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...
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