Where is my mind?

I'm still plugging away here in the jungles of Gabon, embracing the rainy muggy heat, smack dab on the equator along Africa's tantalizing Atlantic coast.  I've been fishing amongst my many contacts for rumours of future opportunities, wherever they may be, for our days here are numbered.  I watch with interest as container ship traffic plummets, a very good indicator that the entire global economy is on a downward swing.  A butterfly flaps it's wings.  More offshore oil rigs are being parked weekly. This storm ain't over yet and more and more good friends are finding themselves laid off.  I'm thinking the recovery just may take a little longer than my optimism has entertained.

Still, I'm flying plenty, and absolutely loving the lush green tucked under grey skies, seeing herds of elephant, buffalo and hippos almost daily.  That ain't so bad.  Take it one day at a time, there's adventures aplenty to be had.  Last weekend we found ourselves walking around town somewhat after hours, the sound of wailing electric guitars and live music drawing us into a rather shady looking hovel.  I'm blown away to witness a near perfect rendition of the Pixie's "Where is my mind?" by some local guys cutting it up through cheap Chinese amps.  One of the bar's many night fighters aggressively propositions my Zimbabwean buddy, and his rejections are met with angry screaming and yelling and a ridiculous waving of arms.  We aren't sure if he's really offended her, or if she's just making noise so we pay her to be quiet, but we end up ignoring her as I lose myself in the most authentic Pixie's cover I've ever heard.  My buddy eventually leaves with the angry courtesan in tow, still ranting and raving.  Even the singer notices the scene, commenting to the sweaty drunken crowd; "Can't we all just get along?"

For the most part the people really are lovely.  Of course there's the crazies that you could find most anywhere.  My favourite is the guy who walks around with his trunks literally around his knees, perhaps taking the fashion statement from the American youth with their pants hung stupidly low a tad too far.  If you happen to meet him in the street, he yells and waves his arms angrily at you but if you wave yours back with equal vigour, he wanders off harmlessly.

I spent the following day at the beach with a Dutch fellow who was working in Iran with Schreiner Airways when Khomeini overthrew the Shah in '79.  I had read James Clavell's Whirlwind, roughly based on Bristow trying to get their helicopters out of Iran at the time, when I was flying Jetrangers and living in tents in Northern Quebec bush camps, so I knew the story well.  It was something again to hear it from someone who was actually there.

The rain falls and the afternoons are lazy.  I think about my friend Juan, no longer with us.  I think about home. I think about the future.  Whatever comes next, the big blue ball keeps turning.....

*Google Edward Norton Lorenz for the butterfly reference.

Tribute to Juan Lemus

Hasta siempre hermano....

It's a very sad day today.  My very good friend, Juan Lemus, flying a Longranger L4 near the Nicaraguan and Costa Rican border, crashed on Tuesday.  He did not survive.  He was flying a Coca-Cola executive, and another from Tampa Juice, plus a former Nicaraguan Cabinet Chief that is still missing.  Visibility was an issue at the time of the crash.  I had chatted at length with Juan on Sunday about his spray operation in Nicaragua, something he was very proud of, and he offered opportunities for myself if ever the need should arise.  I will sorely miss my good friend.

I first met Juan in Morocco and we immediately became friends, flying together often, and spending lazy afternoons walking along the boardwalk of Agadir in search of the perfect cup of coffee.  We met up again in Suriname, where I was pleased to sign off his Captaincy on the AW139.  We discovered more than a few cool haunts in that South American jungle town, and I considered him to be one of my best friends.  I'll never forget that dive with the pool tables, of old barn boards on stilts out over the lazy Suriname River, Motown hits from the 60's competing with croaking frogs and cicadas, where we hung out most every night after discovering the place on one of our walkabouts, nor the evening trying to find each other in the traffic and mad crowds of Suriname's yearly festivals.

Juan presented me with one of my most prized possessions; a gorgeous, heavy weight Mont Blanc pen that he picked up in Dubai.  I'm using it now and it flies with me everywhere I go.  He had tons of style, was extremely competent at everything he did, and carried himself proudly but maintained a humility that impressed everyone he met.  He'd often entertain us as he reminisced of his days flying Mi-25s for the Nicaraguan Army in the 80's, and in the air he had the hands and feet of a master.  Hard working.  Uncomplaining.  A very good pilot.  A very good friend.  I will sorely miss you Juan.  I wish I had made it down for that visit......

Another day in the jungle

Another day of aviating over the jungle, surprisingly at ease in the close humid heat of Gabon's rainy season, damp and happy in my trim-fit 85% cotton uniform shirt, far more comfortable than the high-polyester company issue, my black special order buffalo hide Courteney boots, thirty year old Ray-Bans and David Clarks, DPx survival knife handy should ever the need arise.   Dodging buildups, the reds and yellows painting abstract art on our radar screen, jungle moisture climbing for the heavens in the African heat, and spectacular flashes of lightning against purple skies that could easily ruin one's day, watching families of elephants stroll leisurely down the forever beaches.

I'm haunted with an early morning image of one of our engineers; a good friend and Canadian to boot, snuggled unhappily between two Gabonese gendarmes in the back seat of the police SUV, another couple of serious looking policemen in the front, complete with mirrored sunglass.  I was genuinely concerned for my friend, but really wished I had the balls to pull out my camera and take a photo.  He looked scared, and rightfully so, claims a local, as these guys can be bad news.  My friend forgot his passport and could not produce it upon request. These roadside police stops are common enough, and he got caught out, and we were called to help.  We found his passport and delivered it as soon as we could, but the gendarmes were still unhappy.  The "ticket" for getting caught without one's passport increased exponentially each time we asked.  But when we said we'd pay if we could have a receipt for the infraction, the head gendarme firmly responded that the exorbitant fee would have to be sorted at the police station, and there would be no receipt.  Perhaps my pilot uniform and snazzy four bars helped sway the deal, especially when it was mentioned that we all worked for the oil company that pretty much owned the town, and miraculously another fee, nary a fraction, could sort it all right then and there and we could get on with our work.  Africa.  Would have been a great photo, but my friend still has a great story to tell.

As it is most everywhere I end up, internet has been sporadic and often non-existent.  One is bamboozled by our accommodations; clean, bright, modern and stylish, one almost expects first world amenities, but even here one wonders if there'll be water for a shower in the morning, or after returning from a full day of Super Pumas and dodging abstract radar images.  I take to grabbing a pailful of water from the tiny rooftop pool and wash up with that, smelling of soap and chlorine.   The landlady tries to woo the fire department into parting with some of their supply,  and we wonder about shortages when the stuff is everywhere, coursing through crocodile infested rivers from deep in the interior, even falling freely from the skies with increasing regularity.  Regardless, I really don't mind smelling like pool.

Walking around town on a rare day off, I hear squawking in the trees, to look up and see countless fruit bats clinging to the branches.  I take photos, poop falls on my head, then my buddy claps and the nightmare creatures take to the air in the thousands.  It's pretty cool.