last leg out
February 22 2008
The sandy airstrip is a 900 meter line drawn down the
Kurungu valley, like a hyphen in the middle of a long
sentence. From the air it looks inviting––an open
expanse of yellow in a sea of green acacia trees. Once
on the ground, however, the illusion disappears. The
Kurungu airstrip comes to a crown in the middle––either
end invisible from the other. And at both ends, the
trees tower in a beautiful and menacing way. Kurungu is
a weight-limited airstrip for our operations. And today
I have the Cessna 210 parked at its northern extremity.
It's now time to depart for Nairobi, for perhaps my
last leg out of the bush before we head home to America
for a time, and the takeoff promises to be tight.
After we're loaded up with our measured baggage, and my usual preflight check is finished, I eye a spot toward the centerline of the strip, just fifty feet or so away from the airplane, and move toward it. The bustle of people around the plane fades as my boots crunch along. Head low and eyes squinting shut, I watch my footsteps and think about how many times I've done this. Like a dog that paces in a circle before setting down to sleep, my little ritual is partly for my own comfort, and partly something to laugh at if you're not the dog. I find my spot and stand still. And then I close my eyes and listen to the wind.
The wind speaks to a pilot––sometimes in a friendly voice, and other times not. Facing the gentle gale, eyes shut and chin up (smiling slightly,) I turn my body until the airflow breaks over my right ear creating a sound like the rumble of a microphone caught in a breeze without its fuzzy cover. At that very spot, I kick my boot fore and aft in the dirt, drawing a line. Turning to the left I repeat the motions at the cue of my other ear, and opening my eyes I look down to see an arrow drawn on the earth. The little scar is as fleeting as the wind itself, but it will serve its purpose. It tells me which direction the gusty breeze is averaging to. That, with the motion of the trees, tells me what to expect on takeoff––if I should be especially cautious, or if the sky is giving me a little gift today: A stiff headwind and more altitude over the trees at the end of the runway.
Of all the challenges I've encountered flying in Africa, some of the scariest things I've done have been tailwind takeoffs. (Sometimes there's just no other option.) Because an airplane, once its wheels leave the kiss of the earth, becomes one with the wind, and moves accordingly. The trees, on the other hand, stay right where they are.
Wind on the tail means a shallow climb. On the nose, a steep climb. A crosswind combines one of those with the added excitement of drifting toward the foliage just a wingspan from centerline. Today I will have a quartering headwind if I throttle up to the south. I'll take any headwind I can get here at Kurungu, so south it is.
I am amazed at how our "normal" flying in Africa still quickens my pulse. I've not lost that healthy fear of flying so essential to a bush pilot. A fear of overloaded airplanes. Of mud and mountains. Of the wind which, well, can change like the wind. Ten years of experience, and I still double check my numbers. Still stroll down the runway and kick an arrow in the sand.
At the northern side now, nose pointed south, half the runway out of sight as it drops down below the crown, I am disheartened at how short the whole airstrip looks. I've been here before. Disheartened at this very picture. The calculations say it will be fine. My heart says, "whoa!" You can only account for so much with a cardboard slide-rule from the bottom of your flight bag. The variables are complex. How soft is soft? How shifty are the whims of the wind? And so I pick a point at which to abort––some bush or noticeable discoloration in the dirt. If the airplane can't accelerate to expectations by the mark, I'll yank the throttle and shutter to a stop, and figure out later what to do next.
Now the airplane and I sit idle––the engine sipping fuel and sounding like a Harley. The throttle ready in my right hand. The abort point fixed in my sights. It's mid-morning here at Kurungu, but it feels like 'high noon' as I stare steely-eyed at the trees nine hundred meters opposite. A goat ambles across the airstrip, like a wisp of tumbleweed, oblivious to the tension around it. I glance at the abort point again, and mash the throttle forward swiftly. We roar, shutter, roll, and eventually fly––clearing the trees just as my cardboard calculator said we would.
The rest of the day would be easy and adrenaline-free. A high altitude cruise back home, above the bumps and the clouds. Cool air and a friend in the seat next to me. Ted and I came out to Kurungu to shoot video for a ministry project. It was the sort of flight we dreamed about years ago when together we brainstormed the idea of a media team for AIM based on the field. So with cameras in tow, and a bunch of our kids in the back seat, we headed up to this green valley in Northern Kenya for a few days "on assignment." It was a great mix of flying and filming. But it was really all about serving. It's always about that, which is one of the best things about our jobs.
I remember some years ago when the Army came up with a clever ad campaign (later adopted by the Peace Corps) "The toughest job you'll ever love." They dropped it some time later for a less clever campaign, but the old slogan pops into my head pretty often out here... At those moments when I'm the most tired. The most scared. Or the most blessed––to serve alongside a good friend, and to be a servant to some really good people. Three days in Kurungu helped me to see it again. I think missionaries could give the Army PR department a run for its money. This is the toughest job you'll ever love. Hoo-ah.
