daydreams

I find myself more frequently staring off into oblivion, as Myriam or whomever I am flying with is at the controls, daydreaming excessively. I’ve had incredibly vivid memories and imaginings of food, places and people, the things I miss most about home. Last week during all the security concerns, during all the evacuations and chaos, after the airplane would level off in the cooler, more peaceful, thin air at 10,000 feet and all souls on board seemed to exhale a collective sigh of relief, my mind would drift. With my left temple leaned against the plexi-glass window and the African sun scorching my shaved head I’d suddenly be standing in my favorite pool on the Animas River waving my fly-rod around meditatively watching the trout rise on a summer afternoon’s Cadis hatch. The fluttering clouds of Cadis flies sparkling as a million wings reflected the setting sun’s warm glow. Then I would be sitting with a massive chicken burrito smothered in melted cheese, guacamole and sour cream, a basket of chips and salsa and margarita nearby, or hiking with Jen along a branch of the idyllic San Juan River towards the peaceful Rainbow hot springs, as a light mist fell. Sleeping in the back of a pickup truck in Oregon’s high eastern plains alongside a bubbling river listening to lonely coyotes sing in the distance, or at a table 15 years ago with a dinner plate heaped high with my Dad’s famous spaghetti and my little brothers head covered in marinara sauce opposite from my seat across the table. Chaos below, Abeche ahead, grateful passengers behind, Mexican food, trout and rivers within. If nothing else, Chad has made me realize that it’s the little things in life that make it beautiful.

Invertebrate molestations and other security issues...

Her fingers were slowly moving up the inside of my leg, teasing me as she went. I squirmed and she stopped, I was greatly disappointed. She picked up on my disappointment and started again, this time also walking her fingers up my chest. Then something struck me as not right, something was askew, strange…my chest itched and her finger was scratching at my leg. What the hell is…?

I opened my eyes and instead of finding a beautiful, voluptuous girl on top, sensually teasing me I found something which made me scream like a little girl and curse like guys I used to work with on fishing boats. On my chest slowly crept up towards my mouth the biggest, blackest, largest eyed and antennaed desert cricket I had ever seen. It remained the largest cricket I’ve ever seen for approximately three tenths of a second before my eyes darted to my crotch where another of the black behemoths was casually strolling towards a nice warm place to hang out. This fellow now took the prize of largest cricket Jesse has ever seen, and I wasn’t pleased that he was so close to being intimately involved with me. Elizabeth laughed after realizing what was going on as I kicked and scratched and rolled out of the mosquito net onto the dirty tile floor. She laughed carelessly until noticing that other black, privacy invading villains had surrounded her as well and were attempting to overthrow our sleeping spot. No need for a caffeinated cup of coffee in the morning when one awakes to mutant sized crickets attempting a molestation, you’re already wide-awake. Damn N’djamena fire ants must have passed the word along.

Confusion still reigns in Chad as to the current and future happenings of the rebels and government forces. After the Goz Beida seizure the rebels seemed to have split into separate columns and set out west towards the capital city of N’djamena. Reports pour in from everyone and their dog that this town has fallen or that town has been blown to pieces, and that the rebels are marching down Avenue Charles de Gaulle in N’djamena, or outside our compound in Abeche at the very moment in pink ballerina dresses singing songs from the musical Cats. And like the previous sentence, most are not true. I remember when I was about six we used to play the telephone game. Everyone sits in a circle. Someone whispers something into the adjacent child’s ear and it is passed around at a whispered tone until it comes full circle, where it’s voiced aloud, followed by the original message. It’s usually a gross exaggeration of the original text, and sometimes nothing of the original remains. This is the current situation in Chad with the international community, and it gets frustrating trying to sift thru the garbage to find the truth. It is also amusing at times.

Upon the fall of Goz Beida, the WFP (World Food Program and principle aviation entity of the United Nations Refugee Commission) announced they would absolutely not fly anywhere near the town. The UNHCR then came to us: ‘Will you fly down there?’. Sure for a twelve pack of beer and some chewing tobacco we’ll do anything.

Ok, I’m kidding but I tentatively said yes, to the dismay of my copilot, pending our receiving bona fide security information stating that all affairs were normal. A few hours later an entourage of the UNHCR’s top security personnel in Chad approached our plane with what they’d learned from investigation.

“It seems the majority of the rebel forces have moved south and west from Goz Beida, and are no longer occupying the town or camps. It’s true they shot a rocket-propelled grenade at a French aircraft yesterday, but they’ve apologized now and stated it was an accident. They have also repeatedly stated that they are not purposely targeting humanitarians or their organizations. We BELIEVE this information to be true and correct, but cannot ascertain for sure its validity, and we THINK your OK flying down there to Goz Beida. Just do not fly over any hills or the town.”

I voiced the fact that the report they just gave us was about the shittiest piece of intelligence I’d ever been privy too. I never would have thought 6 months ago that in October 2006 I’d be standing on the tarmac of an African desert town’s airport telling a bunch of high ranking UN officials I basically thought they were idiots. Yet I was a little more couth than that. We discussed the fact that not over flying hills is not an option, seeing as how Goz Beida was surrounded by hills. I further voiced my frustration with their obvious lack of organization in the field and with the fact that if so many UN personnel had spoken with these rebels and been assured that NGOs would not be targeted, why hadn’t anyone thought to mention that a humanitarian aircraft may be coming down to evacuate some people? Hmmm??? ‘Please don’t shoot at our silly looking white and blue aircraft that is so slow that it cannot get out of its own way’ is what I suggested they state the next time they had a heart to heart chat with the rebs.

A few more matters were discussed and I felt confident (mostly) that we could execute the flights without incidence. We boarded the few individuals who for some masochistic reason or another wanted to go to Goz Beida before hopping up into the cockpit. The security entourage waved goodbye and it’s head officer approached for a last pertinent piece of advice. “Good luck, just come back in one piece” was o so wisely stated. He then walked away leaving Myriam and I looking at each other dumbfounded and me with the burning desire to run after him and kick him in the ass. We then took off.

In flight, passengers and pilots kept a vigilant eye on the desert floor below, scanning for military convoys crossing in pursuit of another victory. Occasionally we’d hit a pocket of turbulence that made everyone gasp and grip the seats in front of themselves before looking up to the cockpit for a glance from Myriam or I assuring them that the bump was not a missile strike. We picked an altitude that put us just feet below the cloud bases, making us very difficult to spot from the ground below (I told myself repeatedly) and maintained it until we were directly overhead the dirt strip. Scanning the surrounding hill tops and arid landscape below we deemed it safe and I partook in a ‘fun for the pilots, scary for the passengers’ maneuver, making a steep circular dive 9000 feet to land on the runway below, much as they do flying into Baghdad.

After the parking brake was set and we hopped out a group of anxious passengers happily greeted us and for a while I really appreciated my job incredibly, gloating in the praise we received. The base manager approached us and asked why we did our spiral approach to land. When I explained it was for safety and security, avoiding the surrounding hills he calmly stated that ‘there are no rebels here…they left days ago…it’s calm and boring’.

I felt silly. The next morning made me feel better, in an odd way, when we learned his version of the story was not correct either.

The intermission is over.

And so it begins.

Elizabeth called me last night after I cancelled our dinner plans, and I answered thinking she was intent on rubbing in just how good the curry she cooked was. Instead she informed me that rumors were flying that Goz Beida had been overrun by Chadian Rebel forces, a new conglomerate of old separate groups, now known as UFDD (United Front for Democracy and Development). She new we were supposed to fly to Goz Beida in the morning, so it was welcome info.

I hung up and between Myriam, Georgiana (our new base manager), and I, we began investigating. Immediately we ran into the UNHCR roadblock.

“Hello?”
“Hello. This is AirServ. As you know we are scheduled to fly to Goz Beida tomorrow, and we have heard there were events that took place today that could jeopardize our safety and security tomorrow. Can you confirm or deny?”
“…(long pause—thinking of how to best answer as vaguely and ridiculously as possible)…we have no information for you at this time. If information becomes available we will inform you. Thank you.” Click.
“FUCK STICK”

The red flag is up folks…somethings a happenin!

Further investigation revealed there was in fact an emergency meeting taking place and it was being debated just how to break the news to the children (the rest of us NGO workers out here).

As we all sat out on the porch talking sporadic automatic weapon fire was heard nearby. Our guards seemed on edge, the monkey sat atop the roof sentinel like, providing incoherent and squeaky reports in Monkeyic (official language of most monkeys), and I sipped a whisky and coke. After sunset Myriam and I sat marveling at the Milky Way’s cloudy expanse waiting for more information to come our way. Three heavenly bound rockets shot off from somewhere in town, trailing a red afterglow as they made their ascent to quickly join the stars twinkling above. The gunfire and rockets were isolated cases, and ended soon thereafter.

A messenger arrived from the UNHCR and the news about Goz Beida was confirmed, seems the war is back on.

As they predicted: end of Ramadan=end of light military action. I cannot say =end of peace…because there is never peace here. Its like the US Postal service in its consistency. Rain, sleet, snow or sun…we’ll fight, though sometimes we’ll tone it down a bit so we may observe religious holidays.

For its part, the new UFDD has publicly stated that NGOs and UN workers are not a target. They have requested that all humanitarians stay inside their compounds where they will be safe, as only Chadian military garrisons and bases are the enemy. This being said, witnesses have reported that in the refugee camps nearby Goz Beida government military personnel have been seen changing into civilian clothing and hiding amongst the refugees.

“One can make this generalization about men: they are ungrateful, fickle, liars and deceivers…they would shed their blood for you, risk their property, their lives, their sons, so long as…danger is remote; but when you are in danger they turn away”
--Niccolo Machiavelli

Can I blame them for being cowards? To an extent, but it has its limits. What I cannot blame them for is not wanting to die for the materialistic good of one man, a greedy, exponentially more fickle, seemingly heartless fiend, or his wealthy entourage (I will draw no parallels). If its due, I hope Karma will even the score.

In the meantime we sit idly by here in Abeche. Waiting for word to evacuate someone, something or someplace, and waiting to see what the week brings. Speculation is everywhere, and everyone has an opinion as to what happens next. Abeche? Who knows. For our part we’ll start stocking up on food, water and beer.

Guns and more guns.

Bright, shiny new Chinese knock offs of the classic Kalashnikov automatic rifle, known world wide as the AK47 are seemingly everywhere in Chad these days. (Its amazing what a little oil money can buy…yep we’re buying the brown stuff from them and helping to keep the cycle going!). At the airport men nap in the shade of dwarfed trees, fatigued from heat and Ramadan fasting, with the glistening black steel instrument of death used as a pillow in the blazing inferno that is eastern Chad now that the rains have ended. An erratic tide of soldiers washes into and over Abeche every few days. Their numbers increase and the rumors and security concerns grow in the NGO community exponentially, before the troops presence seem to ebb, pulled away in camouflaged C130s and helicopter gunships. A collective sigh of relief then ripples across the community upon their departure, as most despise or at very least, do not trust their presence.

I witnessed a very confused expression covering a boy’s face the other morning as I was driven to the airfield in a hulking Toyota Landcruiser, air conditioned frigid air blasting away, and separated from the reality of the outside world by a 1/8 inch pane of glass. The dark, sweaty and immature face was sheepish at first, glancing down to avoid eye contact. He looked scared, alone and out of place, much like a 9th grader showing up for his first day of high school, afraid of the potential hazing. Then in a flash the innocence or childish look was gone, his eyes quickly raised to meet mine, and instantly the expression metamorphosed to bitter defiance. How dare you look at me with pity it seemed to scream as our eyes locked for a brief second of passing.

Our mammoth vehicle raced on past the child and I swiveled in my seat to follow his actions. Pausing in the eddy of choking dust left by the vehicle he seemed frozen in step, as if forgetting his intended task. I wondered if it was due to a moment of intense introversion, momentary consideration of just how ludicrous this life he’d chosen or been chosen for was. In whirling and slowly settling khaki colored dust cloud stood a boy of adolescence wearing lacy silver painted women’s sandals, arctic (white-blue-black) issue camo men’s sized slacks rolled up 1/3 of the way, a jungle print camouflaged shirt about 5 years too big for him as well, a turban, and a glistening AK47 outfitted with razor sharp bayonet. When I was fourteen I was draining my parents liquor cabinet and refilling the bottles with water. I was contemplating smoking marijuana for the first time and trying to convince gas station clerks I was 18 in order to by Marlboro Lights. I was wondering whom I’d take to the homecoming or Sadie Hawkins dance. I was shooting things with BB guns and slingshots, such as apples and my neighbor’s windows…I wasn’t perfect, but I was not skewering others with an 8-inch blade attached to the barrel of my automatic rifle. Our 4x4 whirled around the corner onto the airport tarmac where gunships were being loaded with more bombs and more child soldiers destined to die for a greedy leader who I’m sure won’t bat an eyelash at the thought of their expendability.

I hope you have a childhood next time around my friend.


A day or two later Myriam and I flew the southern rotation together, heading to Goz Beida, KouKou and Dogdore. In Dogdore we serve mainly Medecins San Frontiers (Doctors without Borders) bringing them medicine, food, tools and new physicians so they might help those in need at the nearby refugee camps. The south has been afire with a confusing mix of strife lately: a stewed combination of tribal skirmishes, newly formed energetic rebel groups, older more established rebels, government forces and malicious bandits. It’s just a great place to be these days, a real gem.

Upon landing and slowing I noticed a higher than usual number of military outfits intermingling amongst the girly looking white frock coats the Doctors wear. Still, I trusted that if the physicians had felt it unsafe for us to land they would have advised us by a predetermined signal from the ground (which if I told you, I’d have to kill you all). We feathered the propellers, shut down, hopped out and I was again aware of the gun trucks parked all around, in the shadows behind the white MSF ambulances. “Great…a Goz Beida repeat,” I thought.

No one in Dogdore speaks English, no one. Luckily for me and my incorrigible French, Myriam was there to save the day (Swiss-Canadian, and native French speaker). I unloaded the cargo and bags while vertically impaired Myriam disappeared within a crowd of anxious passengers hoping to go somewhere that wasn’t Dogdore. When I was finished she waved me over to wear she stood surrounded by soldiers armed with enough guns and ammunition to make a run on Fort Knox. They all smiled cheerily and waved, requesting handshakes and the normal civilities. I approached cautiously and saw the passenger in question, a goofy looking old man of about 65 or so with a limited number of teeth and a wrinkled, sun scorched, black leather face. In his hand he held an equally wrinkled piece of lined paper, ripped from a child’s school notebook.

“He says he needs to go…he’s on the manifest, but…well you look at his authorization and tell me what you think…” Myriam sighed.

In order for us to carry a Chadian government passenger it needs to be deemed by the UNHCR that the traveler in question is traveling for the better good of humanitarian needs. They then make out an authorization, or Order du Mission, on official UN letterhead, stamp it a million times, spit on it, and sprinkle it with fairy dust. This produces the desired effect: we let them on the airplane.

Everyone hushed and watched as I took the old man’s authorization from him and examined it, immediately chuckling. The only way it would have appealed more to my sense of humor would be if it had been written in crayon with a few sparkly stickers thrown on for good measure. Scribbled in chicken scratch across a piece of torn, lined notebook paper, was this man’s authorization, written in two ink colors and stamped with an evidently dying inkpad by none other than the old man himself. ‘I hereby give myself permission to ride on your airplane. Sincerely, me.’

At least he smiled as I laughed. Even the other dangerously armed men smiled too which comforted me as I scanned the crowd of faces immediately huddled about my position. The MSF doctors had backed off and were distancing themselves from the conversation, obviously wary of what would happen if his scribbled Lav pass of an authorization were denied. I hesitated, hemmed and hawed, kicked some rocks and made it known that I was not pleased with the situation he was putting us in…then I yielded and let him on…not wanting another situation like my Goz Beida confrontation from 2 months back. The men in uniform all rejoiced and I thought were about to break out into song and dance had we not barked at them to make expedited farewells.

