Since we’re on the subject, Swamp Rat, who exactly is bitching here. Most awe-inspiring place I ever flew. I’ll say it again, at least until you guys get it; God Herself lives in the magnificent skies over Africa, of that I have no doubt whatsoever. Anyone have a reasonably intelligent argument with that?
So, there we were, in a B-720, parked on the Kananga ramp, 9Q-CTD if any plane spotters are interested. The flight from Kinshasa was the usual ICTZ T-storm duck, dodge and weave operation. And there, on the ramp for our arrival, in all his golden uniformed and Swiss bank-accounted glory, was the Marshall Mobutu himself. Holy Sh@t my brothers and sisters, an appointment with destiny, that little voice inside that whispers, one might want to tread delicately in such close proximity to celebrity A-List thugs.
Casual murder being what it is in Africa, a cheerful no-offence-intended blood sport mostly I gather, and our well-honed aversion to same, we dutifully assemble under the chipped and dented radome of our ancient Boeing Seven, applauding raucously as the Big M himself strides the ramp. All the while bestowing blessings on the lesser folk of this impossibly miserable planet. How could it exist without the Marshall, God forfend!
He even nodded my way, brushes with greatness have never been my thing. I’m still trying to fathom the ultimate meaning of that one. Rumor had it that the Marshall’s Great Mahogany Throne was installed somewhere in the mid section of his 707. I don’t know, personally, I never saw it first hand, but it rings true, in an intuitive sort of way. Sometimes it helps to finish off the bottle of Johnny or Jack, as you will, provides a measure of temporary closure that comforts and protects. Against the insects at the very least. That’s how those things go in Africa.
But I digress. The Marshall, installed in his over-wing greatness, dutifully orders his pilots to light the fires. Four spit-shined Pratt JT3-7’s are now spooling up, the incline of the ramp dictating considerable break-away thrust, that gorgeous smell of jet kerosene, the inexorable and dizzying intoxication of willful and final escape, mounting its grand and forceful presence over the African landscape. Billowing, pregnant cumulus towering to impossible breadths, heights, continental by any other description, all around the field.
A more magical place, you’ve never been, I think…duty calls, to be continued…