Limpopo Safari Day Zero

I wasn't surprised that I was up forty minutes before my alarm, I had a good sleep nevertheless.  A hearty omelette and a quick round of goodbyes, the familiar drive to the airport, the inevitable argument about my baggage despite staying well within the airline's guidelines, and I soon find myself  in my seat for leg one.  Lionel Richie began crooning "I'm on my way" through the ATR42's sound system and I smile, as it's a good friend's ringtone, and I've heard it plenty this tour.  I watch the scenery on approach in Dar es Salaam, having flown the same route numerous times myself when we moved our operation to Dar to avoid the Mtwara riots.  I collect my bags, and find a quiet spot to transfer my laptop to my checked luggage in hopes of avoiding further baggage hassles.  Not to be.  After the long que through security, I discuss my baggage and weights with check in before everyone decides it's all okay, but there's a problem with my ticket, and I have to go back out through security to the airline office to sort it out.  The airline office claims its all in order, so I get back in the que for my third pass through security in less than three hours, and attempt to check in again.  The check in girl is flustered, claiming the travel agent has changed my ticket and wanders off to her manager to argue about my ticket for thirty minutes, as I stand wondering what it's been changed too, how I'm going to sort it, who is going to pay the difference, if I'll make Johannesburg tonight for my hunt, and who will be on the receiving end of my angst.  Relax and smile and chalk it up to a conditioning to travel in Africa.  Smiles and assurances that all is order, I'm sent away and told to attempt to check in again in three hours.  So I wait to do it all over again, and write this bit in my blog to kill some time.  Breath deep and let it all wash over you, be like the leaf floating on the stream.  Watch the American couple yell and wave their arms and argue with the check in girl, and smile.

I now find myself in the executive lounge in Dar's international airport, tickets and boarding passes all sorted, lap top away in my checked luggage through thee most notorious airport for stolen bags, JNB. Not much choice with the pathetically small carry on allowances.  Five kilograms!  A fellow has been talking very loudly about being the President's son, of which country, I don't know.  Internet is sporadic but the day is motoring along nicely.

Been through Nairobi airport many times, but this is the first time I've seen Kilimanjaro, besides the image on my favorite African beer.  Off the plane and straight into the executive lounge, right beside my departure gate forJohannesburg, no passport control or security checks or check ins.....awesome.  Besides the belching Somali woman by my side, all is right with the world.  Checking emails, my hunting guide is awaiting my arrival, and an air ambulance helicopter I used to fly out of Moosonee, Ontario has crashed on takeoff just after midnight.  Two medics and both pilots killed.  I knew the Captain quite well, as we flew side by side fighting forest fires out of Timmins in the late eighties.  Shit.

Time Travel

Ever dream of time travel?  Come to East Africa, for I've felt time shift as I elbowed my way through the narrow alleys and crowded markets of Mombasa's ancient port, and again when I caught my first glimpse of elephants, a small line of the seemingly prehistoric mammals working their way down a steep mountainside, through the forest mist, flashes of grey amongst impossibly huge baobabs, and today I felt it yet once again, slicing through the soft swells of the Indian Ocean in the oldest sail boat still afloat, hand built with construction techniques and rigging as have sailed these waters for centuries, in a fair fall breeze, streaming over the turquoise reefs of the East African coast, as fishermen tossed their nets from dug out canoes, and women mended nets on the sandy shores.

How could you not feel connected to a time forgotten?  Everything in view is as it's been for centuries, and probably more.  We headed down to the fish market this morning, and negotiated a fare on one of the many sail boats plying these waters, for transport from Mtwara's fish market to the Old Boma Fort in Mikindani.  I felt like Livingston himself while negotiating the price.  Everyone happy and smiling, we soon boarded and tattered sail raised, the wind carrying us off far faster than anyone would have imagined this old craft was capable of.  Some hand gestures and my poor Swahili had us stop over one area of reef, the anchor was thrown, and we donned our snorkelling gear and dropped over the side, and we drifted quietly amongst the huge heads of coral and exotic fish, almost overwhelmed by the beauty. 

