Gliding to China

Photo: The King Air of the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), being refuelled on the tarmac in Mazar e-Sharif. NGO staff can use these flights with approval from the organization.

I'm hopelessly hiding in the shadow sliver of the tail of a King Air. The blazing Mazar e-Sharif sun still finds me in the reflection off the tarmace on this Wednesday morning. Kaptein Pierre (didn't get his last name) comes over to inspect the refuelling progress which involves two Afghans in the bed of an ICRC stamped Toyota Land Cruiser with three drums of AvGas on the back. The pump is hooked on to the battery of the running vehicle, and I watch the ground cable melt onto the ground.

A burly blonde man with a thick Afrikaans accent, the good Kaptein tells me he hails from Middelburg. I am not at all surprised to find a fellow-boer at the helm. If you’ve ever landed safely in a place where people may be inclined to shoot you down, chances are you have to thank a bush pilot named van der Merwe or van Heerden.

The last of the cargo is fed into the belly of the plane. The ground cables detached. I feel a gentle trickle of sweat running down my spine. A welcome breeze appears, my scarf licks at my cheeks. At the thumbs-up from the captain in the cockpit, we board.

Buttons are pressed, dials adjusted, trim center, altimeter: Check. Right prop roars. Full throttle: check mixture. Rudder left, rudder right. Left prop joins in the chorus. It is music to my ears. I sit on the left side of the plane – two rows only divided by an aisle. A habit I guess, to sit left.

Surprisingly my nonprofit organization does not make use of these free ICRC flights, ostensibly because it is not really in the “culture”. Culture of what I am not sure – to take a free flight that will have me in the office in Kabul in two and a half hours, versus an expensive road mission in a beat-up Toyota that will take at least ten hours, in forty degree heat, and cost an exorbitant amount in repair and maintenance costs. Culture or no culture: my affinity for all things airborne might change that.

The Tibetan departee next to me swallows hard on a year’s worth of memories in this dusty little town in NW Afghanistan. I attended his going away at the only restaurant in town last night. Watched him construct a pyramid out of Heineken cans while nostalgically recalling the months gone by with his colleagues. I swallow in turn for the excitement of being here. I finally realize that I have come to love it here, almost in an instant.

How does one go from new arrival to feeling right at home. I don’t know. But that is how it is for me today, in this place, on this plane. Perhaps it has to do with the small breakthrough I experience with my deputy today. An Afghan male, known for his difficulty in working with women, actually carried my bag all the way to the gate to see me off. While this might seem insignificant now, trust me, in a culture where a brother might kill his sister for not lowering her eyes enough in public, and where this colleague has been accused of harassing the female staff for wearing makeup to work, these small gestures have come to mean something.

Photo: The runway in Faizabad

There is a long road ahead, and many things to talk about – but today, I’ll take my small victory.
Below the landscape changes between hues of browns and a dusting of red. Twenty more minutes to Faizabad in the beautiful furthest Northeastern province of Badakhshan, near the border with China, and then on to Kabul. On approach into the airport two ISAF (International Security Assistance Force) helicopters fail to announce themselves on the radio and we have to do a go-around. It is mountainous. We glide through the air. The sky is blue, below a patch work of greens and yellows.

We come in fast before Kaptein Pierre powers back almost completely for what is known as a “soft landing”, done on non-tarmac surfaces and short landing strips – both of which apply in this instance. The plane is left on the runway, made from a metal rug rolled out in the middle of a valley. A few more aid workers and an Afghan father with a cripple little girl board. We charge back down the runway and kiss the sky above the mountains as we turn southbound to Kabul where I will spend a few days meeting donors, visiting with Chris, and meeting up with old Baghdad friends who have since left that place behind too...

Photo: A father prays for his terrified crippled daughter on the ICRC flight. Presumably on their way to Kabul for the necessary treatment for her severly disfigured little feet, that is not be available in Faizabad.