Cargo Jet makes a 360 at 100’
Join Date: Mar 2015
Location: Washington state
Posts: 209
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Perhaps I am a bit paranoid but you do have to wonder a bit why there was somebody with a camera hanging out at the barbed wire fence at the start of the runway, and if you look in the second video there is a high speed zodiac that seems to be trying to track the plane...
Join Date: Aug 2015
Location: About to move
Posts: 36
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Perhaps I am a bit paranoid but you do have to wonder a bit why there was somebody with a camera hanging out at the barbed wire fence at the start of the runway, and if you look in the second video there is a high speed zodiac that seems to be trying to track the plane...
There is no excuse for not buckling up.
The pilot maybe at 100ft but the wing tip is about 70 feet above the sea which is a bit too close for comfort and to what end. He could have easily have increased height to a safe distance without altering the aircraft's configuration. Supposedly no pax but two other crew members at risk
Join Date: Mar 2019
Location: Prague
Posts: 65
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
With all respect I shortenen your post because it was too long to quote.
He flew that nicely, no doubt.
I admit it would be nice to fly like that. But that is Somalia. Most of people here probably do not fly in Somalia but that does not mean they are all bad and they do not even have basic flying skills. There are people on board. There are people on ground. There are people in other aircraft. The other aircraft are like everywhere around you. Are you going to do a fancy 360 just above ground because you got the skill and missed approach is for ... kittens?
And about the rules. How we decide when breaking the rules is ok and when it is not ok? There are rules or there are not rules. Selectively picking just rules I like is not the good way.
He flew that nicely, no doubt.
I admit it would be nice to fly like that. But that is Somalia. Most of people here probably do not fly in Somalia but that does not mean they are all bad and they do not even have basic flying skills. There are people on board. There are people on ground. There are people in other aircraft. The other aircraft are like everywhere around you. Are you going to do a fancy 360 just above ground because you got the skill and missed approach is for ... kittens?
And about the rules. How we decide when breaking the rules is ok and when it is not ok? There are rules or there are not rules. Selectively picking just rules I like is not the good way.
Join Date: Aug 2000
Location: Monrovia / Liberia
Age: 63
Posts: 757
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
meleagertoo well said.... pink string pilots versus blokes that know how to look out the window and 'figure it out' without recourse to flight directors and whatnot.
Go northeast of the airfield and you're immediately adjacent to the city itself... which is not a good place to be if you're averse to extra holes being shot / blown into your aeroplane or yourself.
Last time I landed in MGQ there were no instrument approach aids, no PAPI's, no runway lights, a vigorous dust storm blowing, the vis was approx 1 mile, with Presidential pax in the back of our Classic (non-GPS) B737, along with a sodding great map shift just to add to the fun (as no en-route navaids in Somalia for the FMC to update itself against)... thus revert to mk.1 eyeball, airmanship and experience.
Likewise on take-off there was none of that Jepessen rubbish. One followed the other chart (the colourful one shown above), i.e. as soon as one lifts off, crack it hard over to the right (making sure to miss that big sand dune) and bugger off out to sea (directly away from the city) as fast as one can go and at fairly low level, then climb to a good height before heading back towards the coast.... ergo pretty much precisely what you've described.
Go northeast of the airfield and you're immediately adjacent to the city itself... which is not a good place to be if you're averse to extra holes being shot / blown into your aeroplane or yourself.
Last time I landed in MGQ there were no instrument approach aids, no PAPI's, no runway lights, a vigorous dust storm blowing, the vis was approx 1 mile, with Presidential pax in the back of our Classic (non-GPS) B737, along with a sodding great map shift just to add to the fun (as no en-route navaids in Somalia for the FMC to update itself against)... thus revert to mk.1 eyeball, airmanship and experience.
Likewise on take-off there was none of that Jepessen rubbish. One followed the other chart (the colourful one shown above), i.e. as soon as one lifts off, crack it hard over to the right (making sure to miss that big sand dune) and bugger off out to sea (directly away from the city) as fast as one can go and at fairly low level, then climb to a good height before heading back towards the coast.... ergo pretty much precisely what you've described.
Last edited by Old King Coal; 5th Dec 2019 at 18:11.