The old man said his goodbyes and we all waited patiently for him to make his way towards the airplane. Finally he came, yet he had slung over his shoulder an archaic looking AK47, which he politely gestured he’d like to take on board. “Ummm, NO.” I said as I pointed at the 18-inch diameter sticker on the airplane door portraying the exact gun he had on him with a big red slash thru it. “No guns, sorry. Je suis desole.” He smiled and removed the gun. I smiled and told him to stand still so that I might wand him with the metal detector.

About 11.4 seconds worth of metal detecting work on my part revealed that this man was the Southern Chad walking ammunition depot. BEEEEEEEP….oh look, you have three handguns wrapped around your waist, isn’t that pleasant??? BEEEEEEEEEP…wow, you’ve got another on your ankle, good spot indeed sir!!!! BEEEEEEEEEEP…ummm, nice knife grandpa, good spot too, the other ankle…hmmm. What are you planning for, World War Three?????

I suddenly had visions of this old man in a Rambo outfit jumping from the airplane when we landed in Abeche and laying waste to all his enemies without suffering a single scratch, then screaming something along the lines of “ NO ONE BEATS ME AT BRIDGE AND LIVES TO TELL!!!” I smiled and he smiled toothlessly back at me.

“At least you’re not being a jerk about it.” I said, knowing he had no idea what I was saying. After the last of Rambo Sr.’s armaments were removed he happily boarded the airplane and I shut the door behind him. I walked slowly up to the front shaking my head in tune with Myriam’s at what a circus we had just seen. We both shrugged our shoulders, sighed and waved to the MSF doctors who were beginning to chase the kids, donkeys and goats off the runway. Only government employees who are traveling for the good of humanitarianism may travel aboard our aircraft. Right. And what was his job? Population control?

Later I yelled at him for removing his seat belt just before landing, confident that Rambo Sr. had no more weapons to wield and that he was just a silly looking old man in a light blue sheet trying to get to the next Abeche AARP meeting.

The not so dream

I was sitting down today with others at a large table. Many wore translucent masks that showed their faces but distorted their mouths and features, all having big red smiles permanently molded into the plastic. There was this mist of incessant bickering that made it difficult to see and my eyes were beginning to strain from my efforts to.

Suddenly the guy sitting across from me stood up very upset, as he had been the focus point of some of the garbled bickering, and yelled 'I QUIT!' in a snoody French accent. I could not understand why he felt so indignant and insulted. He tossed his paper BurgerKing crown onto the table and stormed off stomping his feet the whole way.

Everyone scratched their heads in bewilderment for a few moments. Slowly one of the eccentric, old individuals in the crowd picked up the wrinkled, ketchup stained crown and with a sheepish grin arose and marched my way. He slid up behind me and with the lobotomized nods from the others placed the flimsy ornament on my head.

For a brief, temporary moment it felt good. Then I felt ridiculous.

"What is this?" I asked.
"It is for you" they all said.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
"You are now Chad Chief Pilot" they all said.
"Umm...should I thank you?" I asked.
And there was no response.

I watched as a few eyed me with delight before one who through the plastic smile mask I could still see eyes I did not trust, asked with the permanent smirk:

"Do you prefer chess or puppet shows?"

And before I could answer 'Neither' everyone had left the table.

Three Nights, Three Hookers

Comical but frustrating, is how I silently summed it up, sipping a warm beer at Club Nightriders late last night. Three scantily clad, beautiful women stood arguing in Kiswahili 4 feet from my spot, I was sure the claws would come out soon.

Last Sunday, upon my return from Zanzibar, and at Bill, our African Chief Pilots request, he, Ed McConnell (my Idahoan roommate in South Africa) and I went out for a beer. It had been 4 months or so since I'd seen Ed so it was hard for me to say no, despite being tired and feeling ill. We headed to Jeremiah's, a local drinking establishment where you'll find having a white epidermis makes you very much the minority...as most places will in Uganda. We sat outside next to a steel drum barbeque which was cooking various random meat parts and discussed our different flying stories accrued since Ed and I saw each other last. After an hour or so the table next to us filled up with three girls, all dressed to attract attention from the male species. It wasn't long before I started hearing whispers and faint whistles coming from behind me, so, hoping I was doing it discreetly, I turned and found three sets of lusty eyes locked on all of us. Immediate thought: COOL! One of the three after a minute got up and shimmied her chair over next to mine, and upon sitting back down frankly introduced herself: 'hello, how are you? (PAUSE FOR ANSWER) My name is #@$%. Do you like blowjobs?'. Following thought: SHIT. How's that for an introduction? I've yet to get that one in Steamworks or Carvers back in Durango, hmmm.

I laughed and it bothered her, she squirmed towards me and grabbed my shirt, directing her piercing eyes right at mine which were doing their best averting job. "Why you laugh? What's so funny?" When I explained that not many conversations in the States are started with such...directness...she seemed not to understand, and followed with a second contemplative question: "well do you? How about massage and then one?". I replied with another nervous laugh, trying to buy time, hoping for assistance from Ed or Bill, who were not being of much help. Looking up I found the other girls sitting next to both of them, asking similar straightforward, blush producing questions for us sexually conservative Americans, as I was once told by a Dane. It took a good 30 minutes or so to convince these girls that we were not interested in taking them back to our houses, hotels or tents, and that we were all happily...married, engaged, dating, priests, gay, into bestiality, or anything...anything that'd make them leave us alone. They got the hint, and slowly unlatched the GI Joe Kung Fu deathgrips that held us at bay, but not before my new found friend grabbed me again by the shirt and hopped on my lap demanding I "kiss me hard now!". Again, wow. What does one say?

Even if I had thought of something smart to say, I was not allowed enough time to vocalize it. With mouth firmly closed, lips puckered inwards, and hands pushing her softly away, I had the outside of my face slobbered up and down, I think a tongue may have even entered my nose at one point. "Ok, thank you for the...the...face washing?" I said, wiping my cheeks, chin and mouth on my shirt, Ed and Bill doing their best to fend off similar attacks. "Call me!" came girlishly bellowing out of the car from three different voices, simultaneously, as if practiced, to us three different guys, as the car sped off down the banana tree enshrouded road. I stood silent for a moment listening to the tree frogs thinking I just got molested by a prostitute. I had to laugh.

Another two nights later found me riding around on my loaned bicycle and stopping at a drugstore for something to make me feel better as I was quite sick. As I exited, I was greeted by a sensuous 'hello' again, only to find another attractive woman batting her eyes at me. As before, the conversation cut right to the chase and I made a polite refusal before escaping like a nerd on my bike down the street. I felt like a little boy hopping on his bike to run away from a little girl.

Then came last night. Leo, a Costa Rican engineer and extremely funny guy, Royal, our Director of Ops, and I sat having a gin and tonic at the hotel bar where we are staying. Bill called. "Cmon, you, Leo and I will go to Nightriders for a little while". I didn't fight, though I was tired, secretly I hoped someone else would protest. They did not. We wound up at the underground club with deafening base blasting from the large speakers everywhere, and immediately all the stains on my shirt were noticeable from the black lights that were mounted overhead. On the stage danced a mix of beautiful Ugandan girls and some fit Ugandan guys, all lip syncing in turn to different popular songs from the region. It was my second time here, making a stop last visit to Entebbe. Most of the music was great, beautiful and invigorating African beats and guitar, rhythmically being pulsed through you by the 12 foot high speakers behind and all around. Then she came.

