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