independence

with the light familiar touch of an experienced loverboy, i push her button marked starter. a dull whine confirms the engine immediately and obediently coming to life. spooling up in anticipation of what i will ask of her. when the gas generator reaches 18% of its more than 35,000 rpm capacity, i move the condition lever to ground idle and give her a taste of sweet oily kerosene. light-off.

hot exhaust gases passing through the power turbines in a rapidly increasing feverish pitch of ecstasy. i verify that oil pressure is rising; making sure she is getting the proper lubrication (always very important). the propeller coming out of feather and automatically setting its pitch, the starter clicking off and handing me the reins: the purrin' turbine, all parameters stabilized. she's ready to play: 1200 wild stallions safely corralled and eager to do their cowboy captain's bidding. haaw!

taxiing out in the pre-dawn gloom; weaving around potholes on the ramps and taxiways. a mastered minefield. muscle memory. quickly running through flows and checklists: a mere formality at this stage of intimacy between my bird and i. the usual air traffic control incompetence and arrogance of thinking they actually have any sway over my sleek hot rod.

lights on, windshield and probe heat on, condition lever to flight idle, a quick 180 at the end of the runway to line up. pull the rubber band back off your finger, and....fliiing!

we blast off over the still waters of lake victoria. the world sleeps. only a few solitary fishermen paddling wooden dugout canoes to their favorite holes. the air is smoky grey glass. it's impossible to perceive any aircraft movement at all. feeling frozen in place within the broken stratus layers; like a bug trapped in the sticky amber of space/time.

the only reassurance that i'm in motion is the overkill digitalized instrumentation in front of me: a moving map. the upward tick of dme marking 14.1, 14.2, 14.3 nautical miles from the airfield. airspeed increasing through 150 knots; altimeters indicating an ascent from the dismal dingy bowels of man's villes, skyward towards the last glinting light of changeless morning stars.


between layers, the great gassy orb of old blasts hot creamsicle®-orange light my way through the misty jungle humidity. solar flares reaching out and trying to touch me through 93 million miles of oblivion. i am the tiny fly who is just a hair too quick for the lizard's uncoiling tongue.

vaporous fluffies hum over the airfoils; soft cotton balls that would surely welcome me in a floating embrace like a charmin' double-quilted feather pillow boobie bouncy castle. that is, if i were to take a morning promenande off of one of the wings.

the light is warm and juicy, fresh squeezed (with pulp) and dripping through the splotches of swirly charcoal grey. below, serpentine chocolate-milk rivers wind their way in and around the bunched jolly green giant broccoli. people are beginning to stir in their beds, another incomprehensible performance of the broadway smash comedy-tragedy called life is about to begin.

leveling at 24,000 feet, i engage the autopilot and unbuckle my shoulder harness. scratch my nutsack like the free man i am. sliding my seat back to stretch the ol' legs; grabbing my thermos and pouring a cup of steaming ugandan tea. jet-a for my girl; a granola bar for her dirty hippy.

nice work, captain. you should relax for the next 300 miles, maybe listen to your ipod. just kick it. george can do the rest.

off the right wing, southern sudan is bathing in the full force of streaming morning sunshine. 6 months ago, the black christian/animist south overwhelmingly voted to secede from the arab muslim north. today is the first day of long-overdue independence, and i don't think anyone is sure of what that will bring.

the south has oil; lots of it. however, the pipeline goes through the north before being disgorged to waiting tankers in port sudan. i'm not a smart man, but i somehow doubt that khartoum's supreme ruler-for-life and resident dickhead al-bashir is gonna just let this one go in the name of freedom and democracy. i mean, those gold plated toilets on his private jets aren't going to pay for themselves.

already, refugees are streaming southwards out of abyei and south kordofan. the situation is a tinderbox only awaiting a spark to reignite civil war. is there a chance that maybe this once human beings will be able to settle a dispute peacefully? history would argue against.

i glance below me at uganda: one year ago, islamic extremists bombed a crowded restaurant in kampala, killing 74 and injuring 70 more. this year brings doubled food prices for staple items such as rice, beans, and flour. crop failures from an intense drought in the north of the country have lead to scarcity and sky-high premiums. and it's all topped off by rising fuel costs for transport. the result is continuing price riots and strikes in the capital.

as usual, the effects are most strongly felt by the huge lower economic class. a dollar or two increase on meals when i go out to eat; but this is half a day's wages for many people.


economic disparities and financial pressures make homo erectus do funny things. even those you'd never suspect: this morning, reports of the orphanage's donated money and food being diverted for private gain. things being used or sold by third parties while the kids get porridge or nothing. a whole van full of food, brought every week, has been mysteriously disappearing.

it seems that generosity often leads to dependency and corruption. it certainly is the reality of many good-intentioned "humanitarian aid" projects that i've seen in my time on the continent. do you stop trying, stop giving? what is the answer to this type of quandary? and isn't the greedy abuse of magnanimity exactly what's wrong with the world, on a much larger scale?


the endless tug-of-war between equalization and hoarding.

i stare out the window of my $8 million dollar airplane towards the democratic republic of congo: lowest per-capita gdp in the world. one of the most resource-rich countries on the planet, and yet its people have the absolute rock-bottom standard of living compared to anyone else. this is not counting hiv-aids, wars, malaria, an average of 48 rapes per hour, or their 47-year life expectancy.

what a mess. i feel like another fat blubbering dick in his lofty talk-radio perch. many words, little substance.

abundance without essentiality is the curse of the west. we have everything in our instant-gratification modern credit-based life, and yet true contentment and happiness are such rarities. our coagulated consumer culture triggers a demand for legal and illegal chemical-based refuge. psychotherapy and anti-depressant pharmaceuticals. slaves to the clock, slaves to the man. is this really any closer to living as a free human being?

inevitably, the time comes to descend. we let down. we are let down? the glorious arcing trajectory of hope always seems to dwindle; the sad realities of selfishness and endless petty mundane banal bullshit always re-entering the picture.

or maybe that's just the natural order of things? decay. entropy. survival of the fittest. the second law of thermodynamics. what have you.

downward, burning out like a meteorite. back to the world of men.


******

when the day is done, my thirsty aircrew head over to the red rooster to shoot pool and rehydrate with some refreshing adult beverages.


it's nice to come here in the early afternoon if you don't have to work cause you will have the place to yourself. normally, the pillars of the community come filtering in around dusk: the usual crowd of whores, bastards, thieves, and madmen.

i buy a round for the hookers and madmen. probably a worthless pathetic insignificant humanitarian gesture in the long-term, but they seem to appreciate it. a couple of the whores want to play pool with me. tonight is my night of billiards glory; a strong geometry background helping me dethrone some of the local legends for a few fleeting moments. i am content with my lot.

soon the castle milk stouts vs. billard ability bell curve begins sloping off; my angular aptitudes quickly descending back to the levels of normal men. one of the whores sinks a lucky eight-ball shot, sealing my fate. she gives me a hug, whispering something in my ear about sticks and balls.

the mosquitos are hovering, and i retreat to my solitary dark corner voyeur's roost. survey the scene. wrap my paws around a cold tasty. just one more and then we'll go.

a dark-eyed beauty across the room. her desperate gaze is locked on to me for dear life. something about her is different. she doesn't belong here. i see her get up and walk towards me.

we try to talk, but it's too loud to catch very much. the dj is playing that same sappy crappy corporate-autotuned pop hip-hop bullshit that passes for music today. you know, the kind without any actual musical instruments in it.

i take her out of there. we go out to the street to get some dinner. she gets chicken and chips. doesn't speak much english. doesn't speak much french. i'm ignorant of her tribal tongue. with a sparse vocabulary between us, and some hand signals, i gather the following information:

she's 16 years old. from rwanda. new to town. a few months ago her mother died. she just started doing this to feed her younger brothers and sisters. there is still an innocence to her; a reluctance to choose this as a life. scared and searching eyes looking for a way out.

me and my savior complex. i try to tell her everything i can: that she's beautiful. that although the money may be good this is no kind of life. that she should go to school, etc. etc. you know, all the easy solutions readily produced by someone who's not in the situation themselves.

much is lost in translation. we exhaust our vocabularies. abandoned by tongues, the conversation falters like a desert stream dissipating underground into the sterile sands. she is locked up in her language, as i am in mine. it's not fair. it's not fucking fair.

this is somebody's little girl.

she turns and leaves, getting on the back of a boda boda and speeding off into the loneliest night. a verse stuck in my head as the ruby taillight becomes indistinguishable amongst all the others:

on the back of a motorbike
with your arms outstretched trying to take flight
leaving everything behind

but even at our swiftest speed
we couldn't break from the concrete
in the city where we still reside


******


what is independence?

is it freedom from want? having self-determination? a matter of where and when you happen to be born, not trapped by circumstances? having a full belly and warm bed and 30 years of indentured servitude to pay for it? an refreshing absence of passed-on prejudices during your formative years?

i don't know.

eventually and inevitably, the ethanol and quiet corner contemplation coalesce, and it's time to leave. driven home by the sadness and frustration of another day's aborted human potential.

i yearn for the time when mothers and fathers will stand with their children, stranded under endless sky, and proclaim:


now we are free.