Across Africa and Portugal continued

Awakening to a gentle rain in the morning accompanied by a cacophony of bird songs can mean only one thing. In the past, while working for the airlines and sleeping in a different bed almost every night, every once in a while I'd wake up and for a brief moment be confused about where I was. Dubuque? Pueblo? Raleigh? Phoenix? Over the past week its been a bit of the same, I've been all over the place, Lisbon to N'djamena to Abeche to N'djamena to where I awake this morning. There is no mistaking it though, the temperature, the feel, the sounds, and that rain. This rain is unlike the angry, violent yet short lived rain of Chad, which pummels you and everyone around for just a brief while before exhausting itself into oblivion. This rain whispers to you to stay in bed, to stay with your dreams, and just close your eyes for a few more minutes. Yet as I write this I am aware there is angry rain here too, as I found it or it found me on my last visit to Uganda.

It was a busy week in Chad. I arrived early last Tuesday, at 3:30am N'djamena, and as I anxiously awaited the sight of my bag on the decrepit, antique baggage carousel I became aware of something all around me, a sort of cloud. 'Oh, you guys again, kinda forgot bout you in Portugal' and I soon was hard at work methodically inflicting casualties upon the Chadian mosquito population. A quick shower and a 30 minute nap found me sitting aboard another flight, bags both under my eyes and the seat next to me, bound for Abeche for a week's worth of fun and excitement.

The days were hot and full of security concerns. Those rascally, rebellious rebels along the Sudanese border are creating havoc again, and the Chadian military alongside the French were strafing their lines daily. Seems there is a need for something to be continuously falling from the sky in Chad, a kind of queer fact of life. The rains fall from June to late September or October, destroying but also providing the most essential element for life. They wash out the roads and make everything on the ground an arduous task, therefore most military activity ceases and desists. Its revolution holiday time. Then the rains stop falling, the roads dry, the commanders wake from their soggy catonic states and the bombs begin falling in the place of water droplets. Helicopters were constantly taking off from Abeche heading north with shiny bombs and troops carrying bright new black Russian AK47s. While awaiting the fuel truck one day I heard a 'clink..clink..clink..clunk..clink...' coming from behind me. Lacking working trucks, explosive experts were using a rickety bag cart to transport massive yellow bombs across the ramp. Every clink I heard sent a shiver up my spine as I watched the explosives roll into each other, clunking and clinking. Not my idea of a respectable way to go. Death by baggage cart bombs, "sorry bout your son, Ms. Washburn and Mr. Archambault, at least it wasn't a heart attack on the toilet."

Besides flying twice the normal amount, we were constantly 'on call' for a possible evacuation of NGO staff from a few locations in the north, where fighting intensified between the different armies. A constant buzz was heard, a nervous energy excited the air around, and everyone was whispering of what was to come. For it's part the UNHCR was extremely helpful in determining the current security status when queried.

"What is the security status up north around Guerada this week?"
"Oh, fine. Just fine."
"Really...hmmm. That's kinda funny, because I heard differently and have also seen the gunships loaded with bombs and the body bags being laid out on the ramp in front of the French base, there was even talk that the rebels made it to within 15km of Abeche last night..."
...PAUSE...
"Mmm hmmm"
"huh. ok, thanks for your time"

There is a veil of secrecy around everything here. No one will officially tell you that things are detiorating, or that the proverbial shit is hitting the fan, but if you look around it seems quite obvious. Some out there speculate that its because the UNHCR is on an invitational thin ice status with the Chadian government and if it were to start shouting "WE HAVE A PROBLEM HERE!! GET READY TO EVACUATE PEOPLE!" it would endanger it's precarious good standing with the authorities. It would be like stating the rebels are winning and the government (that is allowing our presence to exist) is losing. Yet we are not asking for this, we are asking for a whispered truth, just a glimmer of what is really happening so that we all might be prepared, or at least that's what I'm asking for.

