one tank of air' record and I was rushed over coral heads to traverse lengthy barren stretches of wave patterned sand. Upon getting him to slow his marathon dive to something a little bit less tour de france-ish, I began to enjoy the beauty to a larger extent, only to have him repeatedly spoil numerous moments of eye to eye gazing and meditative ponderings with various fish and beautiful coral formations, by banging a rock on the side of his aluminum air cylinder, which resonates quite loudly underwater. I'd swim quickly to his side where he'd point out a sea slug or small stingray sitting in the sand, very much like the other sea slug or small stingray I'd just been looking at in the reef. Having this happen about 10 times I began to ignore him, only to look up once when I heard the loud CLANK -CLANK -CLANK to find him nowhere in sight. Evidently the tour de reef had begun again, unbeknownst to me.



The following day I spent on a 'spice tour' being taken to the island's lush interior, playing with local kids, and sampling all the incredible spices and fruits grown. We dined in a local family's clay floored house on curried Kingfish and rice which was sooooooooo good. After lunch the group piled into the small shock absorber-less van and head for the beach, stopping first at some old slave chambers. The chambers were built in a thicket not too far from a concealed miniature harbor, used to store the freshly gathered human cargo from the mainland until a number accrued sufficient enough to warrant a shipment to the middle east or even America. It was constructed after the Zanzibar sultan was 'persuaded' to outlaw slavery by the British at a time when the island was mainly filled with Muslims of Arabic descent. The Zanzibar based Arab slavers had for years raped the mainland's interior, leaving its vast expanses at the time of the British abolishment, as Livingstone put it, much like a ghost town. The crammed, wet and moldy quarters were...sobering.

Then, the beach, and I was again blissfully drunk in the waves forgetting how miserable I was that morning feeling sick and for the first time yet, just wanting to go home.