end of the line

Today was my last day at the hangar.  What depressing finality.  Of course all of the farewells contained some version of, “Well of course you’ll come back some day soon right?”, to which I could only say, “Yeah, I hope to anyway.”  Who knows if and when I’ll get a chance to return to Kenya, though I really would like to some day.

David, Tim, and I

  It’s been a blast getting to know the people here, and I know I’ve only barely touched the surface.  That’s not even mentioning the beautiful land that Kenyans have the privilege to inhabit. 

I got a chance to see another bit of this beautiful area on Sunday.  Since we just finished the motorcycle project – which included a complete engine overhaul – the bike needs to be broken in.  Using this as an excuse, we decided to cruise out to the Ngong Hills late Sunday afternoon.  They lie to the west of Nairobi, about a 45 minute ride away.  I got to take the nice dirt bike I’ve been riding lately, and my uncle, of course, rode his.  I will admit though, that riding a big dirt bike like mine with such a high CG was more than disconcerting on some of the curves we were zipping around.  I found myself constantly afraid that I would fly/slide off the road in one of those turns, which most likely also would have involved flying/sliding off of a cliff.  Needless to say, I will be quite happy to ride my low street bike when I get home.  Anyway I managed to stay on the road, though not without some close calls, and we rode into the heart of the Ngong Hills.  This is a fairly lush area of Africa, and the rolling green hills looked quite magnificent as the sun was setting.  Before it got too dark, we did a little off-roading up one of the hills to get a better view.  Once I got used to the sensation of the back tire sliding all around, it was almost more fun than I could handle.  Unfortunately we eventually found ourselves on someone’s land, and realized we could go no further.  We talked to this family for a little while, I snapped some shots, and then we headed back down the hill and back to a road.  By this time it was fairly cold and dark, so the ride all the way home was pretty exciting, with plenty of traffic to zip around and through in the dark.  I don’t know if I ended up so tense at the end of the ride because of the cold or because of the constant stress and the concentration that the ride required. 

Monday and Tuesday involved more work on 90U at the hanger, and it’s really coming along.  I relished my last bit of time in the hangar: the work I was getting to do for possibly the last time ever, the funny conversations with different guys on the floor, the Chai times, the aircraft landing out front, lunches up the street, and everything else. 

Today, my last day, was also the first time I really got to talk to Godfrey, one of the guys at the hangar, about anything serious.  Godfrey is a beast of a man, at my height with considerably more bulk.  Since most of the Kenyans tend to be a good bit shorter than me, his height caught my attention from the start.  I’ve known for a while now that he is actually from Uganda, but I never knew anything of his story.  Today he told me, and all I could do was nod my head as he related much of it to me, because there is no way any of us can even begin to comprehend living a life like his.  He served in the Ugandan military for the previous government, and it was during his service that this former government was brutally removed from power.  After it was overthrown, Godfrey and many of his fellow servicemen were hunted down and captured.  He spoke of the torture they endured, and the many friends that were killed in unspeakable ways.  He even pulled up his sleeves to show the scars that he still carries from the torture he received over 20 years ago.  When he got away from these captors, he fled Uganda, even leaving his family, and he eventually ended up in Kenya, were he was received as a refugee.  Even today after so many years, he cannot get Kenyan citizenship, and his residency here is still based on his refugee status.  He belongs to no country.  Kenya won’t truly accept him, and obviously he can’t return to Uganda while the current regime is still in power.  His brother, who was caring for his mother back home, died last year, but still he cannot return to his homeland.  He told me that he has returned home only once, and that was only for a matter of hours.  He was able to go along on an AIM Air flight that was stopping in his home area in Uganda, so he got to see the place he calls home, but he couldn’t identify himself, and he had to leave after only a short time.  What allows people who endure all of that to remain sane? 

At the moment I don’t have any final thoughts to wrap up my journey, and I think anything I could come up with would sound kind of trivial in light of the story I just related.  That said, I guess this ends my second “adventure” blog.  Who knows, maybe there will be another saga on here someday.

winding down

The motorcycle is finished!  We put the finishing touches on it Friday night.  I’m sure it looks even more beautiful than it actually is to my uncle and me after all of the hours we put into it, but I’d say it does look mighty fine, even from a more objective perspective.  We did add a few more decals since this pic, but you get the idea:

Friday was also my uncle’s last official day at the hangar.  For the next week, he and my aunt will be packing up their lives in preparation for their home assignment.  I still plan to go to the hangar to work with the guys for a couple more days at least, though I think I’ll be leaving on Wednesday.  I’m definitely not looking forward to saying goodbye to all of my new friends.  I was actually planning to go explore some different parts of Nairobi today with one of my friends from the hangar, Tim, but unfortunately he had to take his sister to the hospital for something.  I’m not sure what exactly is wrong with her, but I’m sure they’d appreciate your prayers.