A report recently came out from 'undisclosed sources' regarding an interview with one of the rebel commanders. It soon was circulated around all the NGO's, though few will confess to having received it if directly questioned. In it the commander states that due to the French military's involvement in the conflict, any French national found on the ground, humanitarian or military, will be considered a mercenary/enemy and dealt with accordingly. Sitting on the couch reading this off my laptop's screen, with Fred, our French Program Chief Pilot sitting next to me, I had to chuckle.

"What's so funny?" he asked with an irritated French accent.
"...now you know what it feels like to be an American, buddy! Welcome to the club!"
No response.

A few days later, on Saturday, we ferried the aircraft across central Chad back to N'djamena, and escaped the (conflict generated) heat for a day or two. That night Fred and I trudged around the pattern in N'djamena in the Otter for 6 landings to get night current again (an US FAA regulation) and I shot one of my first 0/0 - window open approaches. While flying the previous few approaches, we had massacred countless swarms of bugs, until finally on my last landing I hit the jackpot of all mosquito columns and rendered the windshield completely useless, it became covered with a thick paste of bug juice and bug appendages of various colors and consistencies. Damn. Down goes the side window, and I had to fly the plane sideways to the runway while getting pummeled, myself now, with small bugs at 85 mph.

A nice humid weekend in N'djamena consisting of dinners with Elizabeth, Darcy and the gang ended at 3 am Monday morning, after only 4 hours sleep, when I arose to fly the Otter with Fred down to Entebbe. Stepping outside it struck me just how peaceful everything was, the crickets, the tree frogs, a light breeze, and a waning moon shining through thin cirrus clouds above. I had to think that, like many places on earth, Chad wouldn't be such a bad place, if only there weren't any people here. We took off southbound for Bangui initially at 4am on the dot, wielding flashlights, headlamps and a thermos full of super sugary watered down coffee, thanks Fred. Crossing the Chari river off the end of runway 23 we flew south over Cameroon initially, crossed back into Chad and then over the border of Central African Republic. The lights of industrialized civilization faded shortly after departure form N'djamena and a black hole loomed below for most of the trip, countered only by the beautiful bright stars above. I was invigorated at first by the thought of being one of only a few people who have done such a trip over this region, but it soon faded into sleepiness, and irritation with the horrible coffee flavored sugar water and the French guy sitting next to me. I began contemplating whether I had ever read anywhere in the FAA FARs (Federal Air Regulations, the 'bible' of US based aviation) stating that there was a limit to how many hours one could fly in the same airplane with a French captain before needing another vacation. Just the thought lifted my spirits and I determined I'd make the suggestion to the NTSB upon my return to the United States.

Bangui came and went in 3 hours time without any arrests for photographic or urinary reasons, just a few ridiculous bribe-payments and some silly debates with the fuelers. We were off again southeast bound across the northern reaches of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Rolling green grasslands with swaths of forest soon gave way to a thick impenetrable sea of dark green broccoli tops that appeared to continue on forever. Not much hope for someone over this sea of vegetation if they were to lose their engines, or in some of our planes cases, engine. Here and there a hole would appear, a spot where greedy, sweaty men dig below, scarring the earths crust in search of gold. Then a bizarre line would cross our path, running on for miles before abruptly turning and continuing off into the horizon. Old roads. Roads that the Belgians had constructed during their time of colonial rule, but that haven't seen attention since their hasty withdrawal in the 60's, and have since been swallowed up by the hungry jungle. After a couple hours of no one hearing us and us in return only hearing scratchy voices of far away pilots we finally stumbled upon Kisangani, which is now one of my least favorite places.



Landing in Kisangani is like landing in a large advertisement for the United Nations. Everywhere you look there is UN stamped on this and that. This airplane, that truck, this container, that guy's hat, this building, that tractor. Its overwhelming. We parked next to a massive cargo plane with Russian registration numbers and watched as they crammed its hold to the roof with random containers. The pilots, fat and shirtless, sat beneath its tail in the shade smoking cigarettes rubbing their sweaty, grey haired bellies as the forklifts loaded the aircraft. 'I hope I don't turn out like that' flashed across my mind as I simultaneously wondered if what they were sipping wasn't vodka. Fuel trucks rolled back and forth between the massive C130s and Antonov cargo aircraft ignoring us completely. I stayed by the airplane while Fred sauntered off in search of an office to pay the landing fees and file a new flight plan. As soon as he was out of sight the endless procession began...

