Getting ready

When I get home, I unpack abit, but as the majority of items are specific to touring, the bags go into storage pretty much as they are. They are out now, sorting though what worked and what didn't, what was missing and what items never got used. 

Mombasa, Kenya is my next port of call. Due to recent terrorist activity, namely grenades being thrown into nightclubs supposedly by al-Qaeda-linked Shebab fighters, in retaliation for Kenya's military invading southern Somalia, the United States has pulled out all of their embassy personnel, and along with Canada, have recommended their citizens avoid Kenya. I doubt I'll be able to stay out of the nightclubs. Rumour is that ex-navy Seals will be providing security for us. Might not be a bad idea to drag them to the nightclubs with me.... 

It was the first time I've had a full six weeks off, as I generally have to extend my tour, or run guys through the Super Puma simulator in Norway on my time off. I enjoy instructing, or I wouldn't have taken it on in the first place, but it's nice to relax for a spell. Considering it was my daughter's summer vacation, the timing was perfect. We went to quite a few movies, out for dinner and lunches, the beach, mountain biking, zip lining, rented a jet ski one afternoon, mud sliding in tidal waters, afternoons downtown, and a memorable trip to the Grandparents, where my Dad had some chest pain the day we left and went in for an emergency quintuple bypass the next day. Tough old nut, he was home before the week was out and is probably mowing the grass now. My daughter and I have had fun, I'm going to miss her something terrible. And, I bought a new guitar.....

                                                                   Gibson Les Paul Traditional

Packing is going well. I'm foregoing my love of cotton for synthetic, warm-weather specific clothing. I love linen in warm climates, and the linen shirts I picked up in Turkey are going for sure, but cotton gets so wet from either the rain or my own sweat, and never dries, so I'm going with Underarmour/Nike/Columbia/North Face technical fabrics across the board. I might be stinkier at day's end but hopefully more comfortable.  

There wasn't much free time. My kid kept me hopping throughout, but I did manage a couple of new songs. Commercially not really viable, which is a nicer way of saying they aren't very good, but I have a blast making them, it's just fun, plain and simple. I know what I like to listen too, and that's the sound I'm after, but I'm well aware that dreams and reality rarely coincide in this life.  My guitar playing was waning and a new axe inspired me to tackle it yet once again, learn some new riffs, develop my theory abit more, and looking for Les Paul players to compare my new tone, I did manage to discover some new music, which is always a good thing.   Check out "The Best of Peter Green's Fleetwood Mac", a far, far cry from their later years.

As usual, lots of reading. Helicopter pilots read alot. It's a part of the job, as generally you fly guys to someplace where they have something to do, and you wait, or you're on standby for a medevac call, or waiting for weather, or you just aren't scheduled. There is tons of waiting. I tend to go from quality literature to fluff and back again depending on my mood. I find light reading like Tom Clancy, Andy McNab, Richard Marcinco and Chris Ryan and military action adventure books are great, interspersed with travel logs of those going to way out there spots,  hopefully delving into the emotional aspect and cultural depths of their travels; Redmond O’Hanlon and Paul Theroux ("Dark Star" is East Africa travel) are favourites, and specifically any place I'm intimate with; "Crazy River" about travelling a river in Tanzania, the diaries of Stanley and Livingston and Burton, or "My Friend the Mercenary" and hiking and filming through war torn Liberia, with botched coup attempts in Guinea, and old ivory hunting stories of Karamojo Bell and others from the 1800s and early 1900s, and always a page turner, Wilbur Smith's stories of Africa, and you are thoroughly entertained and learn some history along the way. Peter Capstick's books of hunting in Africa and South America are some of the funniest reads I've ever come across. But then my mind needs some stimulation and I turn to the deeper writings of VS Naipaul (Africa again), everything written by J.M Coetzee (Africa again...seeing a trend here??), Knut Hamsun, pre-World War Two Norway (written before he befriended Hitler, which friendship cost him the respect of his countrymen), and Cormac McCarthy's "Blood Meridian" will haunt me for the rest of my days. Cormac McCarthy is my favourite, bar none.  It's a good deep story that puts you there, every smell, nuance and emotion, but it's his frequent philosophical ravings that keep me coming back.  Anyone with wanderlust will love settling down with Bruce Chatwin, from Patagonia to Benin (his "Songlines" was a pivotal book for me), Henry Miller's daily rantings of everyday life in the heart of Paris of course, and Jack Kerouac, whose iconic "On The Road" pales next to his "Dharma Bums" in my opinion, but those were all read years ago. Hemingway is always a favourite, but having read them all, there's little to look forward to, the same goes for my other favourites; Joseph Heller, Steinbeck, Vonnegut, Stephan Leacock, Salinger, Nabokov, Dostoyevsky, Pushkin, Gunter Grass, Orwell, Joseph Conrad, Faulkner, Mordecai Richler, etc.. There's always new authors to look out for, fresh perspectives to tackle, as I doubt I'll get to experience enough to get a full dose of what this life has to offer. I will try though....

Back to packing, I'm Kenya bound Sunday.....

Home

Been home now for awhile, relaxing, BBQs, movies, mountain biking and days at the beach.  Built another speaker cab for a new amp, something small and low wattage for the house, with relative low volume tube breakup, that bluesy crunch, and recording a new song (link upper right of my blog page, the song at the top of the list).  Loving the Les Paul guitar, quite a change from years of Telecaster devotion.  Off with my kid for my father's 70th birthday tomorrow.  Still some training odds and end to take care of for work, and car issues to deal with.  Life.  A little time at home to unwind and I'll be ready to tackle whereever they send me on this big blue ball once again.....

Packing

Handed the manager's phone and responsibilities over to my back to back late this afternoon, after a fine, fine morning of flying offshore.  It's quite a weight off one's shoulders and I am looking forward to some time at home.  I managed to reroute the entire trip, so I am now travelling with my preferred carrier, where all my yearly miles allow me a much higher baggage allowance, priority in all lines, upgrades, lounge access...just makes travelling that much less stressful.  My bag is still quite heavy with the carvings, but I think I'm within limits.  I'll find out tomorrow!

The U.S. embassy just pulled all their citizens out of the country of my next posting, and Canada has issued warnings and asked their citizens to leave.  I'll worry about that when my time off is finished, just going to enjoy some time home for now......

Home stretch....

Phone ringing endlessly, the constant "bing" of email notifications, problems to solve, people to answer, contractual fine points to maintain, payments to be made, paperwork and paperwork and paperwork to sort, struggling with personalities and lines drawn in the sand, and have no doubt, the people at this end of the game have strong, strong personalities, and to focus, focus everything, on the task at hand.....move people safely when required to do so.  Learning experience.  Personal development. Call it what you will, but my hitch is almost over.  I must say, most issues are solved with just a little guidance, some decision making, some head scratching, and some you just have to pass up the chain of command, and appreciate that mistakes are to be expected, and learnt from, pushed aside and ever onward.  I will admit....at times it is great fun. 

All it takes is seeing a steady stream of young men struggling with insanely over-laden 60 year old bicycles up steep grades with white NGO Land Cruisers whipping by at great speeds honking at them to make way, women with incredibly large bags of sugar or grain or water or impossibly heavy loads of firewood balanced on their heads while maintaining control over children running about, amongst the overladen bicycles and speeding Land Cruisers, all under that hot African midday sun, and as always, one appreciates what one has that much more.  Some specialists from the Western world came over to study the effects of these great loads balanced precariously on heads for hours at a time, over great distances, and they were suprised to find these women had no neck or back problems.  Their posture was absolutely perfect.  Their backs and necks were in far better shape than Westerners.  You see youngsters, probally as old as eight or nine, helping mom with the workload, and it is obvious that if your balance isn't perfect, if you are using muscles rather than poise, to handle these loads, it just isn't going to work.  It is impressive to see.  As I sit and sweat and type, having crawled out from under the mosquito net, air conditioner not keeping up but letting it churn the air regardless, wondering if a cold trickle of water shower is worth the effort, I know I'll leave it all behind for a few weeks.  Decompress.  Relax.  Surf.  Bike. Watch movies.  Eat chips.....

I am wondering how to get all the carvings I've bought home.  It will be heavy, and the baggage limit is quite small out of these remote areas.  This area is renowned for it's carvings, and there is no shortage, in various levels of workmanship, of monkeys and elephants and rhinos and or course, Masai warriors.  Known and trained from the youngest age to keep their livestock safe from leopards and lions, these nomadic warriors wander about East Africa with impunity, greatly respected, and feared, by the locals, and even the police give them a wide berth.  Many hire Masai to provide security, in their robes and carrying only a staff, no one is foolish enough to mess with them.  But I am impressed by these nightmare inspired carvings of bizarre creatures, that often times are difficut to understand just what is taking place.  Too bad the above figure is five feet tall, it'll never fit in my suitcase......

Tequila Stuntman

I've heard of this drink once before, but didn't believe it.  Heard it again today.  Haven't seen it myself.  I'm sure I'll never try it.  The story I heard today was more believeable as I know the character in question, but if you are either brave, or incredibly stupid, here is a "Tequila Stuntman"...

-thick line of salt on the back of your hand - snort
-down shot of tequila
-squirt lemon directly into your eye.........

I can't imagine being drunk enough.

I've seen my first bit of rain in Mtwara in five weeks (one week left!!!).  It was nice to see.  One couldn't possibly complain, the weather has been absolutely perfect; it's not too hot, very dry, sunny, with that ever present fresh breeze off the Indian Ocean.  A little rain is quite pleasant.   I'm finding life in general here quite pleasant.  There's the unbelievable reef, the happy people and warm smiles and pleasant greetings; "Mambo!" "Poa!", the curries and instant coffee, the tuk-tuks and heavily ladden bicycles, and I absolutely love all the hand-hewn wood furniture, the doors and desks and beds, all for sale by the side of the road, and you can sit and watch them make the furniture if you like.  The quality is not perfect, but there is a heavy solidity to everything, and it has a rustic appeal that I love. Everything here makes Western life seem so sterile in comparison.   But I am still very excited about getting home in a week.


The tide had turned just prior to our arrival at the beach today, and the current was just too strong to enjoy the swim without having a tinge of concern, and I ran into this nasty looking fellow who posed for a few shots before turning in my direction and scaring me off....

As I fought the current I could see the sky darken off towards the horizon so figured I'd best head in before I got wet (that's a joke), the other pilot and I didn't quite make it, but we warmed ourselves with some fine fresh Mtwara coffee at the Msimo Hotel.  It takes only forty minutes to get a waiter, and another forty five to heat the water, and however long you wish to stir in the instant powder.  I will admit though, it is actually quite good....

Local tunes

I did manage to get some flying in after all today, a short test flight but it was flying just the same.  Then there were emails and phone calls and meetings and even some angry people today, an unfortunate part of the managing gig, which always makes a day just that much longer, but still I managed to squeeze in a quick swim before supper.  I took a snorkel out to my new favourite spot on the reef, as you can see above.  It's quite away out and on the ocean side of the reef, on the outlet of a river, and the current is quite strong, so I've been trying to time my swims with an incoming tide to avoid being swept out to sea.  Years of surfing off Canada's East Coast in some serious storms swells has me quite accustomed to heading out in strong currents, but it's always wise to be cognizant of the risk.  There's quite a shelf there and it drops off into the blue abyss rather quickly.  It is a little spooky being so far out, with locals in large boats often passing well inside of you, but the reef is just spectacular out there, and I think it's well worth it.

I'll keep the writing short today, but there was a little entertainment at the hangar I'd like to share.  A rather senior government official was inbound and a local band was practicing for his arrival.  We heard the drums and headed over....

It's hard not to love East Africa.

Monkeys

No flying this weekend, so we had a nice BBQ last night, and today was an afternoon up at the Old Boma in Mikindani, near an old East African slave market.  The owners have done up the old building, filled it with dark hard wood furniture and carvings, put in a huge pool, and with the vegetation, it is a little slice of paradise.  And there are monkeys!

Just behind the Old Boma is a small park and these old buildings that I thought were arranged strangely, until a local pointed out that it is a famous old slave trading post, and the circle is where the slaves were presented for sale.  One couldn't help but shudder.

But after a little dose of the darker side of humanity, it's back to the curry and fresh brewed coffee and kids playing in the pool, and a good book in the shade.  It's a nice break from the day to day living and working in East Africa, something that just calms everyone and refreshes you for the coming week.  And those on call are still close enough to respond well within the alloted time. 

I'm not looking forward to the week.  I couldn't put myself on the flying schedule at all due to some base crewing and training requirements, and I have many fires to put out.  Only ten days left, then I'm homeward bound.

Some SAR

SAR.  Search and Rescue.  Actually got my first taste today.  Normally SAR is handled by the military, but it's becoming more and more common for civilian companies to provide SAR for their own exploration efforts, and it's opening some doors.  Ideally, the companies hire ex-military people from strong SAR backgrounds, bringing to the table years upon years of expertise and experience, but the demand is opening up the market to more and more ex-bush pilots like myself.  I'm still flying offshore oil exploration support, but there is an ever-increasing need to be able to fill a SAR role as well.

There is a complex set of checks and calls and procedures so everyone is on the same page, and to minimize the risk to all involved.  Having never hoisted before, and still not having much time on this new type, I was not behind the controls while we hoisted a SARtech down to the deck of a large support vessel not far from the rig we've been flying to.  My job as First Officer was to back the Commander up.

I did get to hoist drums in the open sea.  The drill was to hit a series of "gates", or airspeed and altitude targets, to come to a predetermined hover point at a certain height above the sea, then to retain that hover, with no reference to anything other than the waves, while the hoist operator, hanging out the rear door and looking down the hoist cable, trying to "hook" the drum we dropped off earlier, would call "forward one, left two, straight ahead, hold, back one, hold, maintain height, you're descending, good height, come left two.....etc".  Because the downwash of the helicopter was pushing the drum around, we had to chase it a good deal.  Newer version of the helicopter we were flying, the Italian AW139, have auto-hover capability, designed with SAR in mind, but we didn't have that kit.  I was suprised that it wasn't as difficult as I had thought.  Then again, the other pilot was hoisting a live guy to a deck that was bouncing around in rough seas, lots of obstructions, with gusty wind coming through the structure of the boat, but he handled it like someone who had done it extensively before.  Being Ex-U.S. Coast Guard, it was old hat to him.  But it was my first time out.

Life in Mtwara and shifting priorities.  Some people get a little irate at the different rates charged to mazungas (ex-pats) for most anything, but can you blame the locals?  There appears to be a completely different mindset to most everything here, brought about by living in a completely different environment than we are accustomed to.  There is a sense of community here that is very refreshing.  For a Tanzanian, when one comes into money, even a small amount, there is an unquestionable obligation to share with one’s family, or with those in need.  Sharing is an integral part of everyday life here.  The Western concept of ownership, or “I earned it, it’s mine”, is quite foreign to the locals here.  Mazungas are seen as being rich and whether we are or not, by the standard here in Mtwara, we most definitely are.  A 1000 shilling tuk-tuk ride becomes a 5000 shilling tuk-tuk ride for a mazunga, and you can often negotiate down to 2000 to 3000, but should we even try?  5000 shillings is a tad over $3 US.  Can you wonder why the drivers shake their heads in confusion when we refuse to pay more than the locals?   They find it hard to understand why we won't share our wealth.  I am trying to relate.  I want to make of the most of this experience of working far from home, far out of my comfort zone, broaden my horizons, views and outlook.  I’d prefer to look beyond my Western sensibilities and to do my best to see things through the local's eyes, beyond the tourist experience, and utilize this unbelievable opportunity I have to get a little understanding of life and priorities so very different than my own.  As long as I get to fly helicopters with some regularity!

And you can forego most of our western modern amenities with a little ingenuity, considering the climate of course.   Electrical power is not as reliable in Mtwara as someone from North America might be used to, so instead of having a water pump provide the pressure for all your water needs, a large tank is placed on the roof, and the tank is topped up when power is available.  With the tanks sitting in the sun, the showers are the optimum temperature, and the gravity fed pressure is acceptable on the third floor, and just keeps getting better the lower your room is.  Everything is just fine; you just have to shift your expectations slightly.    The lack of reliable internet though?  I find it very sad that it drives me as crazy as it does.

Fish

I have found an underwater camera!  I'm not sure what it is about human nature, but there is something intrinsically satisfying in sharing an experience.  I have travelled a fair bit, but doing it by yourself just doesn't do the experience justice.  I remember driving though the crowded streets and heavy traffic of early morning Bucharest, just trying to find my way out of the city, before heading up into Transylvania's mountains to visit Bran and Brasov, brutally cold, fresh after a heavy snowfall, narrow roads and big trucks and steep grades and hairpin turn after hairpin turn, and I would have given anything for a sympathetic soul to share the adventure.  Sharing just brings an unquantifiable aspect to everything one does.  Hence the camera.  Perhaps a poor substitute, but when the only other option is to forego the adventure, better to go anyway and take plenty of pictures.

The internet has been incredibly bad.  While at work I get occasional glimpses into the world wide web, and I then try desperately to catch up on work emails, and I often lose connectivity half way through and perhaps swear a little bit, but I try to realign my persectives and find something else to do.  It's somehow satisfying to have to get up and walk away from a computer.  Go for a walk, read a book, go for a swim.

The clownfish don't seem to be as happy to see me as I am to see them.  Very territorial.  But it always makes my day to pay them a visit, and buddy gets a chance to impress his mate by scaring off a threat hundreds of times his size.  I have some great video but the internet is just too slow.

Have you ever seen a mistake coming, from like a mile away, and walk into it anyway?  Either not caring about the consequence or wondering how'd you cope if it all went to hell.  I DO IT ALL THE TIME.  I took this job thinking that I wanted to see East Africa, but I knew I'd have my hands full.  The manager gig.  I didn't really see that coming, but like I said in my first post, if someone else is doing it, or has done it, how hard can it be?  Just get on with it.  I'm keeping my head above water, at present anyway, bring on the challenge and see how I cope.  Today I was wondering.  Seriously wondering.  But what is life without a little adventure?

I'm enjoying life in Mtwara, flying and swimming, and the people.  As crews rotate in and out you can watch how the dynamic shifts and changes.  It's fun to watch, and to see how one's self fits into the equation.  I wish there was a heck of alot more flying though.....

Tomorrow lunch at Livingstone's old place.   And volleyball at 5pm.

New flip flops

Woo hoo!  Three trips in two days, all is right with the world.  I'm still coming in too high.  I've been flying rather large helicopters for the last 6000 hours and I'm so used to having to worry about all that helicopter out behind me, I'm having a hard time coming into the rather low hover the AW139 requires.  It's got bags of power and it doesn't really matter, but it is poor form.  Old habits become ingrained, and it's a weird feeling being so comfortable on a helicopter that it becomes an extension of you, and then to be on something new and learning all over again. It's still just a helicopter though, and the differences are minor in the grand scheme of things.  Getting a little solid stick time has been a treat though, and I'm smiling tonight.

I'm still adjusting to Mtwara life though, but it's a good pace.  There were tiny ants in my coffee mug this morning but I poured the hot water over the instant coffee powder anyway, because any of those little guys that survived the hot water would certainly meet their demise in my digestive track anyway.  We then flew off into the great blue beyond and did our part to help the world in it's struggle to cope with it's energy needs, but we don't actually think such lofty thoughts, we are just happy to be flying.  Then back on terra firma, smiling like idiots, our flight dispatcher took me to the air traffic control tower for a meet and great, but she obviously knew the lady running the radio communications quite well, as the tower lady brought out a bag of hand made shoes for her, leather flip flops with embroidered flowers and butterflies.  Politely making conversation, I remarked that it was too bad she didn't have any men's flip flops, which brought a smile and a pair of men's flip flops from the depths of her bag.  I'm wearing them now. Returning phone calls and emails and paperwork, it was too late to snag that swim by the time we all returned to the hotel.  I then grabbed a shower in the trickle of gravity fed rain water from tank above my room.  I mistakenly grabbed the bug killer spray instead of the mosquito repellant before heading down to supper and dowsed myself quite well.  That required yet another shower.  Down I went to order supper and prepare for the minimum hour and a half wait, but you can go back and chat with the cook, the security guard with the ancient rifle, or any of the other ex-pats on site, waiting for their meals as well.  Most of them have figured out the trick of ordering supper then going up and having a shower and calling home and firing off some emails, have a nap, but I'm not a quick study.  And the internet.  You have no idea how much you count on the damn thing until you don't have it for a few days.  I think the hotel forgets to pay the bill.  I didn't have any internet until I was thirty, or a cel phone.  It's nice to call home with skype and not worry that it's costing anything, but I'm not sure sure that we haven't lost something in our need to stay connected all the time.

Tomorrow, I must, must, must get out for a swim.  I will work hard and focus on getting everything on my "to do" list done before lunch.  I don't like having a "to do" list.   Normally I can keep up and don't need such a cruch, but I'm getting behind, and I've learnt to become concerned about stress levels when I need a "to do" list to keep track.   But I have been flying, and I will get swimming, and I'm nearly half way through my hitch.  Home is beckoning.

Thar she blows!

I needed a little "me" time today.  Too much thinking and figuring and planning and striving to remember names and who is who and who needs what, and I haven't been airborne in days.  So when the other pilot on night standby asked if I wanted to walk to the beach for a swim, I was clad in swim trunks, slick with suntan lotion, feet in flip flops, snorkelling gear in hand, before he blinked twice.

The fish were in their regular hang outs, I'm getting a good feel for the reef now.  Some reading in the shade, fell asleep, woke up hungry, so we made our way up to the most gorgeous little restaurant with a grass roof, overlooking the ocean, and waited forty minutes for someone to take our order.  Coffee was another thirty minutes, this was hot water in a tea pot and a can of instant and a spoon.  Not a Starbucks for miles!  While enjoying the fine coffee, the view and the breeze and thinking just how lucky could someone be, off in the distance there was a "poof" and water shooting high into the air.  Now the first time I saw this, while flying inbound from offshore at fifeteen hundred feet, I thought I was seeing a humpback whale.  Flying two hundred miles out into the North Atlantic you'd often see whales, that tell tale plume of water shooting into the sky.  If there wasn't much white water on the ocean, waves breaking, you could see them for miles off.  If the whales were travelling, they'd blow every few minutes.  If they were feeding, they'd blow once and head deep for twenty minutes or more at a time.  I bought a guidebook to identify all the whales we were seeing.  "Look at that one!"  Out would come the guidebook and you'd quickly identify the humpback by the white flukes.  After seeing and identifying hundreds of humpbacks, I stopped carrying the guidebook.  They were all humpbacks.  Actually, there was this huge pod of blue whales that came through the area almost every fall, and they were really something to see, and you'd catch sight of the odd greenland shark or mako, and one killer whale, and I always figured, any day that you saw a whale, regardless of type, it was a good day.  But back to the beachside restaurant in Mtwara.  Humpbacks are known to travel between Zanzibar and the mainland, but what would a whale be doing in such shallow water, right in the reef?  My answer quickly came with the next "poof" of water, and a hand dug boat quickly scooted into the area to collect the stunned fish.  The locals were fishing with dynamite.

I am missing the flying.  I've always found I get a little irate if I'm not behind the controls for awhile.  The East Coast operation was perfect as I flew quite regularly.  This six weeks on, six weeks off touring drives me a little batty.  I love my time off, although I've never had anything close to resembling six weeks, but when I'm back in country, I want to fly.  There isn't much flying on this operation, and quite a few guys to share it with.  I've been on jobs in Canada's North, where I've flown a hundred and fifty hours in eighteen days, my personal record, before the regulatory boards were looking too closely at pilot fatigue and it's safety implications.  That's far too much, looking back, but I was less than twenty with energy levels far beyond anything I'd even dream about now.  Nine years of air ambulance flying with lots of standby, and you were lucky if you broke two hundred hours in a year, and I found that far too little.  The East Coast flying, which I did for eleven years, averaged around five hundred hours a year.  Perfect in my opinion, and the extremely poor weather just brought an element of challenge to the table that I sorely miss.  I'm hoping it's not much longer before I'm back there.

But, it's another perfect day in paradise.  The sun is shining brightly once again, that light breeze off the ocean, Tanzanian radio from some motorcyle's small speakers that I wish I understood, it sounds so happy and inspirational, and I'm making some good friends, there's volleyball later this evening, and hopefully we'll head up to Livingstone's old place up the road for some curry and a swim.

And I'll get some flying in soon enough.

Bring it on!

Like a breath of fresh air.  Back in Mtwara.  It seems like such an idyllic lifestyle compared to the hustle, bustle and mayhem, cold stares, and poverty of Dar es Salaam, a city simply outgrowing itself.  Life seems simpler here, and while there is extreme poverty as well, the affect is different.  The lack of crowds gives one a feeling of relief, and dirt and dust and car fumes gives way to lush green vegetation, gentle breezes from the sea, and the somehow reassuring site of huge baobab trees.  According to Arab legend, the devil went around Africa ripping the trees from the ground and sticking them back in upside down, giving the appearance of having their roots pointed skyward.  They remind me of Mustafa from the Lion King, and while I keep looking, I have yet to see a monkey.  Dar's bumper to bumper traffic is replaced with ladies walking idly by in brightly coloured kangas, hips swaying, blue plastic bins full of fish or nuts or laundry balanced firmly on their heads, tough sweaty men with bicycles from the 50's with long logs of firewood tied to the frame, huge bags of charcoal balanced picariously on top, struggling up hills or careening down the other side with little semblance of control, feet windmilling madly, school children running about in blue shorts and white shirts, and everyone laughing and smiling and waving at our stereotypical white landrover.  You cannot compare the homeless in Dar banging on your windows in heavy traffic to Mtwara's mud huts and grass roofs, the Tanzanian's brightly coloured crafts proudly on display by the lazy roadside, the shop owners laughing and talking in the shade of a nearby tree. Where else will you find beds being handmade on the side of the road?  I like this place.

But despite this idyllic life, I have decided to complicate my life further.  I have agreed to manage the operation here, so days of snorkelling have been replaced with days of meeting with oil execs and endless phone calls and responding to a steady stream of emails.  Why?  First and foremost, because there was a need.  But I appreciate that I'm restless and if you put a challenge in front of me, for how much I'd like to think I could walk away and take the easy route, I know I will jump on it.  It's a good opportunity in many ways.  I keep busy, I assure myself a placement in Mtwara for awhile, and the experience I gather will be invaluable, not just career-wise, but I find in the challenges, I learn about myself.  It will cut heavily into my visits to the clownfish though.

When I found out I was going to be touring on an operation in Turkey, I didn't know I'd be managing the operation until just before I left home.  I had managed an air ambulance base in North Western Ontario for years, so I wasn't overly concerned, but I still felt I was in over my head more than a few times.  Thankfully the crew members in country really stepped up and helped all they could, I couldn't ask for better people, so the job was tasking but pleasant.  Despite a few headaches, I quite enjoyed the challenge, and it didn't cut into my flying at all, something I won't let happen.  Managing in Africa is turning out to be an entirely new ballgame. The crew members are first rate once again, and I can lean on them heavily and they'll ask for more, but Africa is challenging.  The learning curve is steep.  But I hope to come out the other end with a wealth of experience, to take on to whatever comes next.

Dar es Salaam

I've been whisked out of Mtwara and plopped down in Dar Es Salaam, the largest city in Tanzania.  Kansas, this ain't.  Population 2,500,000, it was devasted by flooding not six months ago, leaving over 5000 homeless.  After an interesting hour of trying to track down the driver that was to meet me coming off the plane, not at the terminal mind you, but on the general aviation side as I flew in via charter, I was standing in the shade of a nearby palm tree to hide my pale Canadian skin from the African sun, when some serious looking dude on a small old motorcycle rides up, stops, and stares at me with mouth agape. I can only imagine he's trying his best to figure out how to seperate me from my luggage.  Then he dials a number and shoves his phone into his helmet, having a heated discussion in swahilli, which once again my imagination translates as "there's a stupid looking white guy with lots of stuff just standing here, come help".  When I see a large group sauntering down the narrow road, I make my way back into view of airport security and brave the sunburn.
Once firmly entombed in the air conditioned land cruiser with the driver, a sign reading "Lock All Doors Before Driving" in big letters across the dash, swahilli rap blaring over the radio, we start making our way across greater Dar es Salaam to my hotel.  I am amazed.  There does not appear to be any rhyme or reason to the traffic laws, as cars push their way into the gridlock, horns going steady, police waving their arms in frustration, motorcyles with three or four kids on the back riding in the opposite direction, weaving between the oncoming vehicles.  In the middle of all this are walking markets.  Kids mostly, some young men, carrying a dizzying array of towels and cel phone car chargers and weightlifting equipment, kids toys and cd cleaning kits, a single shirt on a hangar, tire irons, wash basins, men's and lady's brand name perfumes, rubber tie down straps and screwdrivers, utensile trays and batteries, a single windshield wiper, software and produce, walking amongst the traffic, selling their wares to whomever opens their window, running after vehicles if the traffic should suddenly open up mid-sale.  It was Africa.

In Dar es Salaam, if you are white, you have a good chance of being called "Muzungu", which meant, in the early days of explorers and missionaries, "those who wander around lost in an annoying way".  I prefer the Masai name for the pale man walking around in pants, iloridaa enjeka, or "those who confine their farts".  Many who visit are picked up at the airport terminal and whisked off to safari or to see, and even climb, Kilamanjaro.  I prefer a little more exposure, get a feel for the place, so the driver drops me in town and I hit a few shops in the crowded streets in search of odds and ends I can't get in Mtwara.  I decide I need to replace the cheap Chinese acoustic guitar I broke in Turkey (that's another story that had me swear an oath to never again drink vodka with Finns), and finding a guitar dealer in the streets of Dar es Salaam involved phone calls to East Indian "connections", and eventually I find the shop, and "the guy", and I start playing my way through his collection to find something suitable, but cheap enough I can leave it behind.  Back in the landcruiser, using the guitar's cardboard box and some twine as it's case, we head back into the traffic.

As we near the hotel, the wheel eating potholes and narrow, dusty, crowded roads give way to manicured lawns and green, spacious compounds enfenced with heavy barbwire, embassies and fancy resorts, and there again is that wonderful Indian Ocean.  The hotel I walk into is culture shock all over again.  It is simply the most beautiful place I have ever walked into, and I feel a little James Bondish walking up to the large wood desk (despite the twine and cardboard guitar case) and give my name, and even more Bondish swimming in the huge oceanside pool overlooking palm trees and cabanas.  It is a very far cry from Mtwara, and farther still from the mahem just up the road.

Meat on the table

Travelling so much can be challenging.  Yes, you get to see and do some very amazing things, and I wouldn't trade any of the experiences I've had, good and bad, for anything, but I've seriously complicated my life in the process.  Passports and work visas and international tax laws and maintaining immunizations, which differ greatly from country to country, take a great deal of your time.  Different countries have different rules, different procedures, different languages and customs, all that you should strive to learn if you are going to spend any length of time there.  I'm sure it's all old hat to the guys who have been doing this international touring year in and year out, but the novelty of it all hasn't worn off on me yet.  The multitide of challenges becomes addictive, and the nomadic lifestyle tweaks something in one's soul.  I do believe I'm getting better at the packing, but I still take far too much.  Every job is different and you don't wish to be caught short.  Some places you can pick up anything you could possibly need locally. Turkey has malls to rival Toronto, and others, Mtwara comes to mind, you had better come well prepared.  Typically if a base is already running, you can find some sympathetic soul that'll offer advice on what to bring.  Advice for Mtwara ranged from "don't worry about it, they'll put you in a pot and cook you anyway" to "bring all your own food for an entire tour", with the next guy telling me eating locally was fine, which turned out to be the case.  No invites to over-heated hot tubs yet, but I'm only two weeks in.

 I was told to bring something to keep myself entertained as there is very little flying, so I brought my guitar.  I've maybe picked it up once.  I'm very glad I brought a mask, snorkel and fins though!  Trying to narrow down everything you need to function, plus work related items like headset and uniforms and work shoes, for a six week stretch, and fit everything into a package that make all the transits manageable, has been a chore.  It's easier if you are posted to the same base and keep returning, as you can leave items behind, and know exactly what you need, but that hasn't been my situation at all.  Not yet anyway.  And good luck trying to find an underwater camera in Mtwara!

Last night was a treat.  In hasn't rained in I don't know how long, and the volleyball court is getting very dusty, but the counter-piracy dudes joined in and everyone had a great laugh.   The flying has been spectacular as well, as there is little doubt as you look down at the dense bush, sand roads and white landrovers, and huts and palm trees, that you are seriously in Africa, but I'd give anything to see an elephant walking through the brush.  A kudu, an impala, some water buffalo, wildebeast, zebra, giraffe, anything! One place we go for lunch is said to have monkeys in the trees from time to time, and despite hanging out there a great deal, so far all I've seen are numerous dogs and one snake, and that was at the hotel I live in. I want to see a monkey. 

The social aspect of touring is a suprising benefit as well.  Here you are, in the foreign place, with very little English spoken by the locals, with crew members with very similar experiences, all dealing with the issues of being away from home for months at a time, all dealing with living in an enviroment quite different than their homes, but the backgrounds vary enough to provide some very entertaining conversations.  You are working with people from France and Finland and South Africa and Ireland and Uzbekistan and Australia, guys and gals who have flown Search and Rescue in the high artic and hearded cattle with helicopters in the outback and who have fought in Iraq and Afghanastan and guys who have toured the far reaches of this wonderful blue ball of ours for decades.  The stories and conversations are stimulating and enlightening, and one cannot imagine the personalities this lifestyle brings to the table.

For all the adventures, I still feel a little like an imposter, because I would rather be home.  Perhaps Livingstone just wanted to be home as well, just another bloke putting meat on the table, whatever it took, and for him, that meant putting one foot in front of the other across unexplored Africa.  I doubt he played volleyball, but no doubt he enjoyed the evening conversations around the campfire as much as I do now.

Twenty degrees

Twenty degrees.  That's the secret I'm told.  Keep your room at twenty degrees or cooler, air con on full, and you'll have no problems with the mozzies.   I just went through the customer's base safety brief. They told me about the twenty degrees, but I'm now concerned about all sorts of stuff I didn't have the common sense to be worried about.  Those safety briefs are meant to enlighten and inform, but they just scare me.  Sounds like the locals still light people on fire from time to time, so travel in convoys and don't leave the hotel and eat at the company kitchen.....don't think so mate, I'm walking by my lonesome to the beach.  It's hard to believe these happy smiling people can be dangerous, but those that know Africa will tell you, it can turn on you in a heartbeat.  I don't watch the news for the same reason, better to be ignorant and happy than informed and stressed. 

Caught a Mtwara cab back to the hotel this evening....

I had ran into the pirate hunters again, or as I've been corrected, Counter-Piracy Dudes.  After snorkelling, I found they were up at the resort seaside, and well into the Kilamanjaros.  The snorkelling was amazing once again, I have to get my hands on an underwater camera!  I found this huge anemone way out in the channel with a pair of the biggest clownfish I had ever seen nestled into it's tentacles.  Brave little guys.  As I approached their home, they darted at me and stared me down, not backing down for an instant.  Pugnacious little buggers.  I hope to pay them another visit tomorrow.  Then I plunk down with the pirate hunters, or counter-piracy dudes, and with the beer flowing, the stories just keep getting better.  There was a big shoot out with pirates in the harbour here just before Christmas.  These guys live for the action.  We've got a big base BBQ planned for tonight, I think I'll extend an invitation.  Everyone appreciates a fresh perspective.

It's nice to get out swimming regularly once again.  I was on this job for a mapping company, subcontracting to Hydro-Quebec, for one of their major dam project in the North.  We were staying in this camp of Arco trailers, airborne everyday at dawn and just getting back for a late supper.  As we were mapping the rivers, most of the time I'd plop my Longranger helo down on the side somewhere, and as they went about their business, I'd strip down and jump in.  Then after I'd given the fish all a good fright, I'd get out the fishing rod.  They'd bite whatever I offered nevertheless.  I liked to think that alot of these trout had never been fished before, but once in a remote corner of Northern Quebec, far inland from Hudson Bay, feeling like Doctor Livingtone himself (wrong continent I know, but heh, it's my imagination), I was quite disenchanted to come across a number of picnic tables on the shore of this stream.  Not quite as exclusive as my imagination had led me to believe.  What a world it would be if your imagination and reality coincided more often! .......Nah, it'd probally mess everything up.

I've swam in rivers and lakes all over Northern Ontario and Quebec, and I surf in the Atlantic quite regularly.  I used to live for surfing but aging moved it farther back in the priorities list, but I still get out from time to time.  It's quite relaxing to sit on the ocean, waiting for the next swell, there's something meditative about it that is quite addictive.  I've swam in the Caspian Sea, and I swam in the Black Sea almost daily while in Turkey, as the beach was right outside my hotel balcony.  If I'm not in the water myself, I'm flying guys over it, out to their rigs far offshore.  The romantic in me likes to think that the sea calls.  Even the hardiest souls will admit that there is an inexplicable draw.  As Captain Jack says...."Bring me that horizon". 

No flying tomorrow, snorkelling kit by the door, ready to go.  Room freezing, but no mozzies!  Life is good.

Pirates

Well, it turned into a large day after all.  On my walk down to the beach, I ran into two lost looking white guys.  There aren't too many of us and we really stand out.  Turns out they are two ex-military guys providing security for a large ship that just tied into the Mtwara port, real live pirate hunters with some very cool guns, looking for a bar.  Who better to ask than a pilot?

Pirates are a very serious concern for ship traffic along this coast, generally coming out of Somalia with AK47s and some serious boats, and these security guys have their hands full.  I had heard the risk of pirates is why we aren't staying at the oceanside resort where I'm headed to swim.  Damn pirates.

So off we go to the resort, and I watch wistfully as they drain a couple of Kilamanjaro beers, as I'm on night standby later and drinking tea, and listen to stories of pirates.  It's actually quite abit cooler than helicopter stories.

On the hike back to the hotel, I drop into a dark hut with some very cool carvings.  I find one I'm impressed with, turning it upside down to find a price tag of 15,000 Tanzanian shillings.  The lady shakes her head as she takes it from me, crosses out the 15,000 and writes 100,000.  I smile and walk out.

I direct the pirate hunters to the liquor store, and head back to the hotel.  It's volleyball night!  I had somehow forgotten.  So off we go, to this dusty field with wild dogs running about, and ex-pats from Germany and South Africa and France drift in to join the game.  Doctors and engineers and teachers, it's good fun.  The Germans take it far more seriously than anyone else on the dirt court, but they were relatively subdued this time around.  It's good to burn off some steam and a highlight everyone looks forward to.

Jumping back to our move, we weren't very far into the unpacking in our new home on the East Coast, and they asked if I'd mind dropping into Baku, Azerbaijan for a quick tour.  I was kind of hoping to get settled, but what the heck?  I'd never been to Azerbaijan before.  Besides kicking around France with my wife, abit of Cuba, and simulator sessons in Norway (I was to get very intimate with Norway over the years), this was an exciting bit of travelling!  I was flying very old S61 helicopters.  Sikorsky took their venerable Sea King helicopter, cleaned it up abit, stretched it out a fair chunk, and sicked their sales guys on the offshore oil exploration market.  S61 means a Sikorsky that was certified in 1961.  This was 2001. 

I can't say I was overly enamoured with Baku.  I wasn't flying much at all, and the guys were well ensconed into their own activities, so I was stuck with exploring on my own.  Most of the crew changed out a few weeks in and the worse job I'd been on immediately turned into one of the best!  Next thing I knew I was flying more, drinking local beer in the back of a huge black Mercedes heading out to resorts on the Caspian Sea, and keeping relatively busy.  We were at a local ex-pat bar playing pool, with CNN on in the background, when that first plane flew into the twin towers.  We sat and watched and wondered what changes would be coming about.  The base manager called and told us to get back to our apartments and lay low (we didn't), and an evacuation plan was put together to get us to the American embassy if things went South, but life went on as normal in Baku, and we flew the helicopters the next day.  I had to extend my tour as most air travel was put on hold, and when I finally did fly through London Heathrow homebound, I couldn't believe how quiet it was.   The resulting increases in security have made international travel quite unpleasant, and it isn't getting any better.

Kilamanjaro beer has a big stage set up just up from the hotel, and African music is blasting into my room as if the speakers were two feet from my head.  Last time they went until after midnight.  Lots of swahilli between the songs, interspersed with the word "Kilamanjaro" every few seconds.  No Kilamanjaro for me, I'm on night standby.

Where ever you go

Where ever you go, well....there you are.  You got to be somewhere.  Might as well be East Africa.
 
I've never really been sure if I'm just incredibly lucky, or if my perspective is skewed so much that everything just seems amazing.  I figure, if you're not happy with where you are, what you have, what you are doing, changing any of the above is probally not going to help.  It's still you.  Outlook and perspective is everything.  It's the only thing you have any semblance of control over.  I'm telling myself this as I sit bored to tears in my tiny room.  Mosquitoes are still getting under my net every night, and there's these little flea things crawling around in the bed that often wake me.  Everything doesn't seem so amazing today.  But tomorrow I fly again.

This touring gig is great for rejigging one's perspective.  When I first got settled into a job in Northern Turkey, along the Black Sea Coast, it was an eye opener.  These people are not rich by any North American standard, but I have yet to meet friendlier, happier people.  I thought Canada's East Coast was friendly.  Not anymore.  At least not by Turkey's standard.  It was so nice seeing entire families out for a seaside walk; Moms, Dads, grandparents, kids, the teenagers as well, walking and socializing, and hours upon hours of backgammon over tea.  Nobody wanted anything from you, they were just happy to see you, happy to help you in whatever it was that you happened to be doing, sporting a warm, honest smile all the while. I absolutely loved Turkey.  I spent a year on that coast.  My priorities got abit of a shift.  Africa is shifting it again.

When the family first plunked everything down on Canada's East Coast, it was a new beginning.  Everyone we had ever met that had ever called Canada's East Coast home were a special breed.  Easy going, never taking themselves too seriously, down to earth, they were just relaxed, and we were not disappointed when we finally arrived.  It's still home, and it'll probally be home until I stop breathing.  The flying?  Absolutley amazing!  In Northwestern Ontario flying emergency medical flights, I'd been an IFR rated pilot for a decade, which basically means I was flying larger twin engine helicopters in a two crew, Captain/Co-pilot enviroment, in pretty much any weather, day or night.  You didn't need to see where you were going, you used the instruments.   But the weather wasn't all that bad, and the majority of your real IFR flying was at night, just because there were no lights in the far North to provide any visual references.  But Canada's East Coast?  They had real "weather".  We're talking fog.  Thick fog.  1/8 of a mile visibilty in forty-five knots of wind fog.  Now we're talking!  There's a challenge to get you out of bed in the morning.

I remember that first East Coast flight.  It was still dark, the rain was coming down almost sideways in a forty-five knot gale, and the old S61 was buffetting left and right as we taxied out for take-off.  The visibility might of have been 1/4 mile, and the ceilings were maybe a hundred feet, and I was having a hard time getting my head around the idea of heading to an offshore platform two hundred miles out into the North Atlantic in this shit.  But take-off we did.  We weren't a few seconds in the air and it was straight to the dials, hand flying this twenty thousand pound beast on tiny instruments as we bucked and bounced and rattled and shook, and climbed, and climbed through the driving rain.  We turned left, heading out to sea, watching the temperature and hoping we broke out on top before the ice started to accumulate, but it started to brighten, more and more, and as we neared our cruising altitude we busted out of the cloud tops into the most glorious sunrise I have ever seen.  I'll never forget that sunrise.  That bright morning sun quickly heated the cold cockpit and the ride smoothed out and it was as near to perfect as things have ever been.  Of course nearly two hours later we dropped back into the goo to find the rig, but that was a memorable flight.

This I did for eleven years.

I think I'll walk down to the beach, look at some carvings, maybe buy one today.  There's not a cloud in the sky and there's a fresh breeze keeping the temperatures relatively mild.  It's not a bad gig.

A little more intro...

Strapped that sexy AW139 on this morning and blew off into the oh-so-blue African sky!  The rigs we fly to are after that liquid gold, but for me....I just want to get into the air with this new toy.  Powerful, fast, quiet and smooth, and far more modern than anything I've ever flown, a sexy little Italian sportscar.  Quite abit smaller than the old S61s and Super Pumas I've been on, but destined for popularity, and that means more oppurtunities, more places to see, and quite simply, it's fun!

 I don’t know if I’ll get back to Mtwara for another tour or not. I have five weeks left of this tour, and I was told it’s just a temporary posting to cover someone’s sick leave. I had just finished up a Super Puma job in Romania, where I somehow got roped into being the manager of the operation, and with no new work on the horizon for the old girls, I was lucky to get checked out on a popular new type, the AW139. The course was in Newark, and it was fun, the highlights being catching some wild jazz at the infamous Zebra room in Harlem, and I managed to bring the family down for a week of kicking around Manhattan too. After that, ink still wet with the new endorsement, I was a pilot without a base, but they were looking for someone to cover in Mtwara, Tanzania, and well....here I am!

After decades feeding Canada's Northern hordes, the mosquitoes don't really bother me much, but so far I've smacked three of the little suckers in my room quite full of blood, presumably mine. The mozzies, as the Brits here call them, aren't nearly as bad as I expected for Africa, but a good percentage of them do carry malaria, and apparently one strain that will kill you. Not many bother with the malarone though, the nightmares the antimalarial drug induces are surreal, and realistically, who wants to live for ever?

I remember deciding I wanted to be a helicopter pilot, or at least I remember the thought process that helped me decide my fate, and I wasn't yet a teen. To see the world through a bird’s eye, I dreamed of being a pilot.  I was pretty obsessed by those noisy fling-wing contraptions for as far back as I can remember.  The whole idea of flying planes ran through my head briefly, but I figured the only time you’d really get that bird’s eye view would be on take-off and landing, and I wanted to be free of the world’s bonds yet close enough to taste her.  Low and slow as a bird cruises amongst the tree tops is where I wanted to be.  And birds don’t need a damn runway.  Needing a mile of paved concrete at both ends of a trip seemed silly when helicopters were roaming the earth undeterred by such nonsense.  It was beyond cool for me, and I wanted it badly.

My first job, at the tender age of eighteen, was in Northern Ontario.  There was abit of a lull in the industry and there were guys with years under their belts fighting to find work, but I was cheap to employ, and I had no qualms about dragging logs out of the woods for the more experienced guys to practice slinging, dry-walling the hangar offices, babysitting the boss’s kids or waxing his Suburban.  I just gave it everything I had all the time and before long  I’m ferrying aircraft to and from jobs, and even in that first year, I found myself in bush camps in the North, greasing and oiling my own machine, flying, and of course, wearing the Ray-bans.  Even in the cockiness of my youth, I was concerned about heading off on my first real bush job by myself, but the Chief Pilot gave me some advice that stuck with me to this day; "If there's guys out there doing it, how hard can it be?  Just get on with it." I've found you can apply that logic to everything. 


Then came an opportunity that really got things rolling; some pilot’s vacation needed covering so I got promoted to a Jetranger helicopter on this contract in North Eastern Quebec, and the customer requested I stay on the job as opposed to the guy I had temporally replaced.  Perhaps his wearing his flight suit, sunglasses and yes, white scarf, to the bars in the evenings, had something to do with it.  He had taken the expected cockiness a tad too far, and scared more than a few passengers with his antics in and out of the air.  So I lucked into a high flying job, and ended up with over one thousand hours of flying in my logbook before I turned twenty, and I spent the next six years flogging around North-Eastern Quebec, learning French from les bucherons, and met my wife at a club in Sept-Iles.  Pilots and night clubs....a match made in heaven.

Even dreams turn sour at some point, and after years of bush flying, I was finding being away from civilization for months on end more and more difficult to take, and after a brief stint in University tackling an Engineering degree with hopes of becoming a test pilot, I landed an air ambulance job on a Bell 222, think Airwolf without the whisper mode, in North Eastern Ontario.  I was home every night, sleeping in my own bed, flying a twin engine helicopter in pretty much any weather, day or night, and while it never felt overly heroic, we were saving lives.  I ended up managing the entire operation at some point, and there were adventures aplenty, but the schedule and pay and small town mentality eventually wore us down, and I was hungry for new challenges, so we packed everything up and headed East.