A tall, thin and dark girl came up to our table, said hi to Bill and Leo and then proceeded to sit on my lap and introduce herself. She spoke broken English, was from Goma, in Democratic Republic of Congo, and was 'just visiting' friends in Entebbe. Mmm hmm. I spent the better part of the next 20 minutes trying to politely push her away, as she undressed herself, and me in front of a crowd 300 strong. "Umm, yeah I'm not all that up for public nudity night in Uganda today, thanks." I explained numerous times I was engaged (I'm not Mom) and that I had to go, to which she responded "SHE IS NOT HERE!!!, WE GO NOW, COME!". Thank God I'm not too easily manipulated, I think. With the intent of breaking away from her towards the door I let her lead me by the hand thru the crowd towards the exit until a comical 'salvation' hit us.

"Why haven't you called!!!??" boomed from behind me, after a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find my first prostitute friend beaming at me from behind.
Before I could answer, "Who is this?" was the response from my new Congolese escort.
Before anyone could answer, another hand slipped around my waist and pulled me backwards too intimately to be Bill or Leo. Swiveling I found my drugstore friend smiling at me. Oh God, here we go.
"Who are you?!!!"...the rest was lost to me, as my Kiswahili is nonexistent.

The melodic African sound waves filled the dark, humid room, but between beats the ensuing argument was heard. I giggled and forgot about my intended getaway as three hookers argued over who's man I really was. Comical but frustrating, but more comical than the latter I continued to think before noticing Bill and Leo waving me towards the door. It is easy to spot a couple white guys in here flashed inside. I placed my beer on the bar behind and with a quick swivel-turn-jump-step, leapt between a few other guys and was out the door and free, my ego beaming with delight before it hit the wall.

As we walked down the pitch black street towards our vehicle, the cartoon like light bulb illuminated inside my skull. 'Wait a second, it wasn't me they bickered about...it was my money.' The ego slowly deflates back to normal and I spent sometime wondering what economic and emotional hardships would cause these beautiful women to take up such a horrible career choice. What I was just 3 minutes earlier finding as amusing was actually probably not. Statistically speaking, and most likely enough, each one of those three women who flirted with me and batted their beautiful eyes my way will be dead soon enough from AIDS.

2 1/2 days in Zanzibar

"Well if dey didn't stamp ya passport comin in I ain't gonna stamp it now" said the Ugandan immigration woman as I passed by the podium she sat at on my way to the gate my aircraft was to depart from. My kind of country. Aaaah, its all good, lets just say you weren't here, then everyone's happy.

I climbed aboard the prehistoric 737 operated by AirTanzania and was soon on my way east southeast across Lake Victoria, to where the arid northern plains of Tanzania meet it, home to a few of the earth's last mighty hoofed migrations. Soon out the window loomed the massive shadowed hulk of that awe inspiring mountain, Kilimanjaro, though thankfully it's top was shrouded in thunderstorms. I say thankfully because to me, seeing such a massive and mighty landmark such as this from 28,000 feet is just not an adequate way to appreciate its existence. I feel the same way about taking an aerial tour of the Grand Canyon. When you circle thousands of feet above such a thing its size diminishes, and its immensity, its belittling quality, its heavenly grandeur is what draws most people to it; when you climb above you depreciate this sense. After Kilimanjaro faded, but not before my longing to climb up its sides surged again, white beaches appeared underneath and aquamarine waves rolled up and crashed onto them. The waters turned a purplish color, similar to that of the Gulf Stream as we headed 30 miles or so of shore to Zanzibar. Just the name sounds enticing.

The next two and a half days found me struggling to get out of bed in the morning after fitfully sweating thru a night. I made myself enjoy the beautiful island as best I could, but my heart wasn't in it. My thoughts each day swam around upstairs in my head and a thick fog seemed to reign over all thinking. In the evenings I'd go to a bar that westwardly overlooked the Indian Ocean and down a beer watching the sun dip behind ancient looking dhows that still cart spices from the island to the mainland, lacking much in the way of enthusiasm, though still appreciating the beauty. Afterwards I'd head to a nightly fishmarket for some delectable seafood kabobs before being totally spent and heading back to the hostel to sweat thru another evening of no sleep.

I went diving twice the first day along a reef that lies 2 or 3 miles off the coast from the old slave market town. The reef was beautiful, the fish colorful and the water magnificent, but the native dive master assigned to myself and two S. Africans, seemed intent on setting a new 'linear distance traveled on one tank of air' record and I was rushed over coral heads to traverse lengthy barren stretches of wave patterned sand. Upon getting him to slow his marathon dive to something a little bit less tour de france-ish, I began to enjoy the beauty to a larger extent, only to have him repeatedly spoil numerous moments of eye to eye gazing and meditative ponderings with various fish and beautiful coral formations, by banging a rock on the side of his aluminum air cylinder, which resonates quite loudly underwater. I'd swim quickly to his side where he'd point out a sea slug or small stingray sitting in the sand, very much like the other sea slug or small stingray I'd just been looking at in the reef. Having this happen about 10 times I began to ignore him, only to look up once when I heard the loud CLANK -CLANK -CLANK to find him nowhere in sight. Evidently the tour de reef had begun again, unbeknownst to me.



The following day I spent on a 'spice tour' being taken to the island's lush interior, playing with local kids, and sampling all the incredible spices and fruits grown. We dined in a local family's clay floored house on curried Kingfish and rice which was sooooooooo good. After lunch the group piled into the small shock absorber-less van and head for the beach, stopping first at some old slave chambers. The chambers were built in a thicket not too far from a concealed miniature harbor, used to store the freshly gathered human cargo from the mainland until a number accrued sufficient enough to warrant a shipment to the middle east or even America. It was constructed after the Zanzibar sultan was 'persuaded' to outlaw slavery by the British at a time when the island was mainly filled with Muslims of Arabic descent. The Zanzibar based Arab slavers had for years raped the mainland's interior, leaving its vast expanses at the time of the British abolishment, as Livingstone put it, much like a ghost town. The crammed, wet and moldy quarters were...sobering.

Then, the beach, and I was again blissfully drunk in the waves forgetting how miserable I was that morning feeling sick and for the first time yet, just wanting to go home.

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...

A brief photographic introduction to Portugal...

Phew, so I made it back to Chad, good Lord did I miss this place. (Sarcasm)

I arrived back in N'djamena Tuesday morning, 4am, and had to hop another airplane for Abeche, on the eastern border, at 7am. Goodtimes. Just as I thought, things are really getting messy out here...the rains have let up, only to have the heavens rain other things upon the villages and heads below...bombs and bullets.

So, here's a few pictures from Portugal, and I'll tell more about the place later. We had a great time, the weather was beautiful, the country even more so, the food excellent, the wine superb and the people warm. I'd go back to Portugal in a heartbeat if it weren't for the fact I want to see so many more places out there. So many places, so little time...

The first night...Sintra, just outside Lisbon...



The second day, castle at Sintra...journey up the coast to San Pedro Mont?...



Moorish castle at Sintra


Beach! So nice to see water!






Second night, SPM lighthouse



Third day, swimming then drive north to Roman ruins then on up to Porto, a beautiful old city that is about 90% World Heritage Sight (seemingly)







I'll leave off here....takes too long to upload pictures and I'll write more about our trip. In the meantime...tomorrow we head north, to rebel territory, the other beach...yippee.

A blatent and flagrant misuse of apostrophes plus jaundice(???)

The rain is back.

We had 4 days of uninterrupted sunshine. Tropical, skin searing, blazing sunshine while our airplane was out of service awaiting parts. Now, with the inoperative parts rendered operable, and the aircraft gods smiling down upon us again, the weather gods have decided its time to return from their brief rest and relaxation recess and play once more.

A flat corrugated, tin roof makes an amazing amount of noise when it is slammed with hailstones or large globulous drops of water sent from 35,000 feet above. I awoke two mornings ago to the slight pitter patter of small droplets, increasing ever slightly, accompanied by the low rumblings of approaching thunder, and I drifted slowly back to sleep. It was as if someone (recently returned from weather god R&R) decided the foreplay was enough...this is boring, lets give em the whole thing. The storm slammed into N'djamena and our flat tin roof resulting in more flooding, more temporarily homeless people whose houses sit submerged in mocha colored waters, more sanctuary for mosquitoes and their parasites, and one wide awake Jesse.

After an hour or so it drifted off into the distance, leaving only a constant drizzle, lumbering off towards Nigeria, and the Atlantic Ocean. Off west still, in this band of latitude where Mr. Coriolis and his wondrous effect have no say, thru the intertropical discontinuity zone as the weather experts call it, over the first murky, then deep, blue waters of the Atlantic. Off over the Canaries, later the Turks and Caicos, the island of Hispaniola, across Cuba and over ailing Mr. Castro's head towards Florida and beyond to the northeast United States. I'm not sure why lying in bed thinking this gave me a bit of solace, a bit of pleasure, though I hypothesize the thoughts produced feelings that were along the lines of 'I'm not so far from home after all'. Most people contemplate, when they are lonely in a faraway place, that the moon or white stars they gaze at above are the very same moon or twinkling, white stars their loved ones may also be admiring 5 thousand miles away. I laid awake thinking that maybe, just maybe, the rain that awakens me here, at 3am on a Wednesday morning, and that will flood our road and the huts of many poor souls here in the neighborhoods surrounding, or at least that rain's cousin, will in possibly 2 weeks time, travel up the eastern seaboard of North America and drench you all too. Sorry.

I leave for R&R this weekend, late Sunday night to be exact. I hop aboard AirFrance and head first to Paris where I meet my friend Laura, whom I traveled with in China last year. We plan on using our 7 hour layover to venture off to the Eiffel tower or maybe just to go get a cup of expensive coffee at some random street side cafe. Then it's back to the airport where our airplane for Lisbon, Portugal awaits to take us.

People have been asking why I want to go to Portugal. How many people do you know personally that have been to Portugal? I, personally, count zero, and that is what interests me. I look forward to being able to eat what I want to eat, without worrying that I'm tempting cholera, dysentery, food poisoning, or giardia, and to drink good wine...mmmm. The ocean, too, tempts, especially it being the Atlantic. I think there may be one summer in my lifetime that I have not gone swimming more than once in the North Atlantic, and I'd rather not make that number two. Its just one of those previously unspoken of (spoken of now) pledges, an unconscious promise to myself. Though I'd rather take to the water with a mask, snorkel and speargun or bag to snag some lobsters, I'll be more than contempt just to wet my head in its salty waves again this year. Oh, and Portugal is said to have the largest supply of unicorns and twizzle horned pixie dust eaters globally (second only to Pilanesburg National Park in South Africa, as Bryce Kujat will attest to). Just seeing if your paying attention.

RANDOM AFRICAN FLOWER...



My unread book supply has dwindled to nothing. What remains are those books that are left here from previous tenants, some in foreign dialects, some saucy-steamy romance novels, one by the good doctor Phil, and the last...Herman Melville's solitary novel of mention (I'm aware he wrote more). It seems quite strange to be sitting beside the muddy Chari River, Cameroon a canoe's paddle away, French warplanes roaring overhead, men careening thru the streets beside with vast armaments of weaponry, tropical birds and tropical sun screeching and scorching, while I sit reading Moby Dick. I always pictured this novel as one best read while sitting beside a stone fireplace in a house perched above the breaking surf on Cuttyhunk Island as cold, coastal December rain pelted the windows, or even on its namesake, Nantucket. But Tchad? Its funny when you get sucked into a good book, your persona almost veers towards that of the characters, you start to be there in the plot and occasionally have to remind yourself that you exist in the present reality, not in the fictional or nonfictional happenings of the novel. This sounds silly, but I can guarantee you that if you were reading a great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story while overlooking the moors of northern England, or a phenomenal mountaineering survival account while the snowy Alps or Rockies sat within view, the book in question would seem all that more real, as if you were inside the setting and a member of its character list. Funny sometimes to be reading all these aargh's, ye's, twas's, thous't's, wast's, hast's, aye's and dosts's only to divert my attention to the real world and hear the next most foreign language besides salty old English with a Quaker twist, Arabic. (yes I realize my highschool grammar teachers would be appalled at my use of apostrophes in the previous statement)

There have been two (of I'm sure countless others I'm unaware of) medevacs lately. One was our Swiss Canadian pilot Miriam, who was suffering for a couple weeks from abdominal pains that the French military doctors debated it being a liver infection or appendicitis. We managed to fit her on the airplane last week and get her back to N'djamena so that she might catch a flight home to Canada.

The other was one of Elizabeth's coworkers, at CCF. This poor guy, who I'm sure I'm misspelling his name grossly, Shri, had quite the run of luck here in the capital. A couple weeks back he came down with a flu like symptoms that after a few days remained, and remained with undiminished intensity. He had little energy, crippling cramps, nausea and fevers...logical conclusion: MALARIA. Off he went to the wonderfully illustrious N'djamena hospital, where sure enough, the Chadian medical staff concluded the same and he was issued a prescription of heavy duty, industrial strength, reduce your life expectancy by 3 years, antibiotics. 5 days later, his symptoms remained, and they once again, remained with consistent fervor. Back to the incredibly insightful N'djamena hospital for Shri where it was found..."WOW, your malaria levels have doubled in the past 5 days. You went from a bacterial concentration level of .004 to .008, that's putting you into a serious danger zone!...here take these, and come back in 3 days". So, off Shri went again, now with a new omnipotent, volatile, take another 4 years off your life expectancy, prescription. Three days pass, guess what? Shri gets driven back to the hospital, feeling as bad as ever. Blood sample taken, blood sample reveals (drum roll please): "OH, PRAISE ALLAH! How are you even alive??? Your malarial infection level has jumped from .008 to .022!!! This is lethal!...Oh, by the way, you have jaundice as well. Sorry. Take these pills and come back in 2 days. Toodles!" So off Shri goes again, but this time the rest of his coworkers finally said enough is enough, we need to get you to a western doctor, and off Shri goes to a French doctor instead of back home to poison himself and his hitchhiking parasites. 1 hour of testing and the French doctor reveals the truth. 'Shri, I'm not sure what to say. Shri, you do not have Malaria, and you sure do not have jaundice. Where did you get these diagnoses?' The answer being told, a mini-investigation took place and was quickly concluded upon one visit to the magnificent and incredibly modern N'djamena hospital.

It seems that in the state of the art medical facility that is the N'djamena hospital, there is a bit of a shortage of peetree dishes for blood sample analysis, and a bit of a shortage of medical common sense for blood sample analysis analysis. One poor guy comes in and has his blood tested. They put a dropper of it on a petree dish and in a test tube for testing, run some checks, make a diagnosis, and voila! the dish or tube is simply emptied and a new sample tossed in. Medical grade alcohol anyone? Nah, too expensive. So Bob comes in one day and sure enough Bob's got malaria. Poor Susan comes in later and, wow! that's the second case of malaria today! Later, Mohammed, Ahkmed, Tony, Paul, Mustaffa, Ibrahim and Shri all come in..."well I'll be a camel's sister!, you've all got malaria. Damn, malaria is really taking off this week, we're batting 1000! By the way nurse, can you just wipe down that petree dish with that rag? Yeah, the bloody rag over there on the floor, uh-huh, that's fine...good, merci beaucoup!". So poor Shri was sent home to India, where I hope he doesn't await the same fate, but at least he'll be in the company of family.

Off to Portugal for me, just in time too. The sh#@ is hitting the fan in Chad...rebels creeping around every corner and people are dusting the cobwebs off the old evacuation plans....

Osama...is that you?

This came from an impromptu Chadian news page, another blog from someone in/around Abeche...

But besides this, things have been heating up along the eastern border. The IRC had another disastrous encounter...another truck stolen, and the French has been stepping up their military patrols greatly. Every morning I wake up to French built Mirage fighter planes taking off and landing...


