I have just returned to Uganda after flying in Chad in support of relief efforts for Darfuri refugees from Sudan. It was my fourth working trip there in the past two years. On this one I acted in my capacity as Africa Regional Chief Pilot for Airserv International. The task was to go to Abeche in the east near the Sudan border for a month and train a new First Officer for our Twin Otter, upgrade two First Officers to Captain, and help organize the team. We ended up in the middle of an upsurge of the local civil war and did a few evacuations, a few medevacs, including some life saving ones, and generally did our best to be useful, and I hope at least harmless.
Here I summarize my personal experiences from my various trips to Chad. It might be of interest to pilots, camel breeders, students of Arabic, and observers of the wars of the region. It follows no journalistic rules. Skip the parts that don’t interest you.
The airplane I flew this time was our venerable DHC-6 Twin Otter, hull number N899AS, which I had first flown in Congo four years ago. It is a legendary craft, designed for the Canadian tundra but used successfully in harsh conditions the world over. It is a flying truck, designed to get the job done without an excess of comfort for the passengers, but with a rugged reliability in landing on short, rough strips. This particular one I flew in the service of Airserv has been nearly destroyed by landmines and machine guns in events in Sudan, Liberia, and Burundi over the past two decades. Carefully patched and put back together each time, it still brings hope to people in troubled parts of the world. It is dear to many of us.
On my first landing at Abeche two years ago a large dark spot in the touchdown zone turned out to be a camel. I added a little power, and humped over him and landed further down the runway as he gazed at the airplane with enviable non-chalance and serenity. This special creature is an important part of the story, so I made a point of finding out what I could about camels and their owners beyond what I knew of them from the Middle East.
The camel herders in Chad tend to be Arabic speakers. Because of their place in the life of the desert there are many dozens of words to describe precisely which sort of camel we are talking about. Here are a few I picked up for my friends who study Arabic: (and the qaaf is pronounced gaaf)
Hiwaar: a young lactating camel
qa9ood: a young weaned camel
bakra: a virgin camel
Hiqqa: a camel pregnant for the first time
daari’: a heavily pregnant camel
naaqa: a milking camel
9awda: a old female camel
naab: a really old female camel; the word is also used for tusk, tooth, or fang; using this word to refer to an old lady camel might have something to do with her being long in the tooth. But I digress.
Once I was taxiing for takeoff on the useable half of the dirt runway in Adre, right on the Sudan border. As we were halfway through our U-turn we found ourselves nose to nose with a camel. This was a special moment. She moved her head from side to side gazing at us with a somewhat puzzled look. We contemplated each other and reflected for a few moments. I prepared to reverse the propellers to blow forward hard in her direction if she came any closer. (Years ago in Mozambique we worked out this technique for when a mentally ill person came dancing out of the bush too close to our spinning props). Then the camel decided to let us go on our way and hobbled off. Her two front feet were loosely tied together to keep her from wandering too far too quickly. This reminded me of the famous quote from the Prophet Mohammed, "i9qal wa tawakkal." His companions had asked what they should do with their camels during prayer. Would tying them up imply a lack of faith and a fear that they would wander off or be stolen during prayer? His reply translates as "hobble up (your camel) and have faith." I say this to taxi drivers in the Muslim and Arabic speaking world if they tell me I don't have to fasten my seatbelt. Come to think of it, I've even said it to cab drivers in the States.
Abeche is a dusty desert town with unpaved streets. Goats, donkey, horses, and of course camels mix with motorcycles, cars, and the pickup trucks used by local military forces. These pickup trucks are really special because aside from the mounted machine guns and rocket launchers and other implements of destruction on board they have baskets hanging on either side of the cabs. In each basket one sees a dozen or so rocket propelled grenades. We do not wish to sideswipe one of these as they careen through the streets.
The first day I walked through Abeche I was astonished to see a camel parking lot, something that cannot be described adequately. It must be seen to be believed, especially when we are talking of more than a hundred of the beasts. Camels are usually serene when they are loaded and walking. But when kneeling on the ground resting they snarl and growl and moan and hang out their tongues and twist their ugly faces that only a mother (a naaqa!) could love.
With this herd was a group of people I can only describe as Afro-Bedu. Their skin was black but their features Arab. The men wore white, light gray, or beige robes with turbans. The women wore clothes of an exaggerated gypsy stereotype: bright and garish purples, oranges, reds, and yellows. Their ankles, necks, and wrists were adorned with a variety of silver bangles and stone ornaments. Heads were covered loosely and sometimes not at all. Some even had bare shoulders. In my pilot’s uniform I caught their eye as they caught mine. But when we made contact they looked down.
I am not one comfortable with taking pictures. But how I wanted to speak to these camel caravaneers. What was their dialect? Where did they come from and where did they travel? These folk used real working camels, not the redundant ones used only for milk and meat and tourists in the Arab world I knew already. The drivers and I gazed at each other across the centuries, each curious about the other, but I was not sure what conversation to have. And it was time to go back to the airport and fly.
Over the next few days I thought of how I would break through the invisible wall of shyness between us next chance I had. (One doesn’t think of breaking the ice in the extreme heat of Chad). I would go and ask to buy some of the milk I saw the ladies selling. I would greet the men in Arabic and wish them peace (Assalaam 9alaykum) with confidence and see what developed. But the next opportunity I had to go downtown in Abeche there was not a camel to be seen. Instead an herb seller called me over for a philosophical and religious discourse on the strength that was esoteric (baaTin) and the strength that was manifest (Dhaahir).
On this most recent trip I did actually have a chance to connect with nomads. We hired camels from some nearby Mahamid people, a local tribe, and went for a little outing in the semi–desert. Their Arabic was clearer to me than the dialect of the town and conversation was easy. I noticed from time to time that we went through small fields that were undergoing a heroic effort at cultivation. “Why are we passing through this? Won’t the people growing things in this field get annoyed with us?” I asked.
My companion answered that in Libya camels could not be ridden through cultivated fields but in Sudan and Chad “no one” could object and the camels and their riders had the right of passage anywhere they wanted. So with this we have reached the beginning of the story that began long ago and plays out today in the Darfur conflict. Do we have the right to grow vegetables where camels walk and graze? Do we have the right to walk and graze our camels where people grow their vegetables?
I will continue soon insha’alla with accounts of what I saw and learned flying a Twin Otter in service to the refugees of Darfur.
Entebbe, Uganda
14 May, 2006
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
child soldiers and seven horned talking serpents
I agreed to go on contract with Airserv to standby for hurricance disaster relief in the Carribean but wound up in Goma, Congo, to help out flying a Cessna Caravan for a month in this war torn land. I was here three years ago soon after the volcano had erupted, sending a stream of lava across the runway and down the main streets of town. The flying was some of the most beautiful I have done and so I was happy to return to see what had become of the place.
Eastern Congo is a part of the world where the earthly forces of creation and destruction are in a powerful dance. It is horrible and it is beautiful. A nightmare and a dream. The earth shakes, the mountains drool lava and the lakes randomly spew up poison gas. We must not swim through the bubbles. The spectacular landscape is fertile. Things grow well in the volcanic ash.
