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.