Eventually we drifted lazily into Mikindani Bay, the winds having dropped, and we watched the Old Boma Fort creep ever closer, and wondered how many eyes in how many sailing ships have seen the same over the past few hundred years. 

Tomorrow morning I'm travelling, my six week tour complete, off to Dar es Salaam in the morning, a quick stop in Zanzibar, then Nairobi, and eventually, after hanging around many airports and over fifteen hours of travel, I'll arrive in Johannesburg, for a late night drive up into the Limpopo region of South Africa, to a hunting camp in the Waterberg.   I'm going on safari.

Continued next tour...

We put a lot of effort into getting my SAR Captaincy sorted this tour, but it was not to be.  Not that anything went wrong, it all went extremely well actually, but we didn't get to tick all the boxes required.   The last two training sorties were waylaid by the riots, and we attempted to rebook the flights this week, but an unserviceability precluded further training, and I'm out of here bright and early Friday morning.  Just ran out of time.  The training was challenging, and I loved every minute of it.  You can see the razor wire around the decks in the photos, to deter pirates, and the biggest issue was calming my nerves hoisting my good buddy to the heaving deck.  I would have relaxed more had the razor wire not been there, but it serves a purpose. There was a pirate attack over a year ago, and I'm told all the pirates were killed.  This ain't Kansas.  I'm far from mastering hoisting, but I'm happy with my progress.  Just have to get back at her in six weeks time.......

All quiet in Mtwara

It was a tough decision, but luckily it wasn't ours to make.  Sip mojitos poolside at the five star Serena Hotel in Dar or head back to riot stricken Mtwara?  To be honest, I prefer the slow pace, freedom and lack of traffic of Mtwara.  Anywhere you should wish to go in hectic, overcrowded Dar, you pretty much have to write off an hour or three for traffic, and walking isn't overly recommended in most quarters, more due to fumes than crime, although that is a serious risk.  One of the pilot's German girlfriend had her suitcase stolen as she unloaded it from a taxi, for just as the taxi driver withdrew it from the boot, a guy on the back of a motorcycle swooped in and her luggage was forever lost to the hustle and bustle of the great city of Dar.  Even after the riots in Mtwara, one can head off on foot in any direction the wind blows and have a fine peaceful afternoon and some good exercise, not too mention the friendly greetings from the locals, and the drive to work, when unencumbered by rioters and burning roadblocks, is relatively stress free.  But in the end, it came down to the wishes of the customer and the need to get to our helicopters and get the crews too and from the rigs, so with reassurances that the military had everything under control, that we could all get safely to and from work, we loaded up the birds again and headed home. 

The riots were serious.  A pregnant lady was killed by police, and that made the BBC World News, and the government has stationed military patrols throughout the area to keep the peace for the next six months at least, tanks included I'm told.  One of our pilots nearly had a nervous breakdown, which we tried to take seriously, but we were all having so much fun.  While serious, from our jaded perspective, it was all a nice distraction and abit of entertainment.  Not my first riot and probably not my last....

A Million Bats

Give or take...

I was rudely awakened this morning by an explosion just outside the hotel, but the hustle and bustle never seemed to escalate.  From what we could see, a group of youths would drag a tree across the road somewhere, dose it with gas, then light it ablaze.  The riot unit would show up in short order, fire off a bit of tear gas, maybe fire a few rounds from their rifles, and the group would scatter to light a tree afire elsewhere.  It seemed very quiet in comparison to the festivities the day prior.  It actually looked to be jolly good fun and I was almost envious.  But the road to the airport was barricaded, and we were unable to get to our helicopters to move the oil and gas crews to and from the rig, and goddammit, they wanted to fly!  So a convoy was organized, with a police escort no less, and we were whisked off to the airport, barricades be damned, so the quest for the world's resources could continue unabated.  The drive to the airport was thee best drive to an airport, EVER!  Bouncing crazily over dirt roads through thick dust, taking air and skidding around corners.  I fully expected the riot police, at least the guys unfortunate enough to be relegated to standing in the rear, to be scattered all along the route as they were tossed out each time we hit a bump, but we didn't lose a one. 

Eventually, the entire lot of us arrived at the airport, warmly greeted by a few of the crew that had been stuck there for the past twenty four hours, and we loaded the birds and flew off into the wild blue yonder towards Dar es Salaam.   We set up for the next days flying, then headed off into the Dar traffic, mundane and boring after the excitement thus far, when the darkening sky drew my view upwards.  Overhead flew a seemingly endless line of huge vampire bats, low level and in a thick dark mass a hundred feet across, and as long as the horizon carried my view.   And they just kept coming.  It was surreal.  We ended up at the beautiful and luxurious Serena Hotel, thee swankiest hotel in town, for a fine dinner and wine.  Yet another very, very good day. 

And here we go....

We dutifully made our way into the airport at the crack of dawn, the light still soft and warm and the air cool, with a few essentials in hand in case things kicked off and we elected to bug out to Dar es Salaam.  The mood was jovial as the rumour was that the gas project announcement would be further delayed.  Nobody was looking forward to an extended period of keeping one's bug-out bag fully loaded and ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble, not to mention no mountain biking, long walks or beach time for days.  It was almost a relief when we got word that the announcement was imminent.  The relief was short lived however, as the plan then changed to get everyone back to the hotel in the centre of town.  As we drove, quite madly in my opinion, we ran into a mob of young men waving for us to stop and pull over.  They were blocking the road but not yet angry enough to stand their ground when it became apparent our driver wasn't stopping.  We passed more groups of those bound for ill intent, their ire not yet risen, as they sat in the shade of the trees, waiting.  You could feel the trouble brewing.  We arrived back at the hotel just in time for the announcement, the worst outcome; the gas project would not be in the region, and within moments, the gun fire began amid explosions and plumes of black smoke rising from the market area, and again just up the road at the police station, until billows of black smoke cropped up from all around.  Sirens wailed tainted with sounds of sporadic gunfire and pops from launched tear gas canisters, interspersed with short staccato bursts of AK47s.  I still hear booms and pops and sirens as I write, and there's no chance of getting back to the airport, back to our helicopters, our ticket out of here, as all the roads are now blocked.  Going to be a long day at our hotel.  I really wanted to go to the beach today.

Getting it....

The live hoisting training went very, very well today.  I am content. Things are beginning to gel, finally.  I flew another five hoist cycles, putting a SAR Tech down on the deck of one of the supply vessels, attaching a high line, lowered some gear, then picked everything up again.  I wasn't working at it nearly as hard as previous sorties, and that's really the trick.  I knew I was improving, but not as quickly as I'd like.  While I appreciate that one is generally one's own worst critic, I was disappointed in my progress.  One should be comfortable enough that while not really relaxing, the main task becomes natural and one can start to pick up on the finer nuances and subtleties of the task at hand.  Everything just becomes an extension of self.  Think it and it happens.  Esoteric bullshit I know, but it's extremely satisfying when something challenging becomes.....well, less so.  You still have someone's life dangling below you over a heaving deck in open ocean, so concentration levels are very high, but competence hard earned is gratifying.  Today it felt right. 

Unfortunately rumours of unrest in town brought our training sortie to an early end, as management wanted us on the ground and safely snuggled into our quarters, before things really kicked off.  Nothing actually happened of course.

I'm not looking forward to tomorrow.  We are to spend the day at the airport, prepped to launch to Dar es Salaam should the gas project announcement, which the government keeps pushing back, is unfavourable for the local populace.  In which case, nobody really knows how bad things will be, but at least we have a plan.  I'd much rather be out on my mountain bike or snorkeling.  If the government keeps pushing back the announcement and our movement is restricted throughout, it's going to be a very long ten days.

Photos courtesy of the supply vessels.

No Fear

Banners recently cropping up around Mtwara, "Gas first, life later"

I remember one of those No Fear t-shirts I used to wear when they were cool, for a few months at least; "Everyone who lives dies, but not everyone who dies has lived".  I took it to heart.  I've done plenty of "living".  Not many give death a lot of thought, but I've mulled it over plenty.  It's inevitable.  Everyone who has every been, will die.  You will die, I will die.  I may be a cold hearted bastard, but I honestly don't understand why people haven't really come to grips with the whole death chestnut.  You'd think we'd be used to the concept by now.  I guess not knowing how you'll leave the party bothers some.  Could be a plane crash, I certainly spend enough time in those metal tubes bouncing all over the globe.   Statistically I'm far more likely to bite the bullet in a car, or on public transport in some third world country.  Ride a bujaji and you'll understand.  Could be some long drawn out affair with disease, something the WHO has warned us about but I didn't bother with the shots, some parasite picked up from somewhere in Africa, some mosquito born illness, or some nasties getting into my blood stream, and there's always cancer.  Fucking cancer.  And then there's cerebral malaria and AIDs taking their fair share to the netherworld. Of course one hopes the reaper is just good old age.  Who wouldn't mind living a full life and to pass on gently while asleep? Perhaps something more dramatic will take me, something exciting the grandkids and nephews can talk about, like a hungry pack of lions simply looking for nourishment, or an angry elephant thrashing my broken torso against a tree, ending my life in spectacular glory on my safari in two weeks time, or some black mamba I regretfully step on, and who could blame the mamba?  Last year, rioting on our route from the airport to our hotel in Mtwara, an honest to goodness witch doctor driven horde pulled the driver from a Lory and beat him to death, and my co-workers in the SUV behind barely managed to escape, suffering only broken windows from rocks thrown in anger.  This Wednesday, two days time, there will be an announcement about whether the proposed gas plant will be built here or in Dar es Salaam.  All the shops will be closed, all the roads will be barricaded.  I've seen the mass texts to the locals threatening violence.  I don't relish the idea of a machete welding mob stopping us on our way to work, or perhaps storming our hotel, but I'm not going to lose any sleep over it either.  Not quite as exciting as getting eaten by a lion, but it'll make a good story.  It's difficult to imagine this peaceful, friendly village turning violent, but anyone with experience in Africa will tell you things can turn ugly quickly, I've seen the burning road blocks and heard the first hand accounts of attacks on vehicles.   Still, keep your head down and be smart.   I think you'll find we waste a lot of time, effort and stress worrying about things that never happen.  Better to just enjoy yourself, appreciate life, deal with whatever crops up as it crops up, and accept, someday, it's your turn.

Riots yet again

What is it about me and riots?  From Bucharest to Mombasa, they seem to follow me around like some lost puppy.  I find myself on lockdown in Mtwara, Tanzania, yet once again, with no real escape plan should the animosity turn towards ex-pats, and our well known accommodations, nestled snuggly in the middle of town.  My plan?  Smile and offer friendly greetings in Swahili and hope the mobs aren't overly worked up, and that they left their machetes at home.  We may evacuate to Dar es Salaam, but at present, it hasn't really kicked off yet, just road blocks being set up around town.  Can't really do much about it so why worry?

The huge cockroach I found in my room last night, appearing quite dead and on it's back, must have found the carry to the trash can invigorating.  Snuggled under a heavy comforter, AC on max to dissuade mosquitoes, I did my best to ignore the small scratchy noise keeping me from some much needed beauty sleep.  Discouraged, I eventually rolled out of bed, and stumbled about trying to locate the source.  Checking the trash can, I found the little bugger making the racket with a discarded chocolate bar wrapper.  The bottom of a soda bottle, also in the trash, had the final say.  Killed a lizard in my room last week, plus a few mosquitoes, full of somebody's blood.  Riots, sunburn, mambas, nibbling ants, cockroaches and malarial mosquitoes, jellyfish stings and sand in my gitches.  At least I feel like I'm earning my paycheck.

Live Winching

It was a good today.  I've been undergoing SAR (Search and Rescue) Captaincy Training all this week, and it's indeed a pleasure to add some skills to my repertoire.  Hovering is second nature to helicopter pilots, plus I've got a background of long lining, where the pilot, me, hangs out the door watching the load slung one hundred to two hundred feet below the chopper, to gently, hopefully, place the load where required.  While some consider long lining leaning towards a black art, the skills can be learned by any pilot with some training and some practice.  Search and rescue brings some new challenges to the table.  Unlike long lining, you don't hang out the door and watch the load, you can't even see the load, which is typically a living being, a friend in most cases, below the aircraft.  Also, the land one uses as a point of visual reference is missing, replaced by heaving, bobbing, rippling, swelling, swirling, undulating, pitching, surging, tumultuous, continually moving frothy seas. You have to be able to maintain a precise hover while moving gently to the conning of the rear crew, the SAR Tech, hanging out the back door, watching his buddy on the line, and doing his utmost to move his pal over a clear spot on the moving deck of a ship at sea, and put him down safely.  I'd say proper visual references, required for maintaining a steady hover, is wherein lies the rub.  Today for instance, the weather was crap.  Seas were almost at three metres, so the deck of the small supply vessel was rocking and rolling and heaving and humping, winds were gusty, and swinging thirty degrees as a steady stream of squall lines moved through, bringing heavy rain and visibilities down to well under a mile.  This is my first attempt at live winching to a deck.

As we made dummy run after dummy run, moving in over the deck and seeing how things went prior to committing anyone's life to my handling skills, I was on a steep learning curve of how to find proper visual references for hovering.  First off, the ship is bouncing all over the place, so you can't concentrate on the ship to maintain your hover, as you'll be bouncing all over the sky chasing it.  You have to watch the ship, as your placement over it is critical, but you have to maintain your hover by watching the heaving sea in your peripheral vision, and depending on the visibility at the time, perhaps use the horizon as a reference point as well.  It was trickier than I imagined it to be, but I coped, and the rear crew were happy enough with my performance to put a guy out on the line, move in, place him on the deck, and move back in and collect him again, multiple times.  Did I mention the deck is encircled in razor wire to keep pirates, a serious threat in these part, at bay?  I still tense up too much when I've got a live load on the line and I'm tight over the deck, but it was my first kick at the can.  We are out again tomorrow.  I have to say, it's the most fun I've had in a helicopter in a good while!

So, slightly fatigued after nearly four hours of playing over ship decks one hundred and twenty miles out into the Indian Ocean with live loads, we fly back to Mtwara, to find a crowd of kids on a school trip to the airport.  All from a local orphanage, we soon have them crawling all over the aircraft and handling the controls and explaining how everything works, and the smiles and positive energy is infectious.   It's shaping up to be a near perfect day.

Eventually the teachers coax the kids back to their bus, and we complete the day's paperwork, and head back to our living quarters.  I find a huge dead cockroach in my room, but am too happy to mind.  A few pilots and I head to the beach for a snorkel, but as each of us suffer multiple jellyfish stings within forty metres of shore, that brings the swimming to a quick halt, and we head up to the bar for a beer to watch the African sun set.  It was a very good day.

Green hills of Africa

Fond memories of trampling through the backwoods of Uncle's farms, .22 in hand, the sweet smell of rotting leaves, remains of forgotten rusted fences growing through knurled trees, scary old cabins, long since abandoned, broken glass containing untold horrors to an adolescent imagination, muddy, slippery trails and clear streams and darting fish, patches of purple flowers and moss nestled in the shade of ancient oaks, and fields of tan cornstalks drying in the sun, with absolutely nothing beckoning, distracting, spawning guilt for time better spent.  More often than not, some cousin by my side, shooting bottles and cans, hunting squirrels and crows, driving deer towards my Uncles, carrying the BIG rifles and looking for old males, multipointed racks and meat for the freezer.

The earliest fossils of the hominin lineage date some seven million years ago, and Homo sapiens, us, have roamed this big blue ball for two hundred thousand years, with sedentary agriculture only starting to appear roughly ten thousand years ago.  Like it or not, our species has been hunting for their survival for hundreds of thousands of years.  Stalking game courses though our blood, and to put meat on one's table with one's own hand satisfies like only a hunter can appreciate.  I have little time for the self righteous hordes touting their superior morals, Bambi indoctrinated anti-hunting prophets, who think nothing of purchasing steak or hamburger or pork or chicken at their friendly neighborhood grocery, presentably packaged on that sterile white rectangular Styrofoam and hygienically wrapped in clear cellophane, not for a moment considering that the meat actually came from something once alive, that had to have it's life taken by someone, someone far removed from your conscience, for you to feed yourself and your family, someone who has taken responsibility for the act of killing something living, someone to shelter your misguided morals, your denial, the same disillusioned folk who are quick to condemn hunting as redneck bloodlust.  Jose Ortega y Gasset phrased it well, "One does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted." Spare me your bullshit.  I'm going hunting. I get the impression that the anti-hunting community feels that hunting is simply satisfying some abhorrent desire to kill.  It is not.  It is coming to grips with one's place in the world, touching upon deeply engrained instincts.  Satisfying beyond the understanding of the city born.  Spare me your rhetoric.  I'll hunt with complete disregard for your distaste, your silly logic.  I'm going on safari.

From a youth of watching the old black and white Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan TV series, to hours of letting my mind run wild while reading Hemingway's "Green Hills of Africa" or Frederick Courteney Selous or Karamojo Bell, Wilbur Smith or Peter Capstick, the Africa I dreamt of was not the friendly village of Mtwara or the beaches of Dar es Salaam nor the nightclubs of Mombasa, but the uninhabited Africa....the wild Africa, nonchalant lions and angry cape buffalo, sulking leopards and irate elephants and ivory tipped spiral horned kudu.  I yearn to walk the savannah and brushland, rifle in hand,  tracking game, watching the wind and the sun and the rain, and finally realizing the rewards after hours upon hour of honing one's skill with a rifle, studying one's prey, it's habitat, it's patterns, it's behaviour, to make that perfect shot, to humanely and respectfully take that kudu or wildebeest or impala, to make it part and parcel of one's collection of memories, of experiences.  I may take nothing, but that is hunting, and I'm going hunting in Africa.  A dream not yet realized, but not far off the horizon.  Three weeks to go and I should find myself in the Limpopo region of South Africa, nestled between Botswana and Mozambique, not far from where I am now, 30-06 in hand, hunting the green hills of Africa.

Dream come true

While flying in Romania last year, and managing the offshore exploration operation, I was growing concerned about the waning popularity of the type I was flying.  The job was quickly coming to a close and new work for the Super Puma was nothing more than whispers of rumours.  The Puma is a very capable aircraft, and ruled the North Sea market for years, but newer, faster, sexier birds have been catching the eyes of the world's petroleum aviation advisors.  I was still busy instructing in the Super Puma simulator in Norway when not occupied in Romania, but that was coming to an end as well.  The growing popularity of the Italian AW139 in the offshore, as well as other markets, would guarantee a more marketable experience, so I put in a request to fly them in East Africa.  There appeared to be plenty of work, and hunting in Africa had always been another dream. 

Admittedly, flying helicopters, any helicopter, is a dream come true.  Flying AW139s in East Africa was yet another desire realized, but something that I've always pined for, something far more challenging than flying crews to and from rigs in seas the world over, something to really be proud to be a part of.... Search and Rescue.  I just received confirmation that I'm to undergo a full SAR Captaincy course!  Yet another dream coming to fruition!

And I've got that African hunting dream booked for the end of this tour.

Lucky bastard.  I'm half expecting the other shoe to drop at any moment.....

Gecko

Disappointed today's SAR training sortie was cancelled due to the supply vessel being fully occupied in their primary role, supporting multinational efforts to find more oil and gas.  The world's energy needs takes precedence over our need to practice hoisting SAR Techs off a ship's deck, but I still really wanted to go flying.  I flew yesterday, and have two trips tomorrow, so I can't complain, but I still do.

So stuck on SAR standby, I take my book into the sun, dressed like some airline jock, struggle to find a spot out of the distracting scent of the overflowing sewage tank, and eventually settle into a plastic deck chair I had purchased in Mombasa.  A small gecko joins me, basking in the sun by my side.  He seems quite content to just take in the heat, but my mind is restless and needs distraction.  Frederick Courteney Selous's "A Hunter's Wanderings In Africa", early nineteenth century ivory hunting, provides all the stimulation I require.  

Soon I will be stalking kudu in the African bush with a 30-06, so I find the book invigorating, motivational.  I'm thinking a gin and tonic would suit the ambiance just fine, but I have a few hours to kill before I can even consider a drink.  Still, it's not a bad life.