The forces of man are also creating and destroying. One flight for Medicins san Frontiers (Doctors Without Borders) took us to several landings south of Goma and on to Lubumbashi, the capital of Katanga province. We spent the night there, not far from the mines of Shinkolobwe. From these mines people took the uranium used to roast Hiroshima and Nagasaki sixty summers ago. More recently there was good news out of Lubumbashi of a local Pastor Mulunda who runs an organization called Peace and Reconciliation. This group persuades Mai Mai militiamen to abandon the field of combat and gives them bicycles and clothing for their weapons which they then publicly destroy. Thousands of rifles, machine guns, grenades, and poision arrows have been removed from the killing fields in this fashion. Meanwhile reports circulate of Eastern European businessmen who continue to sell more weapons and ammunition to Congo. One wonders what these merchants of death do after collecting payment - have a fine meal perhaps and toast each other for a job well done? May they live long enough to experience something of the horror they have fueled.
Another thing over which people kill each other is the mineral coltan. This happens near the airfields of of Punia, Walikali, and Lulinga where we land. Coltan goes into the manufacture of our cell phones. Think about it the next time you hear one ring.
Battles happen, but people grow flowers around the bombed out terminals where we pick up and drop off passengers. The struggle for decency and dignity amid the violence is real and gives hope. The human forces of destruction are foreign and local. The creative forces are also foreign and local.
Congolese music is really alive and special. If the driver has it playing on his radio on the way to the airport I get charged up for a great day in Africa. My mood becomes generous. A gang of teenagers holds a rope across the road to stop cars. "Sir there have been many accidents here because of these big holes in the road which we are fixing. If you care to support us please feel free to do so." Yes, yes, a special twist on privatisation of the road maintenance industry. A dollar for the impromtu road crew.
The talk of the town the other day was the death of a sorcerer's seven horned talking snake. A soldier came across this snake slithering down the road and began to strike it. The snake said, "Don't beat me, I am a person like you." The soldier panicked and shot the snake. The snake's relatives nearby began crying and howling like humans. They were a family of snakes owned by a sorcerer who was not home at the time. When he received word of the death of his familiar snake he ordered a coffin and preparations for a complete funeral. The authorities decided this was a little odd, even for Goma, and that they should search this man's house. Upon doing so they discovered strange furnishings and decorations and accoutrements including a few human skulls. So they burned the house down. Most of this story is true, but I think parts of it might be embellishments.
One of the best days of my life happened last week. I was assigned to fly a mission to several towns on behalf of Save the Children. My passengers were de-mobilized child soldiers. This worthy organization had persuaded the army and various militias to release them and had given them some counseling, re-education, and some decent civilian clothes. But these child veterans still thought they should come to attention when this foreigner in a pilot's uniform called out their names from the passenger manifest. I took about two dozen to their home towns. Two were girls, one of whom had her own infant on her back. It was a good day, worth all the sweat and heartache that go into training to become a pilot. I think I did good, a small feather placed at the right place on the balance between good and evil, a flower planted in the ash.
Guns and soldiers and militias are everywhere. Local ones and foreign ones - United Nations soldiers bristling with guns prepared to shoot people with guns to persuade people with guns that they should not shoot other people. Someday we'll learn a better way perhaps. I have run into UN soldiers from places as far flung as India and Bolivia. And I even chatted with a squad of Chinese UN soldiers who posed for pictures with me and the airplane at Bukavu airport. They are known for trying to buy ivory from the Africans. It's too late, the elephants in this area have been killed off already.
Preflighting my airplane one morning I heard a severe whack closely followed by a howl and then another whack and howl and on and on. I checked to see what was going on and it was a young soldier getting flogged by his sergeant in the adjacent hangar. He was about the same age I was when I believed the mythologies of my civilization and joined the ranks of death. After the flogging was completed he gave his officer a trembling salute and received a scolding and got sent out to run around the airport. I went back to my preflight inspection.
There is much work to do. We cannot complete it but neither can we avoid the task. There are many soldiers in this world who need to be brought home, young ones and old ones.
Love from the land of volcanos, gas-bubbling lakes, seven horned talking serpents, and fruit trees growing from the lava.
Bill Kelsey
June 30, 2005
Eastern Congo is a part of the world where the earthly forces of creation and destruction are in a powerful dance. It is horrible and it is beautiful. A nightmare and a dream. The earth shakes, the mountains drool lava and the lakes randomly spew up poison gas. We must not swim through the bubbles. The spectacular landscape is fertile. Things grow well in the volcanic ash.
The forces of man are also creating and destroying. One flight for Medicins san Frontiers (Doctors Without Borders) took us to several landings south of Goma and on to Lubumbashi, the capital of Katanga province. We spent the night there, not far from the mines of Shinkolobwe. From these mines people took the uranium used to roast Hiroshima and Nagasaki sixty summers ago. More recently there was good news out of Lubumbashi of a local Pastor Mulunda who runs an organization called Peace and Reconciliation. This group persuades Mai Mai militiamen to abandon the field of combat and gives them bicycles and clothing for their weapons which they then publicly destroy. Thousands of rifles, machine guns, grenades, and poision arrows have been removed from the killing fields in this fashion. Meanwhile reports circulate of Eastern European businessmen who continue to sell more weapons and ammunition to Congo. One wonders what these merchants of death do after collecting payment - have a fine meal perhaps and toast each other for a job well done? May they live long enough to experience something of the horror they have fueled.
Another thing over which people kill each other is the mineral coltan. This happens near the airfields of of Punia, Walikali, and Lulinga where we land. Coltan goes into the manufacture of our cell phones. Think about it the next time you hear one ring.
Battles happen, but people grow flowers around the bombed out terminals where we pick up and drop off passengers. The struggle for decency and dignity amid the violence is real and gives hope. The human forces of destruction are foreign and local. The creative forces are also foreign and local.
Congolese music is really alive and special. If the driver has it playing on his radio on the way to the airport I get charged up for a great day in Africa. My mood becomes generous. A gang of teenagers holds a rope across the road to stop cars. "Sir there have been many accidents here because of these big holes in the road which we are fixing. If you care to support us please feel free to do so." Yes, yes, a special twist on privatisation of the road maintenance industry. A dollar for the impromtu road crew.
The talk of the town the other day was the death of a sorcerer's seven horned talking snake. A soldier came across this snake slithering down the road and began to strike it. The snake said, "Don't beat me, I am a person like you." The soldier panicked and shot the snake. The snake's relatives nearby began crying and howling like humans. They were a family of snakes owned by a sorcerer who was not home at the time. When he received word of the death of his familiar snake he ordered a coffin and preparations for a complete funeral. The authorities decided this was a little odd, even for Goma, and that they should search this man's house. Upon doing so they discovered strange furnishings and decorations and accoutrements including a few human skulls. So they burned the house down. Most of this story is true, but I think parts of it might be embellishments.
One of the best days of my life happened last week. I was assigned to fly a mission to several towns on behalf of Save the Children. My passengers were de-mobilized child soldiers. This worthy organization had persuaded the army and various militias to release them and had given them some counseling, re-education, and some decent civilian clothes. But these child veterans still thought they should come to attention when this foreigner in a pilot's uniform called out their names from the passenger manifest. I took about two dozen to their home towns. Two were girls, one of whom had her own infant on her back. It was a good day, worth all the sweat and heartache that go into training to become a pilot. I think I did good, a small feather placed at the right place on the balance between good and evil, a flower planted in the ash.
Guns and soldiers and militias are everywhere. Local ones and foreign ones - United Nations soldiers bristling with guns prepared to shoot people with guns to persuade people with guns that they should not shoot other people. Someday we'll learn a better way perhaps. I have run into UN soldiers from places as far flung as India and Bolivia. And I even chatted with a squad of Chinese UN soldiers who posed for pictures with me and the airplane at Bukavu airport. They are known for trying to buy ivory from the Africans. It's too late, the elephants in this area have been killed off already.
Preflighting my airplane one morning I heard a severe whack closely followed by a howl and then another whack and howl and on and on. I checked to see what was going on and it was a young soldier getting flogged by his sergeant in the adjacent hangar. He was about the same age I was when I believed the mythologies of my civilization and joined the ranks of death. After the flogging was completed he gave his officer a trembling salute and received a scolding and got sent out to run around the airport. I went back to my preflight inspection.
There is much work to do. We cannot complete it but neither can we avoid the task. There are many soldiers in this world who need to be brought home, young ones and old ones.
Love from the land of volcanos, gas-bubbling lakes, seven horned talking serpents, and fruit trees growing from the lava.
Bill Kelsey
June 30, 2005
from the rivers of Babylon
Nothing so focuses the mind in the evening as the knowlege that one isflying into Iraq in the morning. Greetings from Kuwait, from where I havebeen flying over the Rivers of Babylon. Once again I am on contract withAirserv International, this time to fly postwar disaster relief personnelinto Iraq. I had not written anything about this beforehand as I wanted tomake sure it was really happening. After ferrying two King Airs from pointsin Africa to Amman, Jordan, and Kuwait City, Kuwait, we waited for herethree weeks. Finally the authorization came to fly from Kuwait into Baghdadon May 1 and May 5. Mark Vanonen and I piloted the first two civilianrelief related postwar flights into Iraq. Our first passengers were fromSave the Children and Physicians for Human Rights. It was the same aircraftwe had flown together from Georgetown, Texas, to Conakry, Guinea over twoyears ago, and from Abidjan, Ivory Coast to Entebbe over one year ago. Itappears we are destined to fly this airplane from one disaster to anothertogether.We became very busy flying almost daily until a setback at the Erbil runwayin Iraqi Kurdestan. Our Amman plane was on the ground being refueled when aRussian-made Ilyushin-76 transport aircraft used too much power to turnaround on the apron and sent a blast of gravel at our King Air. This pittedthe windows of our aircraft and a considerable amount of the gravel wentinto the turbine intakes, rendering the aircraft useless until the turbinescould be opened and cleaned. The fueling truck had its windshield blownout. Fortunately no one was hurt. The Ilyushin was registered inUzbekistan and the passengers were guys of the type who prefer not toidentify themselves, but they had American accents and civilian clothes.Centrally intelligent people should hire airplanes with pilots who know howto turn around on the ground without causing a lot a damage.Our Kuwait based airplane was sent to Amman until the grounded one could beflown out of Erbil. So I have the free time to write and let everyone on my"dispatch" list know that I am safe and sound before resuming flightsshortly. Most of you are on my list at your request or because I know youwell enough to put you on it. If you are receiving this in error let meknow and I'll get you off the list. I respect the fact that in-boxes areoverflowing with stuff. Feel free to forward. There are no secrets. Afterthis one I hope to write something about what I did in the prelude to ouroperations, some notes about remarkable people I have met, some analysis andcommentary on the situation and even techniques for improving Hummous, BabaGhanouj, and lemonade. Please write with specific questions and I'll do mybest to answer.Flying over the Rivers of Babylon - the Tigris and the Euphrates and theirtributaries - gives one a chance to reflect on history and all that thisland has contributed to mythology, legend, and religion. Starting out fromKuwait I can look down at Ur of the Chaldees, where the wheel was inventedand from where Abraham set forth to be a "stranger in a strange land" and bea blessing. We even pass near the reputed location of the Garden of Edenwhere locals claim they still have Adam's original tree of temptation. Howwe truly have fallen from Grace again here. We fly over Babylon itselfwhere the palaces and banquet halls of Nebuchadnezzar, Belshazzar, and otherancient emperors were rebuilt by Saddam on the foundations of the originals.It was here that Belshazzar saw the "hand writing on the wall." The prophetDaniel interpreted it for him to mean "You have been weighed and foundwanting in the balance." Babylon was about to be captured by the Persians.And not far from Erbil is a mosque in the village of Ninevah which has whatthey say is the jawbone of Jonah's whale. The very same one indeed. Theyclaim he brought it there after his detour in its belly.What a privilege to be flying here but how sad the circumstances. Mostmembers of the international relief and development community were facedwith an ethical dilemma as they made their decisions to prepare for postwaroperations. If we prepare in advance to help pick up the pieces afterwards,to what extent are we enabling the execution of a war we oppose - be it thisone or any other. We are left with what seems a choice between allowing thesuffering to suffer if we do nothing on the one hand or facilitating amilitary assault by being ready to assist with dealing with the negativeconsequences on the other. The problem is complicated by the fact that manyof the relief organizations involved have traditionally received funding forprojects in African war zones from the governments who are now belligerentsin the current conflict in Iraq. It is as if a fire brigade was beingoffered precious water by the arsonist himself. Oxfam and Medicins sanFrontiers chose not to accept funding from the British or Americangovernments. Ultimately everyone has had to collude to some extent to getinto the country and move about and the occupying forces appear happy tocooperate with anyone, including opponents of the war, who will help dealwith the postwar mess. A curious phenomenon has been that even civiliansworking for the US government have been having these dilemmas and have madea great issue out of being under State Department rather than militaryauthority. There have been many layers of bureaucracy at variousadministrative distances from the fighting forces, each of which haspreferred to see itself as unique and somewhat more innocent. Roughlydescribed, the military itself has its Civil Affairs Units, and then thereis the Office of Reconstruction and Humanitarian Assistance which is a teamof assorted spooks and civilians sort of under military control in aconfused sort of way, then the Disaster Assistance Response Teams who arecivilians working directly for the State Department Office of ForeignDisaster Assistance, then various civilians on government contract, thennon-governmental organisations working on their own but with governmentsubsidies, and finally non-governmental organisations who do not acceptstate funding. The discussions are endless about who wears what clothes,who can attend which meetings in which buildings, who rides in whichvehicles, and do we accept protection from military forces or other armedguards. Ethical purity aside there is the questions of which associations,affectations and accoutrements are more likely to get one shot. One of ourcivilian passengers going in to work on water treatment and sanitation hadbeen issued a helmet and bulletproof vest. The things we use to protectourselves can attract danger sometimes. I told her she'd be less likely toget shot at if she wore a headscarf and modest clothing instead. But if shedid get shot the helmet and jacket would be nice. The choices we face arenot easy.I once chided Jonathan Kuttab, a Palestinian friend a dozen years ago aboutthe fact that as part of the peace process the Palestinian Authority wasaccepting US government funding. "This is the same government that hasfunded your destruction," I said. "It is one octupus. How can you takeanything from it?" His answer was that he had been observing that octupusfor years and saw that some of its tentacles were benign, some were harmful,some didn't like each other, and most didn't seem to know what the otherswere doing. That is indeed the case here, most clearly manifested by theearly departure of Jake Garner - the first American proconsul - and histeam. The American machine was very efficient and organized aboutconducting the war but is most bewildered about what to do now. This istrue about most warriors and artisans of death who forget how much simplerit is to destroy than to create. I understand that Iraq is no longer themain news in America. It should be, as things are just starting to getinteresting.I opposed this war, though there was nothing unique in that for me as Ioppose all of them. In all corners of the world I have heard every excuseimaginable for this sad behaviour. There is unfortunately no lack of peoplewilling to lend their logic and energy to these orgies of destruction. Noneof them need my support. Meanwhile I have chosen to fly with an operationwhich is on a US Office of Foreign Disaster Assistance contract. (Iattended my last peace rally in Austin on March 22 and departed for thisprogram the next day). Some of the passengers are relief personnel workingfor the government and others are from non-governmental organizations. Nonewill be armed. We land at airports in Iraq controlled and guarded by theoccupying armies. I greet and am warm to armed US soldiers as I greeted andwas friendly to assorted armed militiamen who controlled runways in Africa.These soldiers are our sons and daughters, none of them as sinister as theadvisors to our President who sent them here.I will do my best do be useful on the field of this catastophe and hope thatI will be harmless. To questions about George and Saddam the best answer inArabic is "Istaghfir Allah lii wa lahum. - I call on God's forgiveness forme and for them."When we are weighed may we not be found wanting in the balance.