Since my time with Tim didn’t work out, my aunt offered to show me Kibera slum, which lies right next to their neighborhood.  In case you aren’t familiar with Kibera, it’s the largest slum in Africa, with around 1 million people crowded into absolutely squalid conditions.  I’ve seen poverty in my travels, but this is at least as bad as anywhere I’ve been, and it’s on such a massive scale that it is hard to believe (I’m reminded of the huge refugee camp in Sierra Leone in “Blood Diamond,” when one of the characters says, “This is what a million people looks like”).  So many of the people, though, would greet us with wide smiles.  I was especially impacted by the children.  As we walked through the slum, a constant chorus of “How are you?” seemed to follow us.  All of the children knew this one English phrase, and they intended to get some use out of since there was a white guy around.  The best part of it all was the beaming smile I would get upon responding that I was doing well and asking them the same question.  One really little guy came running up to me so excited that he had his hand expectantly outstretched as he ran so that he could shake my hand.  Right as he got to me, he hit a mud slick and wiped out pretty good, but he was smiling at me from his butt as I lifted him off the ground and shook his hand, haha.  I actually laughed out loud, which provided him with further amusement.  I wish I had some pictures to share, but we didn’t think it’d be wise to carry such a nice camera, and I think I would’ve felt weird taking pictures anyway.  I’m always afraid in those kinds of situations that someone might think I’m taking pictures because I simply think it’s a spectacle.  Anyway, you’ll have to check out someone else’s pics of Kibera, but mine will remain in my head for a long time.

Throughout my time here, many of the Kenyans at the hangar have asked if I plan to return sometime soon, and why I’m not staying longer.  That question always depresses me a little, as I would like to spend some more time here, but I also feel that it’s time to go home as well.  Fortunately, I don’t have to make much of a decision myself, as the departure of my aunt and uncle kind of dictates my departure as well.  I’m thankful for the opportunity I’ve had to learn so many things and help out at the same time.  This has been a great trip, in so many ways, and I really do hope that I can come back someday, just like the guys keep asking.

To all the guys at the hangar: Andai –the first to put up with the new guy and give me jobs to do; Tim –always friendly and making sure to include me with the other Kenyans; Marko –continually cracking jokes while trying (and failing) to keep a straight face; David –always poking fun at me and providing me with a constant stream of Obama jokes and references; Paul –ever inquisitive about the differences between Kenyan and American life; Jim S. –for allowing me to use his motorcycle for the first 3 weeks of my stay; Jim L –usually quiet but always with a friendly smile (and he’s a Lord of the Rings fan: need I go on?); Ryan –for finally admitting that I’m not totally incompetent; Nate –for knowing when to laugh and when to be serious; Jose –for providing another perspective, wisdom, and a little Spanish practice; Jerry –for trusting me to work independently on a big job; Denny –for reminding me why we do what we do; Kurt –for inviting me on my first AIM flight; Bryan –for graciously letting me take his seat and fly the DC-3; Dick –for providing biblical insight at meeting after meeting; all those I forgot –for your kindness; and my uncle –for allowing all of this to happen in the first place: a huge thank you for making me feel welcome and allowing me to enjoy my time here in Kenya and at the hangar so much!  I would be remiss if I didn’t also thank my aunt, who has been an incredibly gracious host and a tremendous cook as well!

I might put up one more blog and maybe some more pics on photobucket before I leave on Wednesday.

Final week

I’m sitting here in my room enjoying immensely the aroma from the fire right next to the house.  There is a little guard house for the neighborhood there, and I’ve often heard the guards talking during the night, but the wind has never been just right like tonight to send me such amazing smells, not to mention the sounds of crackling and popping from the fire.  I can’t think of too many scents that are more relaxing; I guess that’s due to all the pleasant memories of camping and camp fires.  Anyway, I figured I’d write something for the blog so that I had a good excuse to stay awake for a while longer and keep enjoying the fire.  I’ve run out of books to read; I’ve worked through first 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and then The Three Musketeers.  It has taken a while, as I only take time to read on the few nights that I don’t stay late at the hangar or spend time hanging out with family.  I must say both of those are very enjoyable reads, btw.