Old Boma

Idyllic perfection.  Warm breezes off the Indian Ocean rustling the palms overhead, singing birds and colourful butterflies flashing brightly as they dance amongst the sunbeams of light peaking though the foliage, floating sporadically yet gracefully amongst the petals of flowers, blooming in pinks and reds and strong yellows, open and in unison facing towards the North for their share of the African sun. Chickens cluck, strutting amongst the bushes of this lush garden, coaxing their young ones to keep up, as we read poolside, fresh pressed African coffee steaming on the hand carved tables by our loungers. When the sun grows too hot on my skin, I slip into the cool blue water of the pool, diving deep, embracing the sensation as the water envelopes me, and I draw my cupped hands aft with force and feel the cool water stream against my skin as I glide forward, and I wish to sustain the peacefulness, the perfection of the moment.  My lungs keep quiet for a good while, but eventually prompt me to return to the surface, and after a few laps, I am soon back in my lounger, with my book, and another cup of coffee, even more refreshed.

A family arrives, an older couple, presumably the grandparents, with a young couple, another sibling perhaps and a bunch of children, and judging by their dress, I imagine they are missionaries, still quite common throughout Africa.  I'm saddened when one of the other pilots comments that he simply cannot fathom why someone would bring their family here, to this terrible place, and I remind myself that this fellow is never content, never happy, and my sadness gives way to sympathy, as I simply cannot fathom how one can live looking at everything with such negativity.  When I look upon my good fortune, I wonder, am I incredibly lucky or is it simply my point of view, my perception?   Perhaps seeing only the good is a simplistic approach, but I'll take my happiness and positive thinking over the miserable sorts who see dark clouds in everything before them.  Some people you cannot please, and I leave them to their dismal view, and happily return to my book. 

I Can Hover

Go figure.  Nearly eleven thousand hours behind the controls of helicopters closing in on thirty years, one might assume that I know how to hover.  Granted, ex-military Search and Rescue pilots have been training specifically for SAR sorties their entire careers, and hoisting live winchmen to heaving decks in stormy seas is certainly not an undertaking to be taken lightly, but if you could learn how to do it, I certainly can.  It seems whatever speciality one gets into, the tendency is to assume you are the shit, often forgetting that at some point, you were on the learning curve.  Mountain flying, offshore, EMS, longline, SAR....it's all just flying helicopters, albeit in differing environments.  If you figured how to do it, it'd be wise to assume someone else can do the same.  Nevertheless, despite comments from ex-military SAR personnel that simply cannot comprehend how someone without their background could possibly handle SAR, the training sortie yesterday went very well indeed.  I flew seven hoisting cycles; one cycle generally involving coming into a hover a small distance off, lowering something or someone on a hoist, and moving into the target you'll set them on, moving out, then moving back in to pick them up again.  We did it at thirty feet, seventy feet, two hundred feet, over land and water, and I didn't actually see the magic required to pull it off, as it certainly was not as tricky as I had been led to believe.  Still, I'll give it the respect the flying requires, which has kept me alive this long.  And I plan to live forever.....so far so good.....

Been a good day.  We flew an unscheduled flight this morning, which pretty much guarantees that I'll be smiling.  The drive to and from the airport is getting crazy, as road construction seems to have begun on every road in town at the same time.  As the main roads are blocked off all over, the vehicles have taken to the dirt pathways that stream everywhere throughout town, and as the traffic continues unabated, the dirt paths widen and harden and become roads in their own right.  We passed the truck above on a walking path that has become a busy thoroughfare seemingly overnight.  Then some exercise.  I've been walking five to ten kilometres per day, to get exercise of course, but to get some sun as well.  I've got a week long kudu hunt planned in the Limpopo region of South Africa after this tour, and I need to be able to walk all day in the African sun.  My pale Canadian and fair red headed skin is tanning up nicely.  To top it off, I saw a five foot long lizard crossing the road today.  Quite an oddity, everybody stopping and watching, and some locals told me they had never seen one before.  Looked like a Komodo dragon but I highly doubt it.  Our hotel cook made a heartfelt attempt at cooking his idea of Mexican cuisine, and as I walked to my room, belly full, I saw a falling star streak across the African night sky.  I'll keep what I wished for to myself......