mother earth's molten guts Africa spring 2002 #3
Goma, Congo 17 March, 2002Hello all you super dear people,So where were we? Yes, the volcanic eruption at Goma, Congo. Well, what was special about this one was that it was not really an eruption but a big drool. And as devastating as it was to Goma, it wasn't that big. In fact, looking at all the majestic volcanic mountains that I have to dodge while flying, (often while also working my way through the huge clouds that build up around them), it is difficult to imagine the eruptions that created them.
Take out your maps and look at the "Lake Region" of central Africa on the eastern border of Congo. A line of lakes lies in a long north-south valley bounded on either side by splended mountains. Goma, where we are based, is on Lake Kivu, right at the Rwandan border. Southwest, across the Lake, is Bukavu, where I land on nearly all flights. A common flight continues southward beyond that over Lake Tanganyika to places like Kalemie and Moba on the shore. We like to stay over the lake as that keeps us away from the mountains and ornery Mai Mai militias that occasionally shoot at airplanes. All these lakes and this valley have been formed by the earth cracking apart over the millenia.I began reading a book entitled Che in Africa, by William Galvez - which is a compilation of notes from Che Guevera's Congo diary and those of his friends, as well as commentary by the author. To my surprise Che wrote about the same area and described Lake Tanganyika and the mountain ranges on either side of it. Apparently he infiltrated himself and about 120 Afro Cuban soldiers, mostly teenagers, from Kigoma on the Tanzanian side of the lake across to the Congolese side in the mid sixties. Che's mission was to help organize fighters loyal to the memory of the late Lumumba who were fighting against the Western backed Tshombe regime. He carried out his frustrated efforts in the same area over which I fly, making a messy situation a little messier. In fact it is still so, after several permutations of the conflict. Thirty seven years later I fly the staff of Medicins san Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders), International Rescue Committee, Save the Children and other relief agencies, and supplies, to various locationsin the same area. We are still trying to pick up the pieces from the time when the Western World and the Soviet camp played their games with African lives.
Che seemed to think he could fight America and solve Africa's problems by training Congolese to blow up their own bridges and organising one army to fight another, but failed miserably. In addition the difficult situations that most foreigners deal with when trying to make Africans do things our way, he tried to do things like teach military tactics to soldiers who could only understand strategy in terms of sorcery. He tried to advise officers who went into battle drunk. As his situation deteriorated the African governments came to an agreement that no state would allow itself to be used as a base for insurrections in a neighboring state. The Tanzanian government informed Cuba that it could no longer support the operation. Che pulled out with his men, leaving five buried in Congolese soil and one missing. The field was conceded to the post-Tshombe Mobutu regime which was supported by so many Western powers for so many years, to our eternal disgrace.
Most sad about Che's diary was that there wasn't one word to suggest that he ever sat back and breathed in awe about the amazing beauty of the mountains and the water. Perhaps he was so focused on creating his new world through the destructive process - the extinguishing of life - that he did not notice the wonder of creation all around him which was there long before and endures long after him.
Anyway, back to the volcano. What happened was a cracking open of theground in which Rwanda moved an inch to the east and Goma sunk about two feet, among other adjustments. The cracks themselves are about twenty feet deep and two to eight feet wide - but don't ask me why Rwanda only moved an inch. We know Goma sunk because the water level on the south side of the lake is the same but higher on the north side. Steam, gases and hot air escape from the fissures. One could bake something in one of them. So, imagine that near the foot of the volcanic mountain - not the top - about six miles out of Goma, a three mile long fissure suddenly pops open which goes downhill pointing towards the town. This is what I saw. The fissure went under some poor shnook's house, which collapsed into it. As it continued a few feet beyond his house hot lava began pouring out of it up into his back yard - truly an ooze from hell. The fissure continued on through a banana grove, with the earth pouring out her molten guts in a stream that moved at the speed of a brisk walk. Most people had time to get out of the way This, along with one other stream, made its way down to Goma, crossing the airport, and flooding about a fifth of the area of the town, but about three quarters of the business district which was made up of two storey buildings. It went right down the main street and two streets on either side, filling up the ground floors tothe ceilings and baking the second floors above. On it went through the luxury beachfront mansion district and into the lake. Cars and trucks floated to the top as they burned and so they were not completely buried. The unburied portions of buildings are baked and burned and cracked and collapsing. Roads ten feet or so above the original ones have been smoothed out with bulldozers, and we drive across the lava bed when going to the airport.
The smell in the air is that of a match which has just been lit. Two months after the eruption we still feel the warmth as we drive over. Smoke and various noxious gases curl up through the volcanic gravel and rubble. After rains steam rises from this black stone river, adding a special effect to the view of skeletal buildings. It seems to have cooled down some these last few days, though there are rumors the political situation is heating up.
This leads me to explore a theory I am working on. Work with me please.Consider that we are in a better mood when the weather is pleasant and that many people are quite depressed when cloudiness continues. The environment affects our mood and our behaviour. Is it not possible that on some level people are affected by the instability of the earth in certain places? Where there are incipient volcanoes and earthquakes could there not be an affect on the stability of the psyche? There are many reasons for war and conflict, but I wonder if whatever is going on under the crust in an unstable area is a factor in human behaviour above. Every time I fly along the mountain range on the western side of Lake Tanganyika where Che stirred up a little more trouble than there already was, and left it still stirring for me to fly relief workers into so many years later, I think of how this same formation works its way northeastward across Africa and into Israel/Palestine where it shoulders Hebron, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem. As I hopped across the fissures outside of Goma I could not help but think how they were part of the earth unbuttoning itself through the Great Rift all the way up to the region where I spent my childhood - the Red Sea, the Gulf of Aqaba, Wadi Araba, the Dead Sea, the Jordan River Valley, the Sea of Galilee, and the Bakaa Valley.
There was a soldier who befriended me as I examined the lava source. He wore new boots and a new uniform, and proudly carried a Kalashnikov automatic rifle. He was eleven years old. Trained to kill so many years before learning to make love - would he live to experience the privilege of procreation and creation or would he be sacrificed to the fires of Molech before then?Meanwhile the roots of burned banana trees are sprouting shoots through the lava. Some of the lava has hardened into solid rocks which will be used for construction as was the case with the volcanic rocks from previous eruptions. Some is gravel which adds to the gravel that was already here. Some is brittle and breaks up into sand, blowing into the fields already fertile from previous volcanic matter. The Africans hoe and cultivate fields right up to where the Twin Otter is parked. Every time I go out to inspect it before a flight I am astonished by how much the plants have grown in a day.
