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Jambo! Greetings from Africa

A series of field reports from Mike Ventre ('91 ASAA), a former Embry-Riddle flight instructor who is flying for Air Serv in Africa.

Sunday, August 6, 1995

Jambo. That's Swahili for hello. I'm in the Kenya Airport waiting for my flight to the United Nations camp in Lokichokio. The past few days in Nairobi were relaxing. I spent Saturday at the house of the Kenya program manager for Air Serv. He and his wife are very generous. They gave me an extra set of malaria pills, a mosquito net, and a footlocker.

Monday, August 14, 1995

I've been in camp Loki, supporting UNICEF's Operation Lifeline Sudan, for two weeks now, and I'm doing quite well. They feed me three square meals a day, wash and iron my clothes, make my bed, and most important, I get to fly almost nine hours a day.

Children Loki is just what I expected it would be--very much like the TV show MASH. We've got a lot of tents, a mess hall, latrines, and an airstrip for the planes to come and go. That's about the extent of it. One nice feature is that they've got gas generators and all the tents are wired for 220 volts. I can plug in my CD player and my laptop and feel like I haven't left home.

On a typical day I get up at 5 a.m., swat some mosquitoes in my tent, and stumble to the outdoor showers. After getting dressed, I head over to the mess hall and eat fresh pineapple, mango, and oranges for breakfast. Around 6 a.m. I catch a ride to the airstrip and pre-flight the airplane.

At 6:30 a.m. I launch for my first destination. The Cessna Caravan is quite a workhorse, and I'm usually carrying 1.5 metric tons of food, equipment, and relief workers. Most of the outlying air strips are a two-hour flight from the main camp. When I get there, I make a low pass over the runway to clear the goats and cattle and inspect the surface for standing water and sinkholes. Satisfied that the field is landable, I set down and am greeted by the natives and the occasional UN worker.

The first thing I notice when I crack open the door is the smell. People here don't bathe the way we Westerners are accustomed to, and they develop quite a strong body odor. We unload the goods and I usually pick up some UN workers who want to go back to camp.

We get back around 1 p.m., and I take on another load and go to a different strip. Normally we come back from the second rotation at about 5 p.m.

After that I head to the showers again to wash the grime off my body. The mess opens at 7:30 p.m. for dinner. The food is surprisingly good. There's usually a vegetable dish and a meat dish, with a host of side items and desserts to choose from.

After dinner the pilots usually get together at the outdoor bar and trade lies while downing a few local brews. This doesn't go on for very long, though, as we all have to be up again at 5 a.m. I get back to my tent by 10, let the mosquito net down, set my alarm, and go to bed.

Things are quite routine, but occasionally things happen that make a bigger impression.

For instance, last Wednesday we pulled a little boy from one of the villages who needed medivac to the Red Cross hospital in Loki. This poor kid had been attacked by a hyena that snuck into his hut while he was sleeping. He had gone six days without medical attention and was in danger of losing his left eye because the wounds on his face had gotten infected. The kid had never been in an airplane before, and he got airsick. Poor kid. He was still in tremendous pain from the hyena attack and then was thrown into this strange flying machine that screwed his system up even more. A few days later, I talked to one of the Red Cross nurses about him. Thanks to us, he kept his eye and is doing well.

Life here is challenging but very rewarding. Thankfully, Air Serv recognizes this and provides us with a generous leave package. In addition to my four-week vacation, I get one week off per month!

Thursday, August 17, 1995

As I stand in front of the mirror, a beetle flies in front of me and falls into the stream of water pouring from the faucet. It gets caught in the sink and is carried by the flow of water down the drain into oblivion. I pause and think about what just happened. I have witnessed the randomness of life and death on this planet. I wonder about the struggle of the southern Sudanese people. Are they victims of this random occurrence? When will my number be up?

Saturday, August 20, 1995

Not all people doing peace work are peaceful or good-natured. I guess I've been hanging around the pilots too long, but it seems most of them are here for the money. Some are here for the adventure. I'm the only one who is naive enough to admit I'm here for humanitarian reasons. I keep running into folks who tell me how much money UNICEF is wasting on the Sudanese and that the whole operation should just be shut down.

The fact that there are self-serving people within a humanitarian organization is a real eye-opener for me. It is discouraging, but I should have expected it. I guess I'll just have to live with it. Hakuna Matata.

What brought UNICEF to southern Sudan?

About six years ago, civil war erupted between north and south Sudan. The Muslim government of the north was passing legislation that the southern Christians found unpalatable. Feeling this pressure, the Christians took up arms against their oppressor.

What once started as a unified movement of Christians against Muslims, however, has turned into tribal warfare. The southerners split into two factions that now fight each other, as well as the north, and within the factions are individual rogue commanders who pillage and plunder at will.

Friends in a Village It's not a very sophisticated war. The north has an air force of about four airplanes, most of which are transports modified as bombers. They load a bunch of bombs into the back of a cargo plane, and when they get to their target area they open the hatch and roll the bombs out.

The south doesn't have an air force. Their most sophisticated weapons are some anti-aircraft guns they captured from the north. The ground troops are supplied with Russian AK-47 attack rifles. It's weird to hop out of the plane and see a 14-year-old kid toting one of those guns around like a toy.

But flying here is relatively safe. In six years, they've only managed to shoot down one airplane. Besides, we don't fly into areas where there's active fighting. The biggest threat to aviation in these parts is the lousy condition of the airstrips.

Tuesday, August 22, 1995

Today we picked up a Danish girl, about my age, who was working for Medicins Sans Frontiers. Boy, was she thrilled to be taking an airplane ride. She spent the whole time looking out the window and checking out what I was doing. Later that evening, after dinner, we talked. I'd never been asked so many questions about flying. It was then that I realized just how lucky I am. Some people come to Africa for an adventure, some come for humanitarian reasons, and others, like me, are here for both reasons. But there's no other occupation here that allows you such freedom, mobility, and variety as flying. She spent a week at a camp working with doctors from MSF, and loved it. But how she would have loved to travel from site to site like we pilots do.

Then I think about what I'd be doing if I'd actually gotten that job with United. I'd be sitting sideways on a 727, not even flying. We'd be flying Wichita to Des Moines and back all day long, meeting the same old American people. There's really no significant difference between the people of Wichita and Des Moines. Then there's flying from Agangriel, in the Bahr El Gazaal region of Sudan, to Maridi, in the Western Equatorial region of Sudan. Two completely different tribes, and you never know who you'll run into. We constantly fly to a strip expecting to pick up only one passenger and end up loading on two or three sick and wounded.

Monday, August 28, 1995

I imagine that flying out here in the bush is like in the early days of aviation, when barnstormers ruled the skies, flying from town to town and showing off their amazing flying contraption to the throngs of people that turned out to investigate.

I get much the same reaction when I land the Caravan in the back yard of the Masai or Bantu tribes. Hundreds of people emerge from the depths of the bush and converge on my airplane to gawk at me and the flying thing.

It's a marvelous sight to see all these folks up close and personal--much different than what National Geographic prepared me for. They're extremely friendly, and eager to barter their wares in exchange for salt and soap. You can get a nice bracelet made from the brass of bullet casings for a half kilo of salt. The other day the local priest blessed my airplane.

Another way in which flying here is like barnstorming is that there really aren't any rules. This is the first time I've been able to fly 50 feet off the deck without worrying about some uptight bureaucrat on the ground getting my N number and calling the feds, or about running into a 1,600-foot antenna blasting country and western over the land.

I never realized what graceful animals giraffes are until, perched across my flying window on the world, I witnessed them gliding across the ground in virtual slow motion. This singular event made coming here worthwhile.

You may think living in a tent is a bother, but the camp life is actually quite fun, the food is excellent, and the only thing I spend money on is beer. What it boils down to is I save a lot of money.

On top of it all, Air Serv has a guest house in Nairobi where you can stay for free. Next R&R I'm planning a hike up Mt. Kenya, after that a visit to Mombassa, on the coast of Kenya, and the following month a safari in the Masai Mara to watch the wildebeest migration.

Tuesday, September 26, 1995

As I write this I'm sitting crouched low in my tukul with my back to the concrete wall. Moments ago, I was outside talking to some Air Serv folks when we all heard a pop sound that I naively mistook for a firecracker. Some of the not-so-naive folks informed me that it was not a firecracker but surely sounded like a round fired from an AK-47 attack rifle. Seconds later, a burst of fire spewed our way, and the bullets kicked up the gravel right beside our feet.

We dove to the ground, and I ate a mouthful of gravel, then more gunfire aimed in our direction. It really doesn't sound anything like in the movies. Fortunately, we were behind a tree by then, lying face down in the dirt and wondering what the hell was going on.

I have this amazing adrenaline rush right now. I came here for humanitarian reasons, and now I find myself in the middle of a firefight. And to think that last night I was all bent out of shape because someone in camp almost stepped on a scorpion.