Thursday, August 31, 2006

Friend Finder
August 30, 2006: According to sources convinced of the truth of what they are saying, Osama Bin Laden is working among the Janjawid in southern Sudan, near the Chadian border. Osama is said to be riding horses and destroying villages along with the other Janjawid, and living from place to place, moving from one village to another. When it was speculated that this cannot be true, that it is a lie to try to scare the DarFurians, the source insisted that the information is true, that Bin Laden is living in southern DarFur. You heard it first here at ChadNews...

hmmm. Think I'll go for R&R now, thank you.

A quiet Friday night in N'djamena

Its 830 pm. I'm bored beyond comprehension. I sit locked inside my concrete compound, mud and mosquitoes, clothe less children who defecate in the middle of the road as you try to pass, and here and there a call to prayer, are all that await outside the gates in the electricity-less blackhole. Guess that sounded a bit cynical, huh?

I have scarcely left the inside of our house today, maybe 5 times to venture out into the scalding sunshine, a fact that would appall me if I were at home. Our airplane is grounded and I find the reasoning quite ironic. Last week, those in charge, and myself included, found ways and loopholes to make an airplane with no weather radar, no HF radio, malfunctioning fuel gages, and a undulating and sometimes violent right hand engine prop governor, stay in the skies and fly the never ending supply of VIPs around. I was apprehensive more than a couple of times and made some out there upset when I cancelled or delayed flights due to the equipment failures, but I'd rather be breathing than not. The combination of equipment that was inoperative seemed like the perfect recipe for disaster, had an inopportune situation presented itself.

Which brings me to the irony: Today we are grounded for something that I really, honestly, truly, could care less about. Our CVR (cockpit voice recorder) is broken, and it doesn't make a damn bit of difference to the operational safety of the aircraft. What it does mean though, is that if the aircraft were to go down in a glowing ball of flames, they wouldn't be able to hear all the abusive and insolent rantings and ravings I'd be sure to spit out before we hit the sand below, cursing them for not fixing the airplane when I'd asked. Second thought, maybe it is best they get it fixed...

So here I sit, inside my grey and white cement room that reeks of something dead. It just always makes me sooo hungry. A day or two ago I hit the wall, I couldn't take the smell any longer and ripped the room apart looking for the decaying culprit. Nothing. I theorized it was emanating from outside the room, from where the prehistoric air conditioner drips onto the shattered tiles below. With bleach, hot water, and a quizzical group of housecleaners observing, I attacked the rancid area and in turn was held to a counter attack. It seems that under all these broken, slimy, stinking tiles, was a colony of fire ants rivaling the size of Manhattan. I can now officially add to the list of native species in Chad that dislike Jesse. Evidently (take note) fire ants dislike hot, bleach water, and the one who is delivering it. The battle for N'djamena has begun, though I doubt the history books will include its recounts of Caucasians smashing exoskeleton equipped, 6 legged, 1/4 inch long assassins, all the while screaming like a girl, as they climb his legs.

But the story, as weak as it is, doesn't end there. These guys are smart, and viscous, and pugnacious. Irascible. No, they couldn't just let it go that I poured scalding, poisonous chemicals down onto their heads and then pulverized a bunch of their buddies. Nope. I've started a insectual jihad. The night after the victorious battle, I climbed into bed, air conditioner humming, mosquito net draped above, and turned off my flash light. Yeah, flashlight, what’s it to you? Aaaah....unconsciousness come to me....drifting off...driftin....HOLY SHIT!!!! what the hell is that????? I ejected myself from bed so fast it was almost amazing and whipped out my trusty flashlight. 'YOU BASTARDS!!!' was evidently what my South African housemates heard me shriek as they too were drifting off to happy, fun dream land. Instead I had three or four huge, red, bloodthirsty, man eating, carnivorous ants looking to finish me off. (ok, I may be exaggerating a bit...) A massacre ensued and I went back to be, though not as sure of the peaceful nights rest awaiting. I am considering moving.

Chevron and another oil company, Petronas, from Malaysia were booted from Chad's southern oil fields this week. Seems ol' Idris Deby isn't satisfied with their fiscal contributions to the state. The funny part, well one of them, is that he announced to the country and world that they had 24 hours to remove themselves from the nation before he actually decided to phone them and advise. All the interviews you read on BBC were comical due to "spokespeople from Chevron declined to comment sighting that they had no idea what BBC reporters were talking about, insisting the company was on excellent terms with Chadian authorities". Oops, someone didn't get the memo. The best part was the part Deby, himself, played though.

My friend Elizabeth and I went out for Chinese food here in N'djamena the night this was all going down. We could have hardly cared less about the lost profits of these petroleum giants as we sat chatting away eating something that I'm surprised, truly surprised, did not kill me. A few Muslim men sat around as well eating in this outlandish Chinese outpost and there was a substantial volume to the room's conversations, all the while a T.V. blared in the background. Elizabeth, who is program director for CCF here in Chad, and I yammered away....bla, bla, bla, ha, ha, bla...when I took notice of the fact that we were suddenly the only ones talking. I glanced sideways and noticed all eyes were glued to the television behind my back. Half thinking I was going to turn and see a French woman doing aerobics again, even though it was a stern, masculine voice I heard, I pivoted and saw that the previously half way vacant room was now filled and everyone listened intently to a news broadcaster. With nothing but a cardboard cut out of Chad behind him a man in a western suit sat at a news desk reading very solemnly...straight faced, no emotion, and everyone was hypnotized. After a few minutes we began to hear names...all traditional Muslim names (which greatly relieved me, I feared someone had found out a took another picture or two) and the men around mumbled and groaned.

We left the restaurant, but not before I had to fight my way out of the bathroom when a drunk soldier tried to get some cash out of me. I love Spanish now. Really. In China if someone came pressing you for money all you had to do was give them this confused look and start belching out meaningless phrases en espanol. Same holds true in Chad though you have to put some physical force behind it to get its true effect across. A quick shove against the wall while stuttering "Aye, Senorita! No me gusta los naranjas en mi cabeza!" produced its desired effect and I was on my way. Look it up GI Mahkmhud.

The next morning over coffee I saw online a list of some of the names I'd heard the night before. Apparently, according to the Man himself, some of his self appointed Ministers were helping Chevron and Petronas avoid taxes while lacing their own pockets. Personally, I think he's just making some waves to make news, to entertain the masses, to stir things up. That and there is talk he is aiming to allow Chinese energy corporations take over the infrastructure Chevron and Petronas had built, in a deal that would be more advantageous to increasing his Humvee collection. So Oil Minister Mahmat Hassan Nasser, Planning Minister Mahmat Ali Hassan and Livestock Minister Mockhtar Moussa, all got sacked. Poor Mr. Mockhtar, how confused he must be at this immediate moment. One moment he presided over the incredibly prestigious industry of bulls and sheep, lovingly supervising their every move, now he finds himself booted for...oil taxes scandals? Hmm, which piece doesn't fit the puzzle. I'm just glad it wasn't the Minister of Agriculture, who had bought Darcy and I a round of beers in an Abeche bar once in the past.

Alright, enough for now...though there so much more nothingness to tell all about. Back to boredom for me....I've already read all my books. I hope everyone is doing well out there...goodnight.

Chadian Aerial Photos...

Shhh...don't tell anyone I took these, I'd hate to see what'd happen to me.

This is the super exciting, lavish, extravagant, temporarily muddy, mosquito-filled, metropolis of N'djamena, the largest city in Chad, and capital. The city's population is a suprisingly high 721,000, though I constantly wonder where all them live, especially now that half the northern section is underwater and people use canoes to paddle home. The town's name means 'Place of Rest' in Arabic, and in Archabic it means 'Place with lots of garbage, really muddy roads, homeless children, and aerobics loving Air Traffic Controllers', though this translation has yet to be fully adopted by the current regime. The airport is to the left, to the bottom on the opposite side of the Chari river is Cameroon. Do you notice the difference? Neither do I, all well. Also on the city side, exactly on the banks of the river, farther to the left is the Novoutel, the pool, and scantily clad westerners. Its not visible in this picture but to the upper right, about 20 miles Northwest is Lac Chad, or atleast its remnants.