Uncle John and I have basically completed the motorcycle, and we only have to put on the fenders and air up a tire tomorrow.  Sometime I’ll put up the series of pics showing our progression from the many pieces to one very pretty motorcycle.  It’s been a fun – if at times tedious – project, and I feel like a much more confident/competent mechanic than before, not that that is saying a whole whole lot.

The last few days have included some fun work at the hangar as well.  Today I spent the entire day routing aileron and flap cables through the wing of nine-zero-uniform, the second of two Cessna 206’s that were shipped from the U.S. in pieces, to be completely painted and rebuilt here.  Not only was it fun to put together the puzzle based on the various schematics in the manual, but I also had one of my most triumphant moments ever upon finally sliding a hellish bell crank into place after wrestling it for almost an hour.  We’re talking triumphant enough to even permit a victory shout.

Nine-zero-uniform, as I called the plane above, might sound funny to you, but to me it simply sounds like the name of another team member.  All of the aircraft are referred to by the last three letters/numbers of their registered codename in a very familiar, even affectionate, manner.  There’s nine-zero-uniform, seven-delta-golf, charlie-mike-alpha, bravo-lima-golf, S-I-L and X-P-A (I have yet to figure out why these are typically spelled out normally while the others aren’t), eight-echo-alpha, seven-sierra-papa, eight-sierra-papa, and lima-mike-bravo.  The name of lima-mike-bravo has a particularly touching significance that I didn’t even realize until a few weeks into my time here.  Some of you might be familiar with the story of my younger cousin or John and Anna’s son, Benj, who died a few years ago in a freak accident.  Sometime shortly after that tragedy occurred, AIM Air decided to name one of its Cessna 206’s lima-mike-bravo, meaning “in Loving Memory of Benj.”  Just seeing that plane now causes me to take a second and remember – to remember not only Benj but all of the friends and especially family members who we’ve said goodbye to far too soon.  What a small but cool way to provide a reminder.

Routing cables on 9-0-U

It has taken me a while to get to the point where each one of those funny names actually conjures up an image of the specific airplane it refers to, but I really do love how each one is treated as the name of an important team member, with its own unique qualities and personality.  I still remember the first day when I had no clue what on earth people were referring to when they’d throw a “nine-zero-uniform” into the sentence.  We have uniforms?

The fire has stopped burning outside, or at least the smoke has stopped wafting through my window, so I can go to bed now.

Más tripa

If you were following along during my South America adventure last summer (June 16th 2008 post), you might remember that Jonathan and I had an unfortunate misunderstanding wherein we thought we were ordering some tasty fish for dinner, but instead we unknowingly ate cow intestines.  I can now say that I’ve eaten intestines twice in my life, though this time they were from a goat, and I chose to eat them knowing what they were.

I enjoy the days that I go to eat with many of the Kenyans from our hangar and a few of the adjacent hangars.  We walk down the street to this lady who serves up all the food from these large buckets, earning her the name “Bucket Lady” from some of the non-swahili speakers at the hangar.  Usually it consists of different kinds of beans, maybe some rice, some meat of the day, and a chapatti (the Kenyan equivalent of a tortilla).  All the Kenyans go there because it only costs 30 Kenyan shillings for the plate, or about 40 cents.  Not bad.  Anyway, that’s where I had the privilege of eating intestines once again.  My friend, Tim, had a full plate, and I immediately recognized the intestines on top of the rice (I’m not going to misidentify those again).  He assured me they were quite tasty, and I decided to take him up on his recommendation.  This seemed fairer to the intestines, since last time I didn’t even know what I was eating at the time, so I had to give them a proper try.  There weren’t bad, though I still think they are a little chewy.

Along more serious lines, while we were eating, talking, and hanging out on the side of the road at the same lunch place today, we saw a motorcycle like mine back in the States (a rarity here).  I mentioned that it was similar to mine, and then immediately regretted mentioning this fact as Marko said, “When it gets really old and you don’t want it anymore, you can send it to me!”  He was only half joking, and he continued to imagine what it would be like to have such a bike (he’s 30 but won’t be able to afford his own motorized transportation for a long time).  How much we take for granted…

Swift messengers

Go, swift messengers,

to a people tall and smooth-skinned,

to a people feared far and wide,

an aggressive nation of strange speech,

whose land is divided by rivers.

