A random one...

In the 4 years I flew the Beech 1900 I had never realized the rear most cabin wall was easily removed. Recently we ripped it down in a sweating, heat stroke bordering frenzy to accompany the carriage of the limp, lifeless body of a 10 year old boy who was beaten into a coma by rebels in the vicinity of my favorite locale, Goz Beida. Where were you on this one Sultan? We threw 2 seats to the ground and pulled his body through the cargo bin into the last rows of the aircraft while his helpless father watched with limpid, yet hollow eyes, appearing resigned to the fate at hand. Black flies buzzed around the boy’s torso, ambled along his eyelids, and lazily crawled into and out his mouth. The smell, that rancidly sweet, nose stinging stench of decaying, infected flesh and unwashed body parts filled the airplane as I finished securing this inculpable mass to the floor. My eyes raise to meet another set, close by, those hollow and tired eyes again. I’m sorry, I try to say thru silence and stare, yet the hollow eyes do not see me, they see only the fading life lying behind me, internal flame flickering down quietly. A month ago I asked of what hope would remain if one witnessed his parents or siblings killed, yet this day the hollow eyes spoke of a worse fate. What hope would remain in one’s heart if one’s children were beaten and brought down before him, the life drained from their innocent veins? This day we provided, if nothing else, a glimmer of hope, a shimmer of the honorable side of humanity, to this unfortunate duo.

We were plagued most of the previous 8 days with weather and lack of onboard weather detecting equipment. The aircraft radar remained unusable for the better part of the week, making my decision making more and more unpopular with UNHCR staff. Its difficult to explain to people who do not have an intimate understanding of aircraft systems and air law, that I cannot, legally or sanely, just launch off into a mass of dark clouds that most likely contains towering thunderstorms hidden within. “Well the other airplane took off!”...is the usual vexed response. One particular morning I arrived at the airport in a massive downpour, thunder booming constantly and frogs hopping with exuberance all about the tarmac. I took shelter inside the control tower, with many other foreign pilots while we all awaited the storm’s end.

Downstairs, in the flight plan filing division, if that’s what you’d call it, 12 men stand around dressed in their flowing white traditional Islamic outfits. The majority of the faces are pointed towards a television that is mounted to the wall above and in the corner, next to the smiling picture of Idris Deby, the President/Dictator/Humvee and Wife collector. On the crackling screen dances rhythmically a white woman wearing a headset, and a spandex yet unrevealing jumpsuit, with others dancing rhythmically around and behind her. Wow. 8 Chadian Muslim air traffic controllers sit enamored watching a French aerobic video and seem not to be aware of anything else in the world. Behind them, along the walls are piles and piles and piles of paper that have run out of the printers above. The paper pours out over the floor, in loose rolls and crumpled folds, much of it has only black footprints on it, the ink being long since bleached with time; there must be 5 years of print outs of who knows what. I’m betting they aren’t quite sure what the paper says either.

I slowly climb the concrete stairs twisting up the lightless tower, to the weather room, if thats what you’d call it. The door is plastered with meteorological pictures, cloud formations and their associated hazards, catching my attention briefly. Hmmm, that looks funny, never seen one of those clouds before...wait...oh. Further examination reveals the majority of the pictures are glued on the door upside down, creating reverse formation cumulonimbus monsters, that rarest and most deadly of meteorological events and many others.. Does anyone know, or more appropriately, does anyone care???? I snicker as I open the door, revealing another 12 men in flowing white gowns, watching the same pitiful aerobic program on another flickering screen placed on one of their desks. This is like a dream, one of those you have leaving you confused concerning its meaning the following morning. “Bonjour!” I say, and slowly one head turns my way, all others are unreachable, busy, occupied, glued and concentrating on the constant ‘Un...deux...trois...ce bon!...Un...deux...”. Ah, Chad.

My new weather office friend galumphs my direction, sinks in a chair, and without uttering a word pulls up the latest water vapor image on one of the 20 or so computers in the office that are from the early 90’s. “Merci...”, but before I can finish thanking him he’s gone, glued back to the super entrancing French aerobic wonder, leaving me to stare at the ugly, impossible to accurately read, image on the archaic computer screen. From the Red Sea, across to central Nigeria is a band of thick, rain laden clouds. Rainy season fun. My glare drifts about the office, across the dusty desks and cobwebs, the mountainous piles of unravelled roll printer paper, to the windows overlooking the runway which has now disappeared in the heavy rain. Geckos and black/orange lizards cover the window screens, staying under the eaves of the building and out of the rain. Between the precipitation and reptiles it would be impossible for a controller to stand up here and issue viable instructions to an aircraft on the taxiway below. The window squirms and wiggles, tails slithering all over, and
I drift off imagining for a brief moment this drab, concrete structure is no longer in Chad, it towers above a runway in Japan. The controller upon receipt of a call from an aircraft arises with binoculars to try and spot the incoming airplane and monitor its approach. The binoculars scan the skies through the windows, searching, searching, when suddenly...what’s that!?...an ugly, horrid, reptilian looking head pops into the magnified field of vision. The controller begins to shimmy and shake, petrified with the belief that Japan's mortal enemy has arisen again and now is in his field of view...he's about to make a screeching broadcast over the VHF radio, "G..O..D..Z..I..L", his clenched, clammy fist inches above the big red PUSH HERE IN CASE OF OVERGROWN REPTILE ATTACK button when he lowers the binoculars, slowly, and shaking, greatly relieved to be finding a gecko had crossed the screen in front of him. "Creared to rand" he says instead, and Japan sleeps safely another day awaiting its' nemesis' return.

