Bonsoir Madames et Monsieurs
During the 5 ½ hour flight back down the dark continent from Paris I found myself surrounded by screaming Chadian children, French diplomats and, even worse…redneck American oil workers, a motley crew if there ever was one. We glided down over the amazingly expansive Sahara, such an unbelievable sight to behold, it surpasses any open and desolate space I had ever imagined. I almost did not want to look outside and risk spoiling the images I had pondered up over the years of massive sand dunes with camel trains criss crossing their cornices, remote oasis’s, and other Lawrence of Arabia relics…but it didn’t disappoint, it was still amazing at 35000 feet.
A gunshot outside, and not too far, my heart just picked up the tempo here a bit.
As we began our descent into N’djamena my face was glued to the window like a 8 year old kid. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Blackness. Then a shimmer, and a flash. Another shimmer and stars…below…? Another star below the wing. Have my inner ear and my French pilots deceived me so much that I am upside down and barely even aware? Another shimmer and star below give it away, light from the moon above aids in the veils lifting. We were crossing the remnants of the once great Lac Tchad, the once largest body of fresh water in Africa that has been reduced to marshes and waterways slicing back and forth. In those waterways sit small dugout boats with tiny lights, fisherman, I’m suddenly loving it. The lake ends and I meet the darkness again, then a light, a fire, another fire, then things that look like fire flies…but these are flying fast and most likely sting…wow, bullets strafing the desert below. (Don’t worry Mom, besides those and the shots I just heard outside that’s been it, and for all I know they may be celebrating. It may be…ah…National Sand Dune Appreciation day or something…)
We landed and walked across the tarmac to the massive International Airport’s terminal. It was not so unlike most other international airports besides the fact it had only 4 planes on the tarmac, including AirServ’’s 1900, the Customs personnel were talked into just letting me thru without any questioning or fuss by my greeters, the building’s (and city’s for that matter) lights flickered as the generators struggled to keep up, and men walked around in long Arabic robes, oh and there were the AK47s too, the final nice touch. This is great. I can truly say I am enjoying this now, its turned into an adventure.
I find myself in a place so alien, unlike anywhere I’ve landed before…Chad. My mouth agape, my forehead still plastered to the windows of the Landcruiser, we creep thru the dirt alleyways towards what proves an enormous compound, housing AirServ employees and the main operations. Upon entering I am greeted by three white South Africans (suddenly not so alien…) and I am brought to my room. It smells just as I dreamed it would…spice?…and antique wood. I’m back in the dream, the mystery, its great, its alien, its adventurous…its…then I see HIM.
He sits on a slab of wood painted blood rouge, and my sense of adventure fades slightly, replaced with irritation. He has beaten me to this distant and chaotic place. ‘Good-day Doctor’ I groan. He says nothing and I’m glad, for I would not like anyone overhearing this conversation. We lock eyes and I wonder how he arrived, who he came with, why he’s still here.
The not-so-pleasant Dr. Kurtz, Conrad’s infamous, detestable and fictional character you ask? No. This doctor is real. He stares at me, with a sickeningly ignorant smile and a receding hairline (I know, I know…pot calling the kettle black?). He’s not physically here, in flesh and blood, but it makes no difference to me. On the red painted wood that is the bookshelf, on the creased spine of a paperbound book, authored by none other than himself sits a doctor who Kurtz pales in comparison to. Its him. Its Phil, Doctor Phil, and I start planning his exodus.
At night I awake in the thick blackness…the generator has quit and its stifling hot, I’m drenched in sweat. Sexy huh? I fumble my way to the bathroom and upon opening the door hear something much bigger than a mouse, and with claws, that scampers across the tile. I’m almost glad the electricity is out.
French military aircraft awake me early, their after burners grossly overpowering the children singing in Arabic outside their window which had been incorporated into my dreams.
After breakfast we hop into the trucks and convoy to the airport. The main gate is closed so we opt for the side entrance; a dirt road thru the open air mud huts that house blacksmiths, mechanics and narcoleptics, thru a chain link fence and…oh, look here: we are on the taxiways of the international airport driving our trucks, and no one cares a bit. My eyes are large, they are bulging. In the airport’s one bathroom spiders, the size of Delaware, loom overhead, breathing heavy (really), waiting for some poor child to wander in unaccompanied to use the urinal. Poor bastard, whoever it will be.
The 1900 fills with UN personnel and I am well on my way across the Sahel before I even realize it. Its desolate. It makes the Navajo Nation look like Manhattan. Nothing. Nothing. Oh, wait…nothing. Then here and there a village appears below, thatch roofed mud huts with extensive defensive looking fences surrounding the village, then…nothing but sand.
Abeche appears after 1 ½ hours or so and on approach we pass over the charred wreckage of a Chadian C130 that crashed a few weeks back, killing everyone on board.
I am brought to the heavily guarded house here and am instantly happy. I (Laura and Chavez pay attention) now have a pet monkey…AND…a pet desert tortoise. Yep, life is good. I make acquaintances with my new French chief pilot (Frederic), Swiss co pilot Myrian), Canadian base manager(Darcy), and Pennsylvanian mechanic (?, oops) then am given the grand tour by Darcy. He takes me immediately to a local bar(!) where we down drinks in the unroofed mud walled atmosphere. Kick ass! Then the marche (market) tour complete with kids shoving bloody goat heads in my face laughing. Aah, Abeche.
No comments:
Post a Comment