Isaiah 18:2

Such is the exhortation made in Isaiah to reach out to the people in the land of Cush, now known as Sudan.  A number of years ago, a missionary getting a ride to Sudan on the DC-3 wrote this verse out on a piece of paper and taped it to the wall in the cockpit as an encouragement to those piloting the DC-3.  As that missionary said, these pilots are the swift messengers, bringing aid and encouragement to that inaccessible land and the people who live there.  That faded verse still hangs on the wall as a reminder.

Denny and Bryan were the swift messengers piloting the flights I hopped aboard on Saturday.  We started earlier in the morning than I care to remember, though seeing the sunrise from an airplane is a pretty sweet thing.  The trip would be four legs of flying going up and three on the way back.  After the second leg, we were in Lokichogio, a small town in the northwest corner of Kenya and a staging point for flights into Sudan.  This was the town from which the UN flew their huge C-130s to do food drops over the Sudanese areas in conflict, prior to 2005 and the tentative peace.  From here we headed north-northwest towards Rumbek, to make another refueling stop.  Flying in the DC-3 over such varied terrain was an awesome experience, as the cruising altitude of that beast is only about 12 – 14,000 feet – we all enjoy breathing oxygen – so things on the ground are quite visible.  This particular leg was probably my favorite, because I actually got to fly for the majority of the flight!  Denny asked me if I wanted to sit in the right seat for a while (as opposed to the jump seat), which of course was the question I had been waiting for since we first left the ground.  A few minutes later, when I’d gotten comfortable, he asks me if I’d ever had control of an airplane during flight.  Now I had to respond that I haven’t outside of simulators, but I also quickly assured him that I fully understand the flight instruments (all the while trying not to appear tooo eager).  Whereupon he says, “The plane is yours.”

Sweet. ness.

I got to fly over the southern reaches of the Nile! – where it’s called the White Nile – and countless other beautiful things throughout the course of the next hour of flight.  It took a minute or two to get used to the extreme sensitivity of the flight controls, but after that I didn’t do too much over correcting.  I will admit though, that it is much more challenging to keep track of what all the instruments are doing while you are actually flying the thing than it was from the comfortably removed position of the jump seat.  For the most part, we kept heading north towards Rumbek, and I even got to start the descent before having to relinquish my seat to Bryan, the other pilot, for the approach and landing.  We landed on the dirt strip in the middle of nowhere, fueled up again, and headed on towards our final destination, Akon.

This next leg wasn’t nearly so long, and before we knew it we were landing on yet another dirt strip, but this time we could see a montage of colors lined up at the far end of the runway, awaiting our arrival.

Landing at Akon

  As soon as we were parked, the cargo doors were thrown open and many helping hands appeared at the door out of the hundreds of people that had surrounded the plane.  We wasted no time in commencing the unloading of all the different supplies we had carried up there.  One of the big deliveries was solar panels, and those were among the first things I handed down to the many people eager to help.  Countless boxes and even a full-size canoe followed, but after a short time and a lot of sweat, the plane was empty.  I was actually sad to see that there was nothing more to deliver.  As another pilot later said, “getting to play Santa Clause is a lot of fun”, especially when you see the eagerness with which such supplies are received.  I would’ve liked to distribute supplies all day, despite that heat, but even a fully loaded DC-3 can only carry so much.  So it was that before too long and after only briefly meeting some of the people who would be using the supplies, we were on our way home.  We stopped again in Rumbec, flew back over the many winding rivers and the Nile itself, stopped in Loki, and then headed back to Nairobi, seeing the sun set during our return journey.  It was a long but good day.  Yes, a very good day.

Sunday was less eventful, with an enjoyable worship service in the morning and a fairly relaxing afternoon.  O yeah, I got to ride an ostrich.  Though before you get visions of me cruising across the plains at 40+ mph, you should know that it was actually at an ostrich farm, and two guys were running along on each side to make sure I didn’t fall off.  Still though, it was an ostrich.

Anyway, I’ve gotten tired of whacking myself in the ear every time I hear a mosquito buzzing around it, so I’m gonna go to bed and let them eat me while I dream.