Join Date: Mar 2010
Location: South Korea
Age: 62
Posts: 115
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Ninety/Two-Seventy
Some years ago I read the following on one of the threads here. Cant tell you where or who wrote it but I loved it so much I copied it onto my PC, hence I am able to paste it here for all to enjoy:
There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq , two hundred eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf; hotter than a rectal thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting. But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 2006, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology - namely, hand-me-down night vision goggles (NVGs) thrown out by the fighter boys. Additionally, my 1962 Lockheed C-130E Hercules is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes a nice soothing tone in your headset just before the missile explodes into your airplane. Who says you can't polish a turd? At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Baghdad International Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are the cat's ass. But I've digressed. The preferred method of approach tonight is the random shallow. This tactical manoeuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Personally, I wouldn't bet my pink ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we fly it. We get a visual on the runway at three miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots as we overfly the runway. Now the fun starts.It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herc to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the "Ninety/Two-Seventy." Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my nether regions start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to configure the pig for landing. "Flaps Fifty!, landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I lookover at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the NVGs, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at my steely eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am .... "Where do we find such fine young men? "Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aim-point and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there are no lights, I'm on NVGs, it's Baghdad , and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky. Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Goodyear's on brick-one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle and then force the props to full reverse pitch. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four Hamilton Standard propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air. The huge, one hundred thirty-thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a Viper do that!We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and letters from their sweethearts, look for war booty, and of course, urinate on Saddam's home. Then I thank God I'm not in the Army. Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there, too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model. It is however, time to get out of this hole. Hey copilot how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist." God, I love this job!!!!
There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq , two hundred eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf; hotter than a rectal thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting. But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over Baghdad tonight, and blacker than a Steven King novel. But it's 2006, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in night-combat technology - namely, hand-me-down night vision goggles (NVGs) thrown out by the fighter boys. Additionally, my 1962 Lockheed C-130E Hercules is equipped with an obsolete, yet, semi-effective missile warning system (MWS). The MWS conveniently makes a nice soothing tone in your headset just before the missile explodes into your airplane. Who says you can't polish a turd? At any rate, the NVGs are illuminating Baghdad International Airport like the Las Vegas Strip during a Mike Tyson fight. These NVGs are the cat's ass. But I've digressed. The preferred method of approach tonight is the random shallow. This tactical manoeuver allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Personally, I wouldn't bet my pink ass on that theory but the approach is fun as hell and that's the real reason we fly it. We get a visual on the runway at three miles out, drop down to one thousand feet above the ground, still maintaining two hundred eighty knots as we overfly the runway. Now the fun starts.It's pilot appreciation time as I descend the mighty Herc to six hundred feet and smoothly, yet very deliberately, yank into a sixty degree left bank, turning the aircraft ninety degrees offset from runway heading. As soon as we roll out of the turn, I reverse turn to the right a full two hundred seventy degrees in order to roll out aligned with the runway. Some aeronautical genius coined this maneuver the "Ninety/Two-Seventy." Chopping the power during the turn, I pull back on the yoke just to the point my nether regions start to sag, bleeding off energy in order to configure the pig for landing. "Flaps Fifty!, landing Gear Down!, Before Landing Checklist!" I lookover at the copilot and he's shaking like a cat ****ting on a sheet of ice. Looking further back at the navigator, and even through the NVGs, I can clearly see the wet spot spreading around his crotch. Finally, I glance at my steely eyed flight engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am .... "Where do we find such fine young men? "Flaps One Hundred!" I bark at the shaking cat. Now it's all aim-point and airspeed. Aviation 101, with the exception there are no lights, I'm on NVGs, it's Baghdad , and now tracers are starting to crisscross the black sky. Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I grease the Goodyear's on brick-one of runway 33 left, bring the throttles to ground idle and then force the props to full reverse pitch. Tonight, the sound of freedom is my four Hamilton Standard propellers chewing through the thick, putrid, Baghdad air. The huge, one hundred thirty-thousand pound, lumbering whisper pig comes to a lurching stop in less than two thousand feet. Let's see a Viper do that!We exit the runway to a welcoming committee of government issued Army grunts. It's time to download their beans and bullets and letters from their sweethearts, look for war booty, and of course, urinate on Saddam's home. Then I thank God I'm not in the Army. Knowing once again I've cheated death, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess?" Is it Duty, Honor, and Country? You bet your ass. Or could it possