Mombasa again!

The dates changed, changed and changed again, aircraft parts were packed, then unpacked, packed again.  Crews changing out fretted over tickets cancelled and rebooked, local staff wondered when their employments would finally be finished and sadly asked again and again, when, when, when, and we eventually settled into a steady state of flux. The logistics of mobilizing a base across international borders became daunting as the variables floated around likes leaves on an windy Autumn day.  But finally the date solidified, whatever hadn't yet been packed was stuffed into a bag or box, customs and immigration given notification yet once again, and they arrived at the airport, friendly but officious, the aircraft fuelled and prepped, and I handed them gobs of paperwork prepared far in advance, inspections were completed and questions answered, forms were signed, hands were shook, and then we were off, climbing to 8000 feet for the three hour flight up to Mombasa, Kenya, the radar shot clear far beyond the horizon.

Having moved many a base, and actually managed a previous base move from Tanzania to Kenya, I steeled myself for long days, short tempers, and bureaucratic nightmares, and was not disappointed.  But the accommodations.....a beautiful seaside resort with restaurants and bars tucked into the palms trees, waiting to be discovered, multiple pools connected by swimmable streams, koi blowing kisses from the lily pad thick ponds as we dined on fresh mango, papaya and passion fruit, fresh fish, fresh sausages, fresh coffee, and showers of hot, hot water with enough pressure to take the skin clean off you.  It was a far, far cry from our end of the road, last town on a dusty trail at the far end of Tanzania, hotel and home for the past year, oft discribed as soul sucking.

None of us would see the hotel in daylight for a few days.  Long hours setting up the operation, the customer stomping about making far too much noise, especially considering how slick everything was going, despite how well the crews handled all that was thrown at them with aplomb.  Security was still a concern.  We had heard about the grenade thrown under a tourist bus prior to our departure, but there was yet another grenade thrown into an expat bar not far from our resort the morning of our arrival.  A man was pulled from his vehicle and killed during riots in Mtwara in the early days of our contract, our staff in the vehicle behind, quick thinking and hard driving from the ex- US Army pilot getting them out with only a broken window and some new dents.  When confronted with a large group of angry men in riots last year, we told our local driver not to stop, and he blasted through.  Do not stop.  Now in Mombasa, security fresh in everyone's mind, we are again faced with a large group of angry, sweat soaked and shirtless men, waving frantically for our vehicle to stop.  I can hardly believe our local driver is going to stop, and it's me yelling "Go! Go! Go!"  As we creep past, our timid driver unsure, we see and I regret.  They are carrying a dead body, dripping wet, presumably drowned in the lake we are passing, and they are only trying to get him across the road.

We settle into a routine of opulent spender; red snapper, prawns and lobster in exotic Portegeuse and Morrocan sauces, in some of my favourite restaurants on the planet, walking the long beach in cool evening breezes, a gazillion white crabs frolicking in the surf, blue balled monkeys mock charge and scamper in the palms, then early morning breakfast buffets and long drives through slums and squalor, back to the airport and work.  I have yet to get a photo of white shirted dress pants ray ban wearing four bar Captains pushing the old rusted dilapidated tractor as the Engineer pops the clutch and the engine farts, misses, catches, burps black smoke and is soon hauling our shiny Italian AW139s out of the monkey infested hangar for another day's sortie, but rest assured, we are enjoying ourselves.