(PS- The picture used for the graphic header of this web-page is of the Cessna Caravan sitting on Kurungu airstrip, positioned for takeoff... northbound.)
After we're loaded up with our measured baggage, and my usual preflight check is finished, I eye a spot toward the centerline of the strip, just fifty feet or so away from the airplane, and move toward it. The bustle of people around the plane fades as my boots crunch along. Head low and eyes squinting shut, I watch my footsteps and think about how many times I've done this. Like a dog that paces in a circle before setting down to sleep, my little ritual is partly for my own comfort, and partly something to laugh at if you're not the dog. I find my spot and stand still. And then I close my eyes and listen to the wind.
The wind speaks to a pilot––sometimes in a friendly voice, and other times not. Facing the gentle gale, eyes shut and chin up (smiling slightly,) I turn my body until the airflow breaks over my right ear creating a sound like the rumble of a microphone caught in a breeze without its fuzzy cover. At that very spot, I kick my boot fore and aft in the dirt, drawing a line. Turning to the left I repeat the motions at the cue of my other ear, and opening my eyes I look down to see an arrow drawn on the earth. The little scar is as fleeting as the wind itself, but it will serve its purpose. It tells me which direction the gusty breeze is averaging to. That, with the motion of the trees, tells me what to expect on takeoff––if I should be especially cautious, or if the sky is giving me a little gift today: A stiff headwind and more altitude over the trees at the end of the runway.
Of all the challenges I've encountered flying in Africa, some of the scariest things I've done have been tailwind takeoffs. (Sometimes there's just no other option.) Because an airplane, once its wheels leave the kiss of the earth, becomes one with the wind, and moves accordingly. The trees, on the other hand, stay right where they are.
Wind on the tail means a shallow climb. On the nose, a steep climb. A crosswind combines one of those with the added excitement of drifting toward the foliage just a wingspan from centerline. Today I will have a quartering headwind if I throttle up to the south. I'll take any headwind I can get here at Kurungu, so south it is.
I am amazed at how our "normal" flying in Africa still quickens my pulse. I've not lost that healthy fear of flying so essential to a bush pilot. A fear of overloaded airplanes. Of mud and mountains. Of the wind which, well, can change like the wind. Ten years of experience, and I still double check my numbers. Still stroll down the runway and kick an arrow in the sand.
At the northern side now, nose pointed south, half the runway out of sight as it drops down below the crown, I am disheartened at how short the whole airstrip looks. I've been here before. Disheartened at this very picture. The calculations say it will be fine. My heart says, "whoa!" You can only account for so much with a cardboard slide-rule from the bottom of your flight bag. The variables are complex. How soft is soft? How shifty are the whims of the wind? And so I pick a point at which to abort––some bush or noticeable discoloration in the dirt. If the airplane can't accelerate to expectations by the mark, I'll yank the throttle and shutter to a stop, and figure out later what to do next.
Now the airplane and I sit idle––the engine sipping fuel and sounding like a Harley. The throttle ready in my right hand. The abort point fixed in my sights. It's mid-morning here at Kurungu, but it feels like 'high noon' as I stare steely-eyed at the trees nine hundred meters opposite. A goat ambles across the airstrip, like a wisp of tumbleweed, oblivious to the tension around it. I glance at the abort point again, and mash the throttle forward swiftly. We roar, shutter, roll, and eventually fly––clearing the trees just as my cardboard calculator said we would.
The rest of the day would be easy and adrenaline-free. A high altitude cruise back home, above the bumps and the clouds. Cool air and a friend in the seat next to me. Ted and I came out to Kurungu to shoot video for a ministry project. It was the sort of flight we dreamed about years ago when together we brainstormed the idea of a media team for AIM based on the field. So with cameras in tow, and a bunch of our kids in the back seat, we headed up to this green valley in Northern Kenya for a few days "on assignment." It was a great mix of flying and filming. But it was really all about serving. It's always about that, which is one of the best things about our jobs.
I remember some years ago when the Army came up with a clever ad campaign (later adopted by the Peace Corps) "The toughest job you'll ever love." They dropped it some time later for a less clever campaign, but the old slogan pops into my head pretty often out here... At those moments when I'm the most tired. The most scared. Or the most blessed––to serve alongside a good friend, and to be a servant to some really good people. Three days in Kurungu helped me to see it again. I think missionaries could give the Army PR department a run for its money. This is the toughest job you'll ever love. Hoo-ah.
