Cripples and Kings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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