Twin Otter and Camels in Chad

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