"Bonjour! Ce Va? aaaahhhh....ok, you have to pay to park here."
"I'm sorry, I don't have any money on me right now, the other guy took it"
"ok you give me souvenir then..."
"ummm, what?"
"you give me souvenir, and cigarettes. You have any American dollars?"
"wow. Umm, hold on, I think I might have a postcard of Portugal here...oh look there it is! Here you are....here's your souvenir"
"aaah, Monsieur, noooooo, nooooo. Please, I need souvenir."
"Hablas espanol?"
"what?"
"Hablas espanol? Te gusta conyar los micos? Mmmm? Me llamo es Jesse, y no me gusta pescado del Rio de Congo o las naranjas verde en mi cabeza! Aye chihuahua. No entiendas, no comprendas? Lo siento senors, lo siento."
...wait for it...wait for it...
The classic puzzled look...a quizical look that I smile broadly too, cocking my head waiting for a response.
"aaaaahhh, ok...aaaaaaaahhhh, we come back later...."
Sweet. One down, about 25 more to go.

And so it went, groups of men would come by the airplane as I sat leaned against its tires trying to catch a brief moment's nap in the sweltering heat. I would hear their feet kicking the pebbles and dirt, purposely trying to make noise to wake me, and I would slowly raise my head and smile. It would all go down the same, each one of the encounters. They would greet in French, I'd reply in Spanish, once even in Portuguese just to stir it up a bit. The bribes-gifts-souvenirs were requested, I'd give them the rambling, ungrammatical speech in broken Spanish about how I did not like Congolese fish or the green oranges in my head. They'd look at each other, me, each other and stand around for 4-5 minutes before frustratingly making off for the next airplane, leaving me to my fitful nap. I promise on my return home to learn more Spanish just out of gratitude for what its done for me in Africa.

We took off again into the jungle, flying alongside the Congo River for quite sometime before diverting away from it for the massive tropical thunderstorms that were looming everywhere. I quickly decided that I love the Twin Otter when it comes to thunderstorms. You have a lot of time to decide what to do with a line of thunderstorms sitting in front of you when you are going 80 mph vs. 300 mph in the 1900 or 500 mph in the CRJ. Most of the monsters I just dropped down beneath, cutting between the rain shafts which hung like shadowy, translucent tentacles from the black beast above. We watched as lighting struck the rainforest below, just miles from our wingtips and I began wondering who was down there watching the aluminum dodo bird precariously amble overhead. Pygmies? Drunken Congolese rebels? Or maybe refugee Rwandan Hutus still hiding 12 years later after massacring 800,000 of their fellow countrymen? I voted Pygmies, it just sounded like someone I'd rather meet on the forest floor.

Further on, as the sun began to set we came upon the massive mountains that border Uganda, before giving way to its expansive and beautifully sweeping western plains. I squinted looking at the 16,500 foot peak off our wing tip, towering 5,500 feet above us, trying to discern if it really was snow that stuck to its craggy precipice. Yep. Wow, who would've thought...snow right here, smack dab on the equator, just miles from a misty rainforest. 10.5 hours flight time and we would land in Uganda again.


Portugal continued...
Ok, so here's what I've decided, how bout I save the Portugal stories for later, because I just think I'd be writing more than anyone would care to read in one sitting. I'll just include a few more pictures and captions. I'll try and put a link on the site so that anyone can check out my online photo album. Enjoy....

Country side between Porto and the Peneda Geres Natl. Park on the border of Spain, northern Portugal...


More countryside...


Ancient Stone village on eastern border...


Me in the mountains...



Misty coastline north of Lisbon...