This is final approach into Sarh's Runway 22. Huge. Absolutely huge. Actually its long enough to make it boring, but its still quite muddy when it rains, which is everyday lately. Notice the people carrying things on their heads in the foreground and the blob on the runway about 1/2 way down on the right. Yeah thats a villager just kinda hanging out for a nap. I noticed him as I put the camera down, and we gave both each other a good scare. Lesson to everyone out there: A runway, as tempting as it may be, is not the most ideal location for a mid-day nap. While we are discussing it, neither is an interstate freeway.



This is a picture that means more to me and people that are familiar with Abeche then the majority out there. When I arrived 2 months ago everything was brown, desolate and dead anywhere near Abeche. It made the southern New Mexico dessert appear a lush oasis. Now its a million shades of green, an appearingly fertile landscape dotted with tilled fields, camel trains, and donkey gangs, yet its only temporary. Come late October the rains will cease and the colors will slowly fade, and shift again to khaki and burlap tones. From November until next July there will be little to no rain, and my favorite little mud frogs will go back to sleep for 8 1/2 months. Damn.


Still most of the dessert looks much like this, in Chad's mid section. Brown with green brush strokes through...the flooded Ouadiis (arroyos, streambeds, though it literally means flat space or field in Arabic). After a big rain, when we fly into Abeche its interesting to see what is floating downstream towards the vacant dessert in the distance. Maybe pieces of the market again? A camel, a donkey, a house, a white guy who took to many pictures of locals? Saw a horse one day. Sorry Mom.

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.

More Ugandan Pics

Due to the overwhelming demand, the Chad to Chad Broadcasting Network has decided to provide further pictures of Uganda. These pictures, it should be noted, are not very exciting. In recent studies, viewing these pictures has caused narcolepsy in 67 out of 92 viewers. In further research, it should be noted, it was proven that viewing these pictures may cause discomfort whilst sitting atop a fire ant mound, being pelted in the eyes with spitballs. Therefore the Chad to Chad Broadcasting Network, on behalf of Chad Norris, CEO, and Jesse Archambault, Geek, take no responsiblity for any such discomfort felt while viewing.


Everyone either has one themselves, or knows someone who has one, that is, a rubber plant in their house. I gave mine away to Jen before I left, and at the time was extremely proud of the fact it stood 3 feet tall. Check out this one in Entebbe! Bit bigger than in temperate US suburbs...



Speaking of big...this is an Orb Spider, called so because when the sun shines thru it from above it glows, like an orb, I guess. They were EVERYWHERE in the thick forest, and were about 5 or 6 inches from front to rear legs. Not a place for an arachnophobe. sorry bout the gray streak...(photobucket hiccup)



This is the patch of forest that according to local Entebbe legend, the original soundless Tarzan, King of the Jungle film was shot. Sounded good atleast. I have a hard time believing that Hollywood actors would have crossed the ocean, risked malaria and hostile tribes to come here to this tiny patch of woods where Orb Spiders reign, for the purpose of shooting a cheezy movie. But you can see its quite African-esque in appearance. (For some reason, Photobucket, which SUCKS!!! has decided to invert this picture, I have tried to correct it, so hopefully you see the image right-side-up, otherwise feel free to stand on your head and view.)



I have many more pictures that are equally or more interesting/boring as these, but with the horrid internet connection here in Chad it takes about 35 minutes to upload each picture, so we'll see how my patience goes. Goodnight.

9 Days in Uganda

FRUIT MARKET OUTSIDE KAMPALA, with avacodos the size of softballs!



The other morning I awoke from a dream that I was at home, nestled in bed with an ex-girlfriend. It was safe, comforting and warm…soothing for the soul. I felt peaceful. The alarm went off and she stared at me quizzically yet still smiling, ‘Well, are you getting up?’. I smiled and opened my eyes, immediately finding the room dark, no sweet smelling girl lying next to me, just light rain pattering the palm fronds outside my window and the distant sounds of ambitious roosters announcing the forthcoming dawn. My brooding thoughts of disappointment were soon muted by the rumble of thunder from faraway, and quickly replaced by a concern for the reality which is at hand. In a couple hours I am supposed to fly the 1900 back across the jungle, over the towering peaks, and the central African scrub, back to N’djamena, that wondrous wonder of wonders.

I struggle to get up, ambition sapped, light a candle (there is no electricity) and saunter outside to the porch where I watch the pink lighting bounce from cloud to cloud in the south, over expansive Lake Victoria. Great, just what I need, I just want to crawl back into bed with my dreamt up friend. Planting myself a mile deep in a black Ugandan electrical storm last Friday has left me shell shocked to the extent that my stomach tightens and I cringe when I look south now and see another threatening menace flashing away in the indigo sky. Not again, not today. I get dressed in the flickering candlelight while sipping a cup of bitter Nescafe instant coffee, and outside my window a bird awakes and begins singing what I swear sounds like ‘youuur sc-a-a-a-a-a-a-red’. Shut up bird, its too early for your imbecilic taunting.

My new first officer, the engineer and I make it to the airplane, taxi it to the fuel stand, and I busy myself fretting the advancing storm. I fuel the aircraft myself, as the designated fueler guy is about 326.9 mph too slow for my anxious, twitching self. The new South African FO and the engineer wander off towards the control tower at an unhurried pace to file the flight plan, check enroute satellite maps and pay the departure taxes. Fifty five minutes later I am covered in Jet A, my face burning, the fueler chuckling, the ominous storm nearly overhead and out slowly strolls my two S.A friends with chocolate bars and cigarettes from the duty free store, simply classic. My temper soon joins my face in experiencing the burning sensation. Come ON, quick, faster, faster…c’mon guys, get your lazy Afrikaans asses in gear, have you looked behind you at that wall of rain??????? We start up, run through the checklists, and line up on the runway waiting impatiently for take off clearance, but there’s a delay, seems the flight plan wasn‘t filed correctly after all. We are now underneath the anvil of the massive morning storm and I can feel the rudder dancing around and the elevator fluttering with the shifting, gusty winds. Then a raindrop, and another hitting the windshield with resounding thuds. To hell with this, I had my excitement with tropical thunderstorms, lying radars and airplanes last week. Another day in Uganda with its beautiful green hills and beautiful smiling people is better than fighting my way through the hostile African skies towards a country whose people don’t even like me.

THE BOATS IN ENTEBBE HARBOR


I am staying here in Entebbe with the African Chief Pilot and the new Director of Operations for AirServ, the GGUDS as I‘ve acronymly nicknamed them. Both gentlemen are older, intelligent, personable and great individuals, but I am ready to pull my hair (if I actually had any right now) out. It takes 4 hours to accomplish a matter that should take 30 minutes, and that’s on a good day. When I arrived last Friday I was asked if I had anything on my agenda to see or do. I answered with a resounding ‘hell yeah!’, followed by the list. Fishing for Nile perch, hiking, rafting the Nile, maybe bungee jumping at the headwaters(!), bookstores, souvenir shopping, botanical gardens, girls…you name it, I’m ready, lets go!

Everyday after started the same. ‘Ok, Jess, have any ideas on what you’d like to do today?’ they'd implore as we all sat on the porch overlooking the lake… “Yes, I’d love to head over to Jinja and raft the Nile, or go to Kampala and explore”…

Then came the NASA space shuttle countdown announcer from somewhere in the skies above, slowly and methodically stating, “5, 4, 3, 2, 1!” Let the ridiculous debating begin! The two gray hairs would then spend an hour discussing and debating how this task would be best accomplished while swishing coffee around in their cups. Car or van? Which do you prefer to drive anyway? Taxi? Weather, did you hear rain last night, hmm, think it'll affect the (PAVED) roads? Best day to do it? Moon phase, favorite colors, and astrological signs? Really, Gemini, huh? Probably should stay off the roads on Thursday then. When debates were complete it was ALWAYS decided that one or both absolutely must to go to the office to make sure no one had sent them emergency emails requiring their immediate response. One hour was always stated, "one hour, that’s all, don’t go anywhere, we‘d be happy to take you, sounds fun!". Five hours later when they both returned home, to find me sitting and steaming outside on the porch, they’d ask me as if completely unaware of the commitment made earlier… ‘Hey Jess, how's the day been? Have any ideas on what you’d like to do with the rest of the day?’ “Nope Guys, not a F#*^%ng clue, thanks for asking though!” Then the debating would resume as to what the best course of action would be for the remainder of the afternoon. The Great Geriatric Ugandan Debating Society, a marvelous thing indeed. After a few days I conceded defeat, learned to recognize the humor in it all, and found traits in both of them I enjoyed.

