leaving

the timing of the universe.

no one else wants to go, and my chief pilot comes to beg me. as much as i love congo and it's people, and although i am not quite ready to leave, i volunteer to be reassigned to abeche, chad.

i will be a twin otter captain. we will be flying to the muddy strips alongside the darfur refugee camps on the border with sudan.

here's an excerpt from a travel warning issued the same day i am reassigned:

November 14, 2008

The Department of State warns U.S. citizens of the risks of traveling to Chad and recommends that American citizens not affiliated with humanitarian relief efforts avoid all travel to eastern Chad and the Chad/Central African Republic border area due to insecurity caused by banditry and clashes between Government and rebel forces. American citizens residing in Chad should exercise extreme caution throughout the country..... Armed rebel groups are active in the region and present real dangers.......The Chadian government is unable to guarantee the safety of visitors in most parts of the country......

i fly back to goma to collect my things and say goodbye to friends before returning to entebbe. the chad twin otter, N899AS, is undergoing a “d” check by the mechanics in uganda. it is in pieces in the hangar. at the earliest, it will take a few weeks before it is ready to fly home to abeche.

it's the first time i've been in goma for the last month and a half. i feel like i’m home.


goma: an old woman, a rare sight indeed. barely more than a skeleton. she's carrying a bundle of firewood on her head, and a 50-pound sack of charcoal on her back. the bag is attached to a forehead strap. the lines on her face tell of long years. tired eyes that have seen too much of this place.

driving past one of the open garbage dumps along the main street. in the middle of humanities' offal, a man has lost all his bearings. laying there in the middle of smoking piles of trash; his hands on his head.

a light acid rain is falling. people and waste. smoke. tired souls slogging through the mud with their water jugs. another hard day, exactly like the one before. and exactly like the ones to come. a short, brutal existence.

after spending 6 months here, i feel a deep connection to congo. it's earthy vibrations echo through my veins in the perfect rushing time of a heartbeat. i am leaving these people. i am forsaking the love i have for them, giving up on my fumbling attempts to improve their lives.



******



my last night i spend at doga's bar with my ngo buddies: mattie, angela, alice, helen, mathieu, and dorothea. i have a 7pm curfew. over pizza and beers, we swap tales of evacs, african jails, past parties, good times, comraderie. hope, despair. i'm still drinking suds and telling lies at 7:30 when the driver comes in to drag me off.

after taking a couple pictures and slamming my final mutzig lager, the crew line up by the door. hugs and handshakes and encouraging words. a few tears. fellow peacemakers in a land gripped by war.

deep in my gut i feel it. dammit, i'm not done with goma.

on the drive home i stare at nyiragongo's eerie orange glow through blurry eyes. at the house, i pack my stuff up and get ready to go to bed, when one last friend shows up to say goodbye.

she comes into my room and sits down on my bed. meowing.

rubbing against me like she did the first time we met; lovingly. my congolese girl...


splash has gotten herself pregnant in the time i've been away. she's starting to show. i remember when she was a starving kitten and i could count her ribs. when you have a tough life of survival, there’s one form of reprieve that can be ironically cruel. sex provides an escape, and then all too often, an additional burden of extra mouths to feed.

salty and sweet, like the memory of love.

now she sleeps with me. but sleeping with a pregnant woman is a touchy, sensitive business. similar to disarming a bomb, i would guess. she's hysterical one minute, attacking my toes and the mosquito net; and the next she's rubbing her nose against mine, grooming, turning around and around and around, laying down. getting up and turning again. forcing her way between my legs, making a little cave for herself. waking me up with demands for petting and attention.

it's a taste of what it must be like to have a pregnant wife.

i feel my 1.75 inches shriveling.



******



morning comes. it always does, no matter what you wish.

¿por qué te vas, tiempo? ¿por qué te vas?
¿que hiciste con aquellos años? ¿y con aquellos recuerdos?
tiempo, tiempo, ¿adónde vas?

she follows me to the kitchen, wanting food after providing me with a sleepless night. i open one last can of tuna fish for splash and her load of kittens. like always, the grey and black-striped tigress is trying to eat through the lid as i open it.

“you’re eating for 6 now. be sure and finish it all before the ants come.”

she meows her gratitude, rubbing her nose against mine and then plunging face first into the can.

then: "take care of yourself, now."

i scratch behind her ears one last time and make my getaway while she's distracted.

kittens. she’s still just a kitten herself.



******




driving to the airport, for the hundredth time around the potholes and burning trash piles, past the faces weathered by unrelenting life, struggle, hardship.

i preflight. in those awkward, swollen minutes before leaving, i receive calls from helen and angela saying goodbye and wishing me a safe journey. it's hard not to choke up.

edmond, kita, and papy have been hard workers and good guys on the ramp. they ask me: “why do the good pilots always leave?”

the flattering comment refers to how i’ve treated them, certainly not my flying abilities. we shake hands, as men do. i give them each a few dollars for their families. gratitude washes over faces. it is so easy to make a difference.

i sit in the back. a solitary seat next to the emergency exit. just in case i change my mind. i lean my heavy head against the window as the guys start engines. right then left. numb. drenched in the warm peace of sunshine. fumbling, i poke a straw into a juice box. bitter salt tears find their way through my cracked lips and mix with the sweet tang of orange.

taxiing. past the let-410s that have made my airspace a dangerous, daily midair-collision hazard. past the hewa bora 727 guys who always take-off so overloaded that the plane barely struggles into the air at the end of the runway. past the u.n. tanks and machine-gun bunkers. past the incompetent tower controller up there in his majestic phallic symbol of a house. past the wrecks and the aircraft trapped in lava. into position on runway 18.

up front, the guys run through the autofeather and power checks. N970AS shakes and strains to contain herself in anticipation of impending freedom. the vibrations are nearly more than she can take. the poor girl. whipped into a frenzy. sweet torture.

released. we accelerate down the runway. once again, the magic compromise between air molecules and mother earth plays out. at that perfect speed, the otter shifts her weight from wheels to wings, and we are off; mocking gravity in an encore performance.

turning right; climbing out over the lake, past the house, back over the town, overhead the field. toy aircraft, just micro-machines from here, are parked on the pavement 2,000 feet below. model helicopters are starting up, whirling their rotors; beating the air off. it's the closest they come to flying.

north. between twin volcanoes. along the red ribbon road that two weeks ago was flooded with refugees and rebels.

i am not ready to leave this place.

somewhere, down below in the dense jungle, general nkunda vows to keep fighting until he dies.