May your gardens be fertile.
Take out your maps and look at the "Lake Region" of central Africa on the eastern border of Congo. A line of lakes lies in a long north-south valley bounded on either side by splended mountains. Goma, where we are based, is on Lake Kivu, right at the Rwandan border. Southwest, across the Lake, is Bukavu, where I land on nearly all flights. A common flight continues southward beyond that over Lake Tanganyika to places like Kalemie and Moba on the shore. We like to stay over the lake as that keeps us away from the mountains and ornery Mai Mai militias that occasionally shoot at airplanes. All these lakes and this valley have been formed by the earth cracking apart over the millenia.I began reading a book entitled Che in Africa, by William Galvez - which is a compilation of notes from Che Guevera's Congo diary and those of his friends, as well as commentary by the author. To my surprise Che wrote about the same area and described Lake Tanganyika and the mountain ranges on either side of it. Apparently he infiltrated himself and about 120 Afro Cuban soldiers, mostly teenagers, from Kigoma on the Tanzanian side of the lake across to the Congolese side in the mid sixties. Che's mission was to help organize fighters loyal to the memory of the late Lumumba who were fighting against the Western backed Tshombe regime. He carried out his frustrated efforts in the same area over which I fly, making a messy situation a little messier. In fact it is still so, after several permutations of the conflict. Thirty seven years later I fly the staff of Medicins san Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders), International Rescue Committee, Save the Children and other relief agencies, and supplies, to various locationsin the same area. We are still trying to pick up the pieces from the time when the Western World and the Soviet camp played their games with African lives.
Che seemed to think he could fight America and solve Africa's problems by training Congolese to blow up their own bridges and organising one army to fight another, but failed miserably. In addition the difficult situations that most foreigners deal with when trying to make Africans do things our way, he tried to do things like teach military tactics to soldiers who could only understand strategy in terms of sorcery. He tried to advise officers who went into battle drunk. As his situation deteriorated the African governments came to an agreement that no state would allow itself to be used as a base for insurrections in a neighboring state. The Tanzanian government informed Cuba that it could no longer support the operation. Che pulled out with his men, leaving five buried in Congolese soil and one missing. The field was conceded to the post-Tshombe Mobutu regime which was supported by so many Western powers for so many years, to our eternal disgrace.
Most sad about Che's diary was that there wasn't one word to suggest that he ever sat back and breathed in awe about the amazing beauty of the mountains and the water. Perhaps he was so focused on creating his new world through the destructive process - the extinguishing of life - that he did not notice the wonder of creation all around him which was there long before and endures long after him.
Anyway, back to the volcano. What happened was a cracking open of theground in which Rwanda moved an inch to the east and Goma sunk about two feet, among other adjustments. The cracks themselves are about twenty feet deep and two to eight feet wide - but don't ask me why Rwanda only moved an inch. We know Goma sunk because the water level on the south side of the lake is the same but higher on the north side. Steam, gases and hot air escape from the fissures. One could bake something in one of them. So, imagine that near the foot of the volcanic mountain - not the top - about six miles out of Goma, a three mile long fissure suddenly pops open which goes downhill pointing towards the town. This is what I saw. The fissure went under some poor shnook's house, which collapsed into it. As it continued a few feet beyond his house hot lava began pouring out of it up into his back yard - truly an ooze from hell. The fissure continued on through a banana grove, with the earth pouring out her molten guts in a stream that moved at the speed of a brisk walk. Most people had time to get out of the way This, along with one other stream, made its way down to Goma, crossing the airport, and flooding about a fifth of the area of the town, but about three quarters of the business district which was made up of two storey buildings. It went right down the main street and two streets on either side, filling up the ground floors tothe ceilings and baking the second floors above. On it went through the luxury beachfront mansion district and into the lake. Cars and trucks floated to the top as they burned and so they were not completely buried. The unburied portions of buildings are baked and burned and cracked and collapsing. Roads ten feet or so above the original ones have been smoothed out with bulldozers, and we drive across the lava bed when going to the airport.
The smell in the air is that of a match which has just been lit. Two months after the eruption we still feel the warmth as we drive over. Smoke and various noxious gases curl up through the volcanic gravel and rubble. After rains steam rises from this black stone river, adding a special effect to the view of skeletal buildings. It seems to have cooled down some these last few days, though there are rumors the political situation is heating up.
This leads me to explore a theory I am working on. Work with me please.Consider that we are in a better mood when the weather is pleasant and that many people are quite depressed when cloudiness continues. The environment affects our mood and our behaviour. Is it not possible that on some level people are affected by the instability of the earth in certain places? Where there are incipient volcanoes and earthquakes could there not be an affect on the stability of the psyche? There are many reasons for war and conflict, but I wonder if whatever is going on under the crust in an unstable area is a factor in human behaviour above. Every time I fly along the mountain range on the western side of Lake Tanganyika where Che stirred up a little more trouble than there already was, and left it still stirring for me to fly relief workers into so many years later, I think of how this same formation works its way northeastward across Africa and into Israel/Palestine where it shoulders Hebron, Bethlehem, and Jerusalem. As I hopped across the fissures outside of Goma I could not help but think how they were part of the earth unbuttoning itself through the Great Rift all the way up to the region where I spent my childhood - the Red Sea, the Gulf of Aqaba, Wadi Araba, the Dead Sea, the Jordan River Valley, the Sea of Galilee, and the Bakaa Valley.
There was a soldier who befriended me as I examined the lava source. He wore new boots and a new uniform, and proudly carried a Kalashnikov automatic rifle. He was eleven years old. Trained to kill so many years before learning to make love - would he live to experience the privilege of procreation and creation or would he be sacrificed to the fires of Molech before then?Meanwhile the roots of burned banana trees are sprouting shoots through the lava. Some of the lava has hardened into solid rocks which will be used for construction as was the case with the volcanic rocks from previous eruptions. Some is gravel which adds to the gravel that was already here. Some is brittle and breaks up into sand, blowing into the fields already fertile from previous volcanic matter. The Africans hoe and cultivate fields right up to where the Twin Otter is parked. Every time I go out to inspect it before a flight I am astonished by how much the plants have grown in a day.
May your gardens be fertile.