I chuckle at the thought and at the state of affairs around me, but stop myself and look self consciously towards the group of white robed controllers, a bit embarrassed about my outburst. No response. Of course, how could I forget,...all they hear is “Un...duex....trois....Bon! Ce Bon!....Un...”.



Found a refuge of scantily clad western civilization here in Chad. The Nouvotel, and it's marvelously unimpressive yet relaxing warm pool where one can lounge and pretend he/she is not in Chad for a few lovely hours. African rhythms pour forth from a live band by the bar, every so often a song is sung in broken English, though usually one I'd rather have forgotten, only to have it invade my consciousness and play repeatedly for the next 4 days. A few beautiful girls from some of the various NGOs swim and sunbathe and a disproportionately larger population of horny French soldiers, UN workers, NGO workers and diplomats sit and gaze wishfully at the most skin we've all seen since leaving North America or Europe. It is expensive, 5000 CFAs($10), with beers running $3 or $4, but it is well worth escaping from the reality that surrounds. Overlooking the Chari river, with Cameroon not a stones throw away, I passively work on changing my skin to a color mildly closer to the men navigating and fishing from dugout canoes in the muddy waters outside the fence. Cognizance of the fact my skin isn’t the only portion of my being that is Africanizing washes over me here and there; my whole persona is slowing, my tempo beating slower than it has in a long, long time. Realizing that there is nothing to do or that must be done, no where to go, nothing productive to accomplish, is difficult for many of us to come to terms with. You can either accept and resign, slowing yourself and allowing your self to heal from years of western rush, stress, instant gratification and expectation, or you can let it drive you nuts. I'm still working on finding that middle ground amidst the two, for when I return home I'd rather not resemble the humanoid version of a three toed sloth.

The security situation in Chad remains dubious. Last week in Guerada, a locale 40 minutes north of Abeche by Twin Otter, or about 11 miles (kidding), the International Medical Corps (IMC) compound was stormed, ambushed, and completely cleaned out. Two Western aid workers are hospitalized, one serious injured with a skull fracture resultant from a rifle butt blow, and there is speculation that this is only the beginning of an ugly trend. Apparently many men dressed in military fatigues, armed with AK47s cut the barbed wire, climbed a wall, hid out atop the roof and waited for all the workers to exit the house before attacking. All were forced to lay face down in the mud and pouring rain as the Operations manager was held at gunpoint until he opened and emptied the safe. One problem with the situation is the question of who the perpetrators are. They were wearing camo fatigues, had AK47s being aimed by dark, bloodshot eyes and drove pickup trucks outfitted with gun turrets and RPGs. Sound familiar? That is every Chadian and Western Sudanese man who is employed by one of the government armies, militias, rebel groups, or just crazed, doped up rapist factions. Narrows it down tremendously. A female friend recently confided her justifiable fear of what awaits her, as she is required to transport large sums of cash to these questionable places on a regular basis, and its a well known fact what her cargo is.

Besides inclemental weather, poorly functioning aircraft equipment, corrupt and vile armed men, and constant proximate death and disease, I was reminded this week of another challenge that faces us all here in the dark continent. Cynicism is a condition as widespread and potentially devastating as any insect borne disease, and just as easily contracted, and just as difficult to avoid. There is a easily and occasionally justifiably accepted attitude that the NGOs and humanitarian aid organizations do more harm than good, that involvement of any form creates reliance and dependency, corruption and greed, creating a viscous closed circuit that powers and feeds off itself. It is my personal opinion that if you wholly embrace this atrophic disparagement then you allow the circuit to remain in force, and you grow disillusioned and angry. Is it not more of a challenge to actually find some good in what is being accomplished, to strive to stay positive and to donate a piece of yourself to those less fortunate? Gross infatuation with the negative implications of helping anything or anyone on this planet is easily accomplished...couldn’t you argue that saving someone from drowning is in a sense problematic? Are you not interfering with Darwin’s law of Natural Selection or aiding in the overpopulation of the planet, or who knows, maybe that person will someday after their salvation, down a few too many beers and collide with a bus carrying the Dali Lama. If only you hadn’t helped. So what’s worse? Philanthropically using the resources you have to try helping those in need, truly believing you are doing good, or standing back and letting history play its course, hoping for the best? I cannot answer the question with absolutism, but I can say that personally I’d rather attempt helping, in almost any way I can, being aware of possible negative tangents, but not being ruled by their possible existence. Be smart, but follow your heart and help when it says to do so, whenever it may say so.

This all being said, there are negatives to Peacekeeping forces, and NGO presences, the human side to humanitarian aid. Humans are humans, some are depraved, and cannot resist human urges, causing pain to others...and some of these humans are soldiers on the UN payroll, or field workers for MSF or UNICEF, or AirServ. I agree with critics that call for higher moral fiber in the ranks, there’s no questioning the need, yet it‘s also needed in every other industry on EARTH. I also agree that West answers are not always best answers, that some problems require abstract solutions and we should be cognitive of this. Finally, last but very not the least, I whole heartedly agree with people's frustrations with the UN. It could do so much good, and should do so much good, and it does do good, but there is a magnificent level of bureaucracy involved in everything that's done, (if it actually gets done) that its difficult to stomach. Its quite reminiscent of the powers that be residing on the banks of the lovely Potomac.