I helped the Director of Ops barter for a bicycle at the Kampala Bike Market, a colorful collection of completely random, scrappy used bikes which arrive by the container load from Japan and Korea, and sit half sunken in a muddy, red clay yard in the middle of downtown’s chaos. I had an incredibly entertaining and informative time test driving about 134 bikes, being giggled at by a proportionately higher number of Ugandan girls and children, and making a few new friends.

We'd browse slowly, and the sellers would gawk at us both, pushing bicycles into our crotches, implying we should take them for a ride. I’d present the sellers with questions ‘Why should he buy this bike?’
“Its pure aloo min ium” (pronounced as the British say it, adding a mysterious ‘I’ in the mix). ‘They’re all aluminum man! Ha, ha! Just watch.’...looking out into the crowd of bike sellers, singling one out... ‘Hey bud!, hey, why is your bike better than this one?’...and with no delay, the response: “Its pure aloo min ium!”
‘See! Who taught you guys to say that? You need something more interesting as a selling point. Try this: This bike? Aah, my pasty white friend, this is pure aircraft grade aluminum, without the i, and coincidently its recycled from the Concorde. It has a bi-actuated, tri-nebulous, quasi static chain inverter, top of the line, top of the line indeed, a cable controlled friction generating momentum arresting device, and of course this girly little pink bell! What’d’ya say mon???’ They all got a good kick out of it, I’m sure wondering what in the hell I just said. Geek.

On our return thru Kampala hordes of shoeless and hungry looking children would stare blankly, and inoffensively into the car when we slowed in the merciless traffic. “They are refugees from the north” Hussein, one of AirServ’s drivers explains. In northern Uganda, for years now, a group of rabid, violent guerrillas has been torturing and slaughtering the local populations, often in the name of God. No, not Allah, but God. The LRA, Lords Republic Army, led my a deranged Joseph Kony, whose immoral and disgusting tactics have garnered world attention, well, the world outside the USA. Check out: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/3462901.stm for a brief rundown on them.

I rolled down the window and emptied my pocket change into the dirty hands of the smallest children I could find. When I’m out of change I have only big bills left, the smallest being the equivalent of 10 US dollars. The eyes destroy your protective shell, they cut right through it. 12 innocent, beautiful, brown little eyes staring at me, speaking to me in silence, suddenly awaken a realization of how unfair this world is, and how hypocritical I am. I turn from the pleads, direct my attention back inside and see my backpack, with my $500 camera, my $200 MP3 player, my wallet with $300 worth of Ugandan schillings, my $100 dollar glasses, and what do I do? Ignore them. I gave them something. Yeah, I gave them maybe $3 worth of change, but I have souvenirs I want to get for myself and friends, so I cannot toss more away. How horrible is that? Hussein, a native Ugandan, says “just ignore them”, ignore his own country’s children, and he’s sitting next to a disgustingly wealthy individual (by local comparison) from a disgustingly wealthy nation. How can my thoughts go from pure pity and sympathy to greed and materialism in the flash of a second? We pull away from them and my conscience is allowed some breathing room.

Driving in Uganda is an adventure in itself. The task is 4 dimensional, with other vehicles, motorcycles, animals, pedestrians, road debris, fruit, monkeys, sometimes fruit covered monkeys, and anything else you could possibly imagine, coming at you from every direction possible, even above. At a busy intersection in Kampala two traffic guards stood amidst the honking mass of blue smoke belching vehicles and gave contradictory instructions to the traffic. “What are they doing!?” I asked Hussein. “One of them works for the bus taxi company, the other for the boda bodas (the motorcycle taxis) and so they are trying to help out their respective drivers.” In the end the two men were basically ignored and ultimately anarchy reigns over the highways and byways of Uganda, making everyday an exciting day.

The return drive from the festive bike market was under a full moon, weaving thru the electricity less neighborhoods, dodging the black ghosts who’d run thru the headlight beams ahead. We’d pass a group of 10 or 12 people sitting in a circle outside their shack or business, candlelight illuminating their facial features, and above a few of them I noticed signs reading “Praise the Lord Jesus and be thankful for everyday!” or “Thank Jesus for Life!”. Here are people sleeping on mud floors, constantly battling malaria and other diseases, making just enough money to stay fed, and they are thankful. They are thankful for life, for a life that we would loathe. The candlelit faces are just happy to exist, happy to have peace, and they cling steadfastly to their faith. Businessmen in America question their faith or their God when a deal fails to materialize as they hoped. Though I do not consider myself a very religious person, I find it refreshing to see these people so drunk with love of their Lord, and for their lives. Similarly, a Sunday morning in Entebbe is a sight to behold. Throngs of beautifully dressed women, and classily dressed men and children walk in rain or sun, through mud or garbage, blocking the road for minutes at a time, to stream into their neighborhood place of worship. If you sit outside on the porch at 11am like a good heathen, the breeze carries in mixed sounds of vibrant and energized hymns from the surrounding churches, and it sounds beautiful. No monotone druid like chanting of classic God fearing Christian hymnals, just beautiful Africanized versions that you almost want to dance to. This coming from a white guy with no rhythm.

A TYPICAL HOUSE IN THE WOODS


Ugandan children are something wonderful. Every experience I have had with them so far has put a huge smile on my face. Venturing off either on foot, or bicycle into some of the mud hut neighborhoods surrounding Entebbe I constantly find myself a spectacle to behold and therefore the center of attention. “M-Z-U-N-G-O!!!” (white person in Kiswahili, though not meant in a degrading fashion) they scream as I go by, their hands waving high above their smiling faces, sometimes swarming around me wanting to slap hands or practice their latest handshake. On one bike ride thru a neighborhood that probably never sees any whites, I coasted by three small children getting a sponge and hose bath in the front yard. All were stark naked and covered in soap suds, their mother standing behind them scrubbing away, as they stared at the ground. Upon hearing my tires crunch over the gravel all eyes were raised in unison, all three respective mouths arched into gigantic pearly white smiles, and all three bodies quickly forgot the sponge bath taking place. The roar of their greetings and laughter far outdid the irritated shout of their mother as the three naked bodies charged down the street behind me, undoing all the scrubbing their mother had done, obviously without a care in the world. “Helloooo Mzungo! How are you?!!!” shouted repeatedly as mud replaces the soap suds that have wafted away. It was a hysterical sight to see. I said my hellos, they all giggled, and stood in the middle of the road naked, dripping, hands in the air waving goodbye as I rode off toward town laughing. Mr. Mzungo, that’s me.

AS CLOSE AS I CAME TO RAFTING THE NILE


I finally was able to visit the Nile, yet was not able to raft its incredibly huge rapids. Next time. I was also unable to fish for Nile Perch. Next time. I did, however, spend two days completely incapacitated with illness, shivers, and shakes so I must get tested for malaria when I return to Chad. I also fudged a haircut, so had to completely shave my head, leaving me looking somewhere between a convict and a chemo patient. I soaked in the equatorial sunshine, enjoyed the local sights, sounds and smells and got some good laughs. In conclusion, I vote for Uganda over Chad and South Africa both, hands down, and I have only scraped the surface of the surface here. The land, the people and the atmosphere are all beautiful, and I highly recommend East Africa to all. Back to N’djamena for me.

THE NILE RIVER, JINJA, UGANDA