Guinea - Spring 2001
As I was winding up three weeks of fighting the screwworm fly in Jamaicaduring December I received a call from AirServ, for whom I had flown inMozambique. There was an emergency need for a second King Air 200 to workfor the U N High Commission for Refugees in Guinea - Conakry due to anupsurge of fighting in the region. The contract included ferryingthe aircraft over to Guinea. The experience of a transatlantic crossing isan opportunity most pilots would wish for and so I was quite privileged.Unfortunately as there was an urgent need to get the aircraft to Guinea, wedid not experience anything at most stops other than the refueling andpaperwork.What a delight to be back in Africa, and possibly doing something useful, orat least harmless. Amid the horrors that cause the UNHCR to be working inAfrica there is never ending manifestation of great beauty which can capturethe soul. An earlier pilot came who had never been out of Canada before.The sounds and sights and colors of the crazy auto traffic mixed withpedestrians, along with the noise and chaos of the markets was toooverwhelming for him and he asked to be taken right back to the airport toreturn to Canada, certain that he had made a great mistake. The pilotpicking him up persuaded him to at least spend the day awaiting the returnflight at the house, and then persuaded him to stay on one day at a time.After a few weeks of this he was dispatched on a flight to KanKan toevacuate UN workers. An attack by rebel bandits was anticipated. As soonas the flight touched down and parked the aforementioned gunmen came out ofthe forest and surrounded the airplane. Our friend was sure this was theend of his life and that he had made a big mistake in being persuaded tostay in Guinea. The evacuees had already been captured and stripped of alltheir belongings and clothes down to their underwear. But at the end of theday the airplane was allowed to leave with the passengers - albeit withouttheir clothes. After finishing his contract of several months this Canadianpilot returned to Toronto but soon found that he wanted nothing so much asto go back to Africa and regularly inquires about getting his old positionback. This phenomenon is known in French as "la malade d'Afrique." I haveheard from old folk who spent their childhoods in Africa and have also readelsewhere that the scenes and especially the colors stay with one'simagination for life. What I see will indeed make for pleasant daydreams inmy waning days as I drift into affable senility.I am never far from scenes of past and present evil and misfortune. Bonesfrom a mass grave at the touchdown end of a runway in Monrovia, Liberia,work their way to the surface to greet us as we touch down.But despite everything there is great beauty everywhere. The clothes peoplewear are gorgeous on their even more splendid bodies. There are many typesof fabric dyed with all sort of patterns and then sewn into a wide varietyof African styles - mostly various forms of robes and turbans. Some verydignified outfits are made with patterns that might make them looklike clown outfits in the West. I had a (male!) UN worker from Mali onboard wearing a tunic and trousers suit made entirely of two-inch widestripes in various shades of purple, pink, and orange. I have seen elderlysheikhs wearing robes of hot pink. Alongside the roada vendor woman shakes her colorfully clad butt up and down and back andforth to the sound of excellent music while she rearranges her bananas. Youjust don't see that in a supermarket in the West. And in the States whenI go onto airport property I open gates with magnetized computerizedsecurity cards and move from asphalt to concrete. Here it is areal person who opens the gate, one of many guards, janitors, and otherworkers who have all their wives and children and cousins living on airportground, eating, bathing, praying in an outdoor mosque, and growingvegetables in lovely gardens alongside the runway. In the evening they aresilhouetted against the setting sun returning to their huts in a line withbaskets on their heads. They are graceful, relaxed, and slow as they walkafter a day working the gardens.The great grin can also make Africa fun. After a long day of flying andthen waiting for fuel, only to see the fuel truck serve four other airplanesthat must have been in line ahead of us, we were tired, impatient, andgrumpy. At last after an hour the fuel truck came towards us driven by a"great grin" that cannot be adequately described. It was the hugest biggestgrinningest white-toothed face I have ever seen. This man looked like hehaving the happiest day of his life, and that nothing could be morewonderful and pleasant than to come over at last and fuel us. This issomething tired souls in our cities should try, to give life to theirwithering bones and to lighten the burdens of those around them. Laughing,we forgot our frustration and remarked on what a fortune he should earn as amodel for toothpaste commercials, though on further thought it should be incommercials for a reedy looking plant which people in Guinea chew on toclean their teeth. ( I will find out what plant it is exactly andinform inquiring minds).Without the right attitude it is easy for Westerners to become cut off andbe surrounded by high walls, physically and psychologically, and separatethemselves from Africa with generators, air conditioners, big high vehicles,videos, Corn Flakes, and Coca Colonial barriers.Guinea is Islamic and French is the common language, so I always returnFrench greetings with Arabic responses which gets me ahead somewhat. Atnight there are numerous checkpoints so that the soldiers can loot SierraLeonean refugees and collect cigarettes and bribes from other motorists. Iwind down the window and Salaam Aleikum them with great confidence whichusually gets me right through. When it doesn't I keep giving them variousArabic blessings. I start with the simple ones and then move on to wishingGod reward them with brides of honor and that their pilgrimages be acceptedand blessed. I carry on in this fashion until they let me pass. I don'tknow if they think I'm too holy or just too strange to mess with. Out inKissidougou I bid farewell to a crew of shoeshine boys in Arabic and theyreplied properly, so I kept it up and one of them kept blessing me back. Ifinally asked if he could speak it and sure enough he could hold a basicconversation, having learned it in Koranschool. He was a Mandingo. Imagine that, an Arabic-speaking Mandingoshoeshine boy in Kissidougou, Guinea!On one trip an important gentleman from "the Embassy of a major Westernpower" in Abidjan, Cote dIvoire, after getting on the airplane in Conakry,and getting off in Abidjan, (with two enroute stops), discovered that hisbriefcase was not on the airplane. He had last seen it checking it in withhis luggage in Conakry. He said his "whole life" including his computer wasin that briefcase. He had lost his suitcase in Ghana the week before, andnow he himself was quite lost. I spared him a discourse on attachments andthe spiritual benefits to be gained from losing them. Nor did I take thepsychotherapist's approach and suggest that perhaps he was not satisfiedwith his life and that his subconscious had caused him to put it all in abriefcase and lose it. I also did not ask him why, when travelling inAfrica, he turned his "whole life" over to an airport porter. There iscertainly a sermon to be preached on the whole concept of putting one's lifeon a computer and into a briefcase.On one of my later flights to Kissidougou my co-pilot and I spent the day intown and returned in the afternoon only to find the airstrip taken over bysoldiers decked out for combat. Just as we began inspecting our ownairplane two Russian Hind M-24 attack helicopters zoomed in and landed. Thepilots and crewmen were white and turned out to be Ukrainian and Russianmercenaries - three for each helo. We greeted them. One looked like ArnoldSchwarznegger. One was barfing. Another wore a cross. They were notunfriendly, but they also hadn't come out expecting to find a UN airplaneand two pilots and they unfortunately had some "work" to do. Aftera few minutes the Guinean officers asked us to leave the field and wait bythe terminal, and then scolded us for being out there in the first place.Our passengers arrived which also caused a little confusion andconsternation, but after the soldiers made sure all the car and hand heldradios were off and that no one was writing anything down we all waitedtogether a small distance away while rockets and ammunition were loaded.The last scolding officer said that we all had to wait and depart only afterhad they left to do "their work" at Gequedou - a Guinean town which we knewhad been taken over and was being looted by an unemployed renegade mercenarymilitia from Liberia. So we spent an hour watching the loading andreflecting on the fact that there were some people down the road who werealive now under the late afternoon sun who weren't going to see it set.The people who stayed behind after we left heard the rockets hit Gekuedouand the next day BBC announced a report from Liberia of a helicopter attackon one of their border towns in that area.The next morning we landed at Kissidougou again after getting all sorts ofpermission and assurances. One of the Russian pilots came over to greet us.I had never before shaken hands with a fellow who had just killed a bunch ofpeople for pay the previous evening and wasn't sure what to say, but Ioffered him some Altoids breath mints. In this land where military strategyis discussed in terms of magic and sorcery and special shirts that make asoldier invisible and charms that turn bullets to water, Africa squandersits gold, diamonds, and bauxite on the most advanced pieces of fightingequipment and the foreign mercenaries to fly them. And they in perverseturn keep me employed by creating the refugees who require the reliefworkers from around the world who require my services as a pilot. Imeanwhile have tried my best to "do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly withGod."May you be rewarded with a bride (or groom!) of honor, and may yourpilgrimage be accepted and blessed.Will grin for you from Africa.
volcanos and bones - Africa spring 2002 #2
Hello again, you wonderful people. What follows are some random observations and musings on my recent weeks in Uganda, Rwanda, and eastern Congo. As of my last writing I was dangling between the Afghan war and the Goma volcano. Airserv finally decided to wait no longer for the FAA to lift its ban against American pilots flying relief into Afghanistan. I was replaced by a Canadian pilot and told to prepare to fly relief missions in eastern Congo, with the complicating factor being that Goma, our base town there, was in the process of being wiped out by a lava flow. (Eventually, the FAA lifted its ban, but too late for me to get sent to Pakistan).Soon before I left Entebbe, Uganda, I took a stroll and observed a signpointing to a European cemetery. Curious about what might be seen there Icrossed the road while momentarily forgetting that in Uganda the cars driveon the opposite side of the street. I checked for traffic looking in thewrong direction. A speeding car almost tossed me into an early, albeitconvenient grave. Having survived that close encounter I checked out thisfinal resting place for wazungu (plural of mzungu - white person) who hadthrown their lots and lives into African soil. Most of the graves wereweatherbeaten and dishevelled with quite a few of the headstones fallen.The exceptions were those of four English servicemen from World War I, whichwere the oldest. About eighty five years ago the Presidents, PrimeMinisters, Kings and other wretched specimens of our civilization decided itwould be a great idea to send the young men of their countries out to shooteach other and snuff each other out. This sacrifice to Molech went onfor several years before they just about ran out of sons to waste. Notcontent to carry on like this in Europe alone, the powers of the day took abreak from stealing Africa from its inhabitants and had their soldiers shootat each other here too. And so four English teenagers lie in the earth ofEntebbe. Their graves are well maintained. Apparently there is a BritishWar Graves Commission with a budget for this. Sporting chaps. The othermore recent graves which were not maintained appeared to be those of variouscolonial settlers and administrators. One had a luscious plumeria treegrowing from it which was in full and fragrant bloom. I picked a few of theflowers and put them in my hat and went on my way enjoying the splendidscent of life. Little did I realize that this contemplation of mortality wasbut a small hint of what I would soon encounter.I departed Entebbe, flying across the Equator a mile or so to the south ofthe airport, for Kigali, Rwanda, where the Goma team had regrouped whileawaiting the outcome of the volcano. Contrary to what I reported in thelast dispatch, the Airserv office and residential compound was not wiped outby the lava nor was anything looted. For a three week period we conductedour flights in Congo out of Kigali, which is a twenty minute flight over arange and a few volcanic mountains from Goma. On my second day in Kigalisome fellow pilots said they had rented a taxi for a country outing to see ashrine to victims of the genocide. Folks who follow the news may recall anasty piece of business in Rwanda in '94 when a Hutu militia dealt with agrowing Tutsi led insurgency by massacring several hundred thousand Tutsiand moderate Hutu citizens. (There is a book about it called "We Wish toInform You That Tomorrow We Will be Killed Together with our Families." Idon't have the author's name). We went on a two hour drive on a dirt roadthrough some pretty and hilly scenery to a Catholic church at a place calledNtarama where a major incident had taken place. I was expecting the normalmemorial to victims of an atrocity but that was not to be. Except for asign outside the Church identifying the site, there were no plaques orwritings of explaination. It appeared that one project had started and thenhalted. Outside the church in an outbuilding on a large waist-high platformwere human skulls neatly placed in orderly lines. I was too taken aback tocount but I would guess that the arrangement was about fifteen skulls deepand fifty wide. I was more observant of the skulls with women's headscarvesstill on them, the little skulls, and the machete cuts in many of theskulls. Another platform had hundreds of limb bones neatly cleaned andarranged.Entering the church was another story. There were two sacks of hip bones, ahuge pile of old clothing, and strewn about was miscellaneous debris -notebooks, papers, cooking pots, and odd little things that terrified peoplegrab before running to a church for sanctuary. I started heading to thefront and felt crunching under my feet. To my astonishment I was walkingon bones. Apparently whoever was organizing this "shrine" had picked up theskulls and limb bones for the display and left the rest on the floor alongwith the clothing and other detritus. We walked on the benches as thesebones were everywhere. Surrounding the altar was the ghastly sight of twodozen or so nearly complete skeletons with their clothes on, lying twistedand piled on each other right where they fell about eight years ago. Therewas no commentary except what remains of us when we are massacred in achurch and left unburied. And there was a little dog skull staring out ofit all.I was indeed a long way from Austin, Texas, where I was recruited to fly aKing Air 200 from Ivory Coast to Pakistan for eventual relief work inAfghanistan, then was redirected during the Entebbe stopover to fly a TwinOtter in Congo, and then before that could happen had a volcano divert me toRwanda where I found myself communing with skeletons in a church. Life canbe so full of surprises.Perhaps the wonder and joy of life is all the more intense when we findourselves having a glimpse at death.Anyway, the Tutsi-led insurgency was victorious, in spite of the loss of somany of their people. The militia that led the nastiness faded into theCongolese forests, from where they commit occasional mischief. In theRwanda of today, it is considered impolite to even discuss the existence ofthe two main ethnic groups. Both speak the same language and so thepretense of them all being Rwandan now is easier to maintain than if theyhad different languages. Even the taxi driver who explained details of thegenocide would not discuss what made some people Hutu and others Tutsi orwhat they looked like. An ID card on the floor of the church had the namesof those two ethnic groups and two other smaller ones printed on the cardwith one circled. Today's Rwandan ID cards will not have ethnic identitynoted.At the airport the security guards were the most professional and efficientI have seen in Africa. They carried no weapons but I had a sense that ifthey were needed they could summon them quickly with their hand held radios.They did not make up reasons to pester us unreasonably nor did they whinefor cigarettes or tips. And they made Wazungu pilots in uniform walkthrough the electronic security systems along with everyone else!! Theyalso didn't smile unnecessarily and I had to work harder to elicit one thanelsewhere in Africa. How unfortunate that efficient people don't smile aseasily.The main impediment to our returning to Goma, besides concern about furthervolcanic eruptions, was the fact that the main lava flow had gone across therunway, the taxiways, and the apron. It also paralleled the runway as itwent down through the main business district. With many desperate homelesspeople there was also a concern about security for the aircraft if parkedovernight. However we began landing there as there was still plenty ofrunway even with the lava. My first landing was right after arainstorm. As the lava was still quite warm this generated some awesomeplumes of steam through which I had to maneuver the airplane while in thetraffic pattern. A new parking area had been cleared by hand and we wereable to park off the runway for passenger pick ups and drop offs. For abouttwo weeks we would return to Kigali after the day's work for overnightparking but eventually we determined that the security level would allow usto park overnight in Goma. It should be noted that the project for Airservin eastern Congo has been the transport of war relief personnel andmateriel. We have had little to do with the volcano relief efforts for Gomaitself as this involved trucks and larger Antonov aircraft.I should get this off to you good people and continue writing a few moreobservations about the process of destruction and healing in Africa, andbanana tree shoots poking their way through cracks in the lava. I'll havemore about the volcano and life in a town wiped out by one, details onflying the Otter, the Swahili language, and how I keep the dollar strong inCongo. No more about cemeteries and skulls. At this moment I'm in Entebbeon a maintenance flight and am able to use my computer to send this out. Ifthe work on the airplane delays further I might get another letter out in aday.May I recommend that people read Adam Hirschberg's "King Leopold's Ghost"and Michele Wrong's "In the Footsteps of Mr. Kurz." They will be helpful inshedding light on the context in which I fly around eastern Congo. And ofcourse there's Conrad's "Heart of Darkness" which is a must.Love from the land of volcanos and bananas.
Between a war and a volcano - Africa Spring 2002 #1
Dearly beloved splendid people, greetings from Entebbe, Uganda. I arrived in Abidjan, Ivory Coast with Mark Vanonen at the beginning of the month. Our assigned aircraft, a King Air 200, was awaiting us there. We had flown this aircraft together from Georgetown, Texas to Conakry, Guinea, a year ago and then flown it around West Africa together for the United Nations High Commission for Refugees for a while. So he and I and the airplane are proverbial peas in the pod. Our assignment was to ferry it to Entebbe, Uganda for some maintenance work at the AirServ facility and then continue with it to Djibouti, Muscat, Karachi, and Islamabad, Pakistan, where it is to be based for relief flights into and around Afghanistan for the World Food Program. What an exciting privilege.We had an uneventful flight to Entebbe, with an overnight in Yaounde, Cameroon.
The first thing I noticed in Entebbe right next to our hangar was a shot up old control tower and terminal building. It came to grief on July 4, 1976 during a battle in which the Israelis recovered a hijacked airliner from the PFLP and Idi Amin's soldiers. I can't get away from that particular quarrel. After settling in I was informed that the US Federal Aviation Administration had decided that no Americans should be flying airplanes in Afghanistan unless they were part of the process of blowing things up. Other nationalities are allowed to fly relief aircraft there and so my co-pilot, who is Canadian, will be allowed to continue on to Islamabad. Another Canadian, working here, has been selected to replace me. What a crushing disappointment. It would be nice if a few Afghans found out that there are some Americans who can deliver something other than death. AirServ is trying to get a waiver and I'm hoping that it will come through in the next few days before the ferry flight continues, but the chances appear to be slim.As an alternative, I was told that AirServ could use me for the next two months on a project based in Goma, in a rebel-controlled part of Congo flying the staff of relief and development organizations around that area, which was actually quite calm and starting to thrive, as there had been no major combat for a while. The aircraft I'd be flying would be a Twin Otter, designed by Canadians for work in the bush. With high wings and huge wheels that do not retract (to avoid having to use delicate retraction systems) it's a great bird for landing on rough strips. (Paved runways have started to bore me anyway). This particular one is also very special as it had its right main gear blown off by a landmine in Sudan several years ago. After repairs it was put on a project in Liberia where it was severely shot up during their civil war and flown out with all sorts of interesting jerry-rigged repair work. The fuel system had been destroyed so barrels filled with fuel were loaded aboard and connected with hoses to just the right places in the engines and a mechanic pumped fuel for the duration of the flight out. Equally interesting things were done with the electric system. After a complete repair in South Africa the plane was sent to Burundi for another project where it was shot up by some disgruntled Hutus. On the current project in Congo it has been hit by three bullets, but just on one occasion. It weighs a little more than it normally would due to all the patches on it. So I was quite intrigued by the chance to fly this airplane, and also to be in Goma where I could learn Swahili and French, two projects I had in mind for my second half century. I accepted this and walked out of the office to find out that within minutes of my consent, a nearby volcano had blown, spewing rivers of lava all over town, through the streets and across the runway. The heat set off explosions wherever fuel was stored. The lava streams were quite high and would present an obstacle even to the Otter. Fortunately this airplane was here in Entebbe at the time. The other aircraft and pilots were out on missions and spent the night elsewhere and have not returned since. Their material possessions, including logbooks, laptops, and so on are either cooked and buried by lava or collected by scavengers. The office is scattered and confusion reigns though the team is regrouping.So as I write, I have no idea what I will be doing next, having been diverted from a war to a volcano. I am doing my best to be patient awaiting the call to do something useful. Meanwhile I'm living a very calm and unexciting life in Entebbe. It's a quiet and pretty little town with beautifully colored birds, fragrant plumerias, perfect weather, lovely polite people, and motorcycle taxis that drive carefully. As soon as I get word I'll send another note out. I do look forward to hearing from everyone to whom I have sent this note. Good news from a far country is as cold water to a thirsty soul.
The first thing I noticed in Entebbe right next to our hangar was a shot up old control tower and terminal building. It came to grief on July 4, 1976 during a battle in which the Israelis recovered a hijacked airliner from the PFLP and Idi Amin's soldiers. I can't get away from that particular quarrel. After settling in I was informed that the US Federal Aviation Administration had decided that no Americans should be flying airplanes in Afghanistan unless they were part of the process of blowing things up. Other nationalities are allowed to fly relief aircraft there and so my co-pilot, who is Canadian, will be allowed to continue on to Islamabad. Another Canadian, working here, has been selected to replace me. What a crushing disappointment. It would be nice if a few Afghans found out that there are some Americans who can deliver something other than death. AirServ is trying to get a waiver and I'm hoping that it will come through in the next few days before the ferry flight continues, but the chances appear to be slim.As an alternative, I was told that AirServ could use me for the next two months on a project based in Goma, in a rebel-controlled part of Congo flying the staff of relief and development organizations around that area, which was actually quite calm and starting to thrive, as there had been no major combat for a while. The aircraft I'd be flying would be a Twin Otter, designed by Canadians for work in the bush. With high wings and huge wheels that do not retract (to avoid having to use delicate retraction systems) it's a great bird for landing on rough strips. (Paved runways have started to bore me anyway). This particular one is also very special as it had its right main gear blown off by a landmine in Sudan several years ago. After repairs it was put on a project in Liberia where it was severely shot up during their civil war and flown out with all sorts of interesting jerry-rigged repair work. The fuel system had been destroyed so barrels filled with fuel were loaded aboard and connected with hoses to just the right places in the engines and a mechanic pumped fuel for the duration of the flight out. Equally interesting things were done with the electric system. After a complete repair in South Africa the plane was sent to Burundi for another project where it was shot up by some disgruntled Hutus. On the current project in Congo it has been hit by three bullets, but just on one occasion. It weighs a little more than it normally would due to all the patches on it. So I was quite intrigued by the chance to fly this airplane, and also to be in Goma where I could learn Swahili and French, two projects I had in mind for my second half century. I accepted this and walked out of the office to find out that within minutes of my consent, a nearby volcano had blown, spewing rivers of lava all over town, through the streets and across the runway. The heat set off explosions wherever fuel was stored. The lava streams were quite high and would present an obstacle even to the Otter. Fortunately this airplane was here in Entebbe at the time. The other aircraft and pilots were out on missions and spent the night elsewhere and have not returned since. Their material possessions, including logbooks, laptops, and so on are either cooked and buried by lava or collected by scavengers. The office is scattered and confusion reigns though the team is regrouping.So as I write, I have no idea what I will be doing next, having been diverted from a war to a volcano. I am doing my best to be patient awaiting the call to do something useful. Meanwhile I'm living a very calm and unexciting life in Entebbe. It's a quiet and pretty little town with beautifully colored birds, fragrant plumerias, perfect weather, lovely polite people, and motorcycle taxis that drive carefully. As soon as I get word I'll send another note out. I do look forward to hearing from everyone to whom I have sent this note. Good news from a far country is as cold water to a thirsty soul.
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