(PS- The picture used for the graphic header of this web-page is of the Cessna Caravan sitting on Kurungu airstrip, positioned for takeoff... northbound.)
happiness is a bag well packed
February 15 2008
(NTY)
Update on Kenya: "A Kenya Redrawn" - NYT article
We will soon have the luxury of packing our suitcases. Renee and I are preparing to head home for an early furlough. I've booked tickets for March 7th, and we'll arrive in New Jersey the next day. And so, we are packing up a bit, which I realized today, is something to be thankful for. In Kenya the number of displaced or uprooted has reached 600,000. Most of them have fled with nothing. Some watched their homes and livelihoods go up in flames, and some simply ran with no time to pack a single bag for the journey. The country sits in a suspended state. Violence has mostly quelled as Kenyans wait and watch to see what international peace talks can do to bring Kenya back to where it was only two months ago. Life is semi-normal, except for the mass redistribution of ethnic communities throughout. The economy is suffering greatly, and more tragically, many of the poorest Kenyans along with it.
It seems wrong to leave at such a time as this. I am so used to running (or flying rather) into the trouble spots, instead of away from them. Our departure has nothing to do with Kenya's situation, however. We are landing in New Jersey because my dad is there. He's been recently released from the hospital and continues his cancer treatments as a very fragile out-patient. I think there are literally thousands of people praying for he and my mother right now. All of us hoping for dad to stay on top of the leukemia. And dad, not surprisingly, just wants to get back to the ministry... his heart far stronger than his body.
Over the past two months we have followed dad's struggle from afar. With a flurry of emails and scratchy Skype calls home, we've been able to stay informed. But his illness is still so far removed, and I do not think the reality of it will hit us until we see him again. In some way, dad will be unrecognizable. But not entirely. I wonder if Kenya will be the same way to us when we eventually return.
Right now, we can see only a few months down the road. This is true for Kenya as well as our lives. As a pilot, I'm accustomed to always having a plan and a reasonable alternate in mind. So, this is new and unsettling territory. But for Renee, a professional suitcase-packer if I've ever seen one, the thought of going here or there on a moment's notice is some kind of grand adventure. I am far too "responsible" for such abandon. Renee just smiles that smile––the one she used to use on me when we were dating––and somehow draws me into her fabulous plan. "Let's just trust God."
(I'm so lucky to have her.)
displaced
February 01 2008
IDP. Another acronym you learn in Africa.
Internally Displaced Peoples are, by
definition, refugees in their homeland. Presumably a
little more fortunate than a flat-out refugee. A little
less fortunate than a homeless kid on the streets of
Nairobi.
An IDP camp is a safe haven. An in-between. It's food and shelter. A caring person to come alongside. A place where people sit around and shake their heads, or bury them in their hands. Homeless, bankrupt, possibly lost a husband or a child in the chaos. Questioning why. Questioning God. And sometimes, planning revenge.
I've been to a few of these camps over the years. In Congo, hidden in the lush green of the Ituri forrest. The smell of smoke and palm oil and humanity numbering tens of thousands. In Sudan; humid, naked, dark. In Mozambique; wet. All of them hungry. Some of them filled with the warmth of people who hold fast to a sovereign God. Some of them inconsolable.
Yesterday, our little media team visited two camps in the Kenya highlands. I think figures have topped 300,000 as to the total number of Kenyans currently displaced in this country. These that we visited were not large camps. Merely hundreds. Showing up late at night in a dump truck. The pastor getting a knock on the door. Can he open up the church compound for "refugees?" He does, and after two days there are 1,200 men, women, and so many, many children. And before long there are tents from the Rotary Club. And a huge shelter constructed in the parking lot thanks to a local businessman. Food from the mission. Vehicles summoned to get more people. Logistics to find new homes for the swelling numbers in the camp. It is a situation repeated all over the country. Almost overnight the demographics of Kenya have changed as people flee heterogeneous areas and cluster according to tribe. And the question looms; will anyone ever go back?
We talked with a number of Kenyans from both sides of the strife. To pastors in the middle. To missionaries trying to stay on the sidelines and not pick sides. As a media department in AIM, we are looking for the stories of reconciliation in the midst of the awful stories streaming out of Kenya. But perhaps we are too early. The wounds are still so new, and fresh ones are inflicted every day. The people in these camps have lost everything––many to the very neighbors they have lived beside for decades. We ask if they will forgive. Typically the answer is "I don't know." And then we ask what forgiveness means. And most are at a loss for answers.
I think the answers will come. I sat with the pastor of the church there and encouraged him to press on. He said he was tired. I told him that I thought God was in all this, nodding my head in the direction of the camp taken root in his church parking lot. He agreed. God is doing something. Perhaps something good.
(Pictures from my visit to the camps)
...and a really good link on all that's going on here:
BBC Special report on Kenya
~~~~~~~
It is a beautiful Saturday afternoon here in Nairobi. Sunny with a warm breeze. Happy even. But it is not hard to imagine the degrees of sadness all around us. And even so, my heart is turned toward home most of all––like the IDPs sitting and waiting and thinking of their homes. Renee and I glance at a picture of my mom and dad twenty times a day and are sometimes filled with warmth, like people who hold fast to a sovereign God, and sometimes we are just inconsolable.
We have now booked tickets home to New Jersey. Leaving in one month. Bringing my dad the two grandchildren he wished he could gaze upon. Bringing my mom that shoulder she specifically requested to cry on.
Dad should be out of the hospital in a week, or two. There's no promise as to how long he will stay out, and we hope to arrive while he's still home. I don't really know how much we can do to help my parents right now. Maybe a lot, or not so much. But I do know what a treasured gift it will be to all four of us just to be around my father for a time. Renee and I have been discussing the value of a heritage lately––in the context of the gifts we can give to our children. And there's something really special about my dad that we hope Amelia and Zach will take to heart and carry with them all of their days.
"Thank you" to those of you who have helped pay for the tickets home. This trip for us falls under what our mission calls "compassionate leave." But it will turn into an early furlough, and perhaps we will be able to visit with some of you. Thanks, as always, for your prayers... even now as we prepare to become displaced.
~~~~~~~
Here's the story I wrote from my day in the Kibera slum. Man with a Message
An IDP camp is a safe haven. An in-between. It's food and shelter. A caring person to come alongside. A place where people sit around and shake their heads, or bury them in their hands. Homeless, bankrupt, possibly lost a husband or a child in the chaos. Questioning why. Questioning God. And sometimes, planning revenge.
I've been to a few of these camps over the years. In Congo, hidden in the lush green of the Ituri forrest. The smell of smoke and palm oil and humanity numbering tens of thousands. In Sudan; humid, naked, dark. In Mozambique; wet. All of them hungry. Some of them filled with the warmth of people who hold fast to a sovereign God. Some of them inconsolable.
Yesterday, our little media team visited two camps in the Kenya highlands. I think figures have topped 300,000 as to the total number of Kenyans currently displaced in this country. These that we visited were not large camps. Merely hundreds. Showing up late at night in a dump truck. The pastor getting a knock on the door. Can he open up the church compound for "refugees?" He does, and after two days there are 1,200 men, women, and so many, many children. And before long there are tents from the Rotary Club. And a huge shelter constructed in the parking lot thanks to a local businessman. Food from the mission. Vehicles summoned to get more people. Logistics to find new homes for the swelling numbers in the camp. It is a situation repeated all over the country. Almost overnight the demographics of Kenya have changed as people flee heterogeneous areas and cluster according to tribe. And the question looms; will anyone ever go back?
We talked with a number of Kenyans from both sides of the strife. To pastors in the middle. To missionaries trying to stay on the sidelines and not pick sides. As a media department in AIM, we are looking for the stories of reconciliation in the midst of the awful stories streaming out of Kenya. But perhaps we are too early. The wounds are still so new, and fresh ones are inflicted every day. The people in these camps have lost everything––many to the very neighbors they have lived beside for decades. We ask if they will forgive. Typically the answer is "I don't know." And then we ask what forgiveness means. And most are at a loss for answers.
I think the answers will come. I sat with the pastor of the church there and encouraged him to press on. He said he was tired. I told him that I thought God was in all this, nodding my head in the direction of the camp taken root in his church parking lot. He agreed. God is doing something. Perhaps something good.
(Pictures from my visit to the camps)
...and a really good link on all that's going on here:
BBC Special report on Kenya
~~~~~~~
It is a beautiful Saturday afternoon here in Nairobi. Sunny with a warm breeze. Happy even. But it is not hard to imagine the degrees of sadness all around us. And even so, my heart is turned toward home most of all––like the IDPs sitting and waiting and thinking of their homes. Renee and I glance at a picture of my mom and dad twenty times a day and are sometimes filled with warmth, like people who hold fast to a sovereign God, and sometimes we are just inconsolable.
We have now booked tickets home to New Jersey. Leaving in one month. Bringing my dad the two grandchildren he wished he could gaze upon. Bringing my mom that shoulder she specifically requested to cry on.
Dad should be out of the hospital in a week, or two. There's no promise as to how long he will stay out, and we hope to arrive while he's still home. I don't really know how much we can do to help my parents right now. Maybe a lot, or not so much. But I do know what a treasured gift it will be to all four of us just to be around my father for a time. Renee and I have been discussing the value of a heritage lately––in the context of the gifts we can give to our children. And there's something really special about my dad that we hope Amelia and Zach will take to heart and carry with them all of their days.
"Thank you" to those of you who have helped pay for the tickets home. This trip for us falls under what our mission calls "compassionate leave." But it will turn into an early furlough, and perhaps we will be able to visit with some of you. Thanks, as always, for your prayers... even now as we prepare to become displaced.
~~~~~~~
Here's the story I wrote from my day in the Kibera slum. Man with a Message
