I’m sitting in the last row of the plane, window seat. The only way to get farther back in the plane is if I went to the toilet, which is conveniently placed directly behind my head. It’s good to hear that everyone is kindly flushing when they are finished. Of course, getting there might be a problem.
That would mean asking the handicapped woman in the center seat to wake and get out. She seems so peaceful, sleeping with her hand in my lap, leaning on my shoulder. She must be dreaming something nice, every so often she shudders in her sleep. I hope she doesn’t dream about squeezing tomatoes, or I could be in trouble.Even if I were able to wake her, she would have to ask the overweight guy on the isle seat to get up, which could be a challenge for him as well. Having an overweight guy on the end upsets the balance of the entire isle – we all have to shift over a little, causing me to have to get a lot more friendly with the window than I prefer. I may never stand up straight again.Using the inside armrest is out of the question.
Such is the state of travel these days. With bankrupt airlines and skyrocketing fuel prices, flights are getting less frequent and a lot more full. Gone are the days when a kind word and a smile would get you in a row with an empty center seat, or discovery that you were in the last row would evoke profuse apologies and assignment to a seat closer to the sharp end of the aircraft. I remember years ago, meeting the in-laws at the airport, being somewhat impressed with my father-in-law’s suit. He had dressed specifically for the trip, remarking that he had aways felt travel was a “dress-up thing”. Now, it’s flip-flops and shorts. Clean shirt is optional.
Of course, no discussion of modern travel would be complete without noting the extreme lengths that our government has gone to keep us safe from the bad guys. Some fool mistakes his shoe laces for fuses on an international flight, and for years everyone is exposing the holes in their socks for the world to admire (and smell). We remove our shoes, our belts, our watches and our dignity all in the name of flight safety. We defiantly dispose of our shampoo, our shaving cream and our deodorant. We are excellent at protecting ourselves from things that have been tried already.
Just surrender now, they have won. We are completely and utterly terrorized.
Still, at least they are fairly consistent, which is more than I can say for Africa. It is now a couple of weeks later and I’m sitting in a little two-engine turboprop, heading north. I think we are going to Cabinda, but we may stop in Soyo. I’ve never been to Soyo, but I doubt I’ll be able to take in the sights, even if we do land. Too bad, I was really hoping for a Big Ball Of String, The World’s Largest Frying Pan, or something equally interesting. Not really sure what Soyo is famous for.
The plane has 9 seats but there are only 7 people aboard. I know a couple of them. One guy I know just arrived from Houston. He has the bloodshot eyes and morning stubble of a person who recently slept on a plane. We get to see a lot of people in that condition over here. If there is one thing that just about everyone in Malongo has in common, it’s the expectation of a long flight in the future, or the memory of flights gone by.
They like to check things in Angola. It seems like every trip I end up opening my bag or my backpack several times. I’m sure my zippers are way beyond their warranty period. This time, one of the nationals whispered in my ear, “They’re new.”
This being a national flight, I didn’t expect too much, but these guys looked through everything. The smartly dressed and very stern official would point to various things in my bag, wanting to know what they were. I have learned to be completely honest, as everyone should be: “That’s the hood ornament from my Lada.” or “Please be careful, that contains the ashes of my dear departed goldfish.” He seemed satisfied. Meanwhile, the guy next to me was trying to explain that the boxer shorts with images of Mickey Mouse and Pluto mud wresling were really his.
Later we get to fly in a helicopter. It’s fun, if you don’t think about the fact that practically all the pilots learned to fly during some war – Vietnam, Angolan Civil War, The Gulf War or The French Revolution. They’re probably all suffering from post tramatic stress syndrome. If one of them has a flashback, we may be in for an exciting ride. I wonder if they will let me open the door and strafe the trees.
We are now in Soyo, I guess we decided to visit after all. I’d forgotten what it is famous for: The Congo! Soyo is right at the end of the river, a small town that has probably been there since the days of the explorers. The Congo is an amazing river – written about by everyone from Edgar Rice Buroughs to Michael Criton. It separates the now peaceful Angola from the not-so-peaceful Democratic Republic of Congo. Over there they are shooting people. But all that is at least two miles away. Perfectly safe. No problem. We’ll fly incognito.
The Congo is way more intresting than The Big Ball of String. It’s huge! The delta goes on for miles and I can see water under the trees. The river meets the Atlantic in great muddy sworls. I can just imagine Jane being swept into the current while picking fruit for hubby’s dinner, Tarzan diving into the water, knife in his teeth, to save her from the crocadiles once again.
I’m listening to music as I fly, as many people do. I love listening to music in small aircraft. When I was working in Kazakstan I used to try to time my music so Credence Clearwater Revival “Run through the Jungle” was playing just as the plane was making those last maneuvers before landing at the airstrip at the oilfield. I would imagine myself to be in Vietnam, angling in to take out a few more of those evil NVA. It seemed better than thinking about the business presentation that I was there for.
We are landing in Cabinda now. Quito Rhymer is singing reggae, reminding me of an evening at Cane Garden Bay, dancing with Liz after we renewed vows on the beach. Quito was there himself, playing just for us (or so we believed). We get off the plane, and almost immediately hear the low thump of the helicopter that will carry us to camp. It’s getting dark and the pilot is in a hurry, so we board the helicopter with the blades still turning overhead, the pilot is handing out life jackets as we board. Before long we are over water, oil rigs and flares reminding us of where we are. Ten minutes later we are in camp, landing next to a dozen other helicopters, all down for the day.
We step off the helicopter, grab our bags and head for our rooms. Survived another one.