If my mom ever hears about this she's going to kill me.

It's about a half hour later. Things have subsided, but I'm not moving off this floor. The camp is dead quiet. The power went out, then back on again, and my clock is flashing 12:00, creating a surreal glow in the tukul.

I'm now convinced that if your number is up, it's up! Only the grace of God saved me tonight.

Thursday, September 28, 1995

Things have quieted down since two nights ago, and the Kenyan Army is now guarding the perimeter of our camp. I'm not sure that makes me feel any more secure.

Officially, the UN security folks have classified the matter as a cattle raid between the Troposa and Turkana tribes. Most of us don't believe it, though. There were just too many bullets aimed at the center of the camp for a cattle raid. Unless you consider UN employees cattle.

The next day I went on a security assessment flight with one of the camp security officers. There's been a lot of factional fighting in the Eastern Equatorial region of Sudan, and we wanted to get the scoop from one of the rebel commanders.

We landed and were greeted by about 30 men in fatigues, armed with the same rifles used in the attack against our camp. They escorted us to the local commander's compound, where we spent about two hours talking with him about recent events in his area.

I learned there are more splinter groups fighting each other than you can shake a stick at. He had been attacked on two fronts by rogue commanders but had managed to repel both forces. After 30 minutes, I couldn't keep track of who was where and fighting whom.

Sunday, October 1, 1995

The jerks shot into our camp again last night. This is in no way a cattle raid, and it's really ticking me off. The rumor in camp is that they're targeting one individual in particular, a rude Kenyan who has angered most of the Turkana tribe. The security people won't admit that, despite the fact that this guy's tukul has about four times more bullet holes in it than those around it.

It's been unusually quiet in camp as a result. The bar was totally empty last night. It gives this place an eerie quality. These snipers aren't very good, and if they go wide a few degrees my tukul's going to have extra air conditioning holes. It's hot here, but I can do without more ventilation.

At least I'm still enjoying the flying. I'm safer in the air.

It's now 10:30 p.m., and I just got back from our security briefing. They finally admitted that someone in camp may be the target of all the gunfire.

Walking between the mess hall and my tukul is making me paranoid. I keep waiting for that popping noise to start again. I can begin to appreciate, albeit on a much smaller scale, what the people of Sarajevo are going through.

(NOTE: Soon after, the man who was being shot at left the camp, and things returned to normal. Two months later, Mike was transferred to Mozambique.)

Late December 1995, Maputo, Mozambique

Dear Mom and Dad:

I'm finally getting adjusted to living in Mozambique. I spent the first two weeks sitting on my butt. Not flying really put my morale in the dumper, but as soon as I got back in the air things got a whole lot better.

This last week has been absolutely fantastic. I've been flying like crazy and having a blast. Yesterday I had a trip to Milange, a beautiful little town nestled in the hills of northwestern Mozambique. The scenery was absolutely stunning. We flew past one hill with a 200-foot waterfall cascading down its face. It was like a scene out of Fantasy Island. It just doesn't get any better than that. OK, maybe it could, but I won't go into detail.

The day before, I flew to another gorgeous spot, although this one was more on the uncivilized side. I took some VIPs there and ended up spending the day with them, touring the health facilities. This is the kind of stuff I came here for. In that sense, flying in Mozambique is more fun than flying in Sudan. Sudan was just plain flying, flying, flying. Get up before sunrise and land at sunset, with time in between only to relieve yourself. In Mozambique we do more all-day trips and actually go into the field with a team.

I do miss Loki, though. Living in a big city like Maputo isn't as much fun as living in camp. You don't get the chance to meet as many people, and my inability to speak Portuguese doesn't help matters. I prefer the laid-back lifestyle of living in the bush.

I've been reading flying magazines from back home, and every time I pick one up my stomach turns. I read about the rat race and how you've got to get this or that kind of experience before you qualify for an entry-level job. If I go home I know I'll probably get a job flying one of those "puddle-jumpers." Then when I figure in the cost of living and the psychological cost of sitting next to some guy who's 180 degrees out of phase with my mentality it just doesn't add up. I've met some interesting people in this business, and that makes the job even more fun.

Bottom line is I'm having a blast here, and I'm not ready to join the real world yet. This is more real than anything I've done. I have to admit, though, there are some things I miss about North America. You think you could send me a large pan pizza in your next care package?

Editor's Note: Since sending his last report, Mike Ventre signed up for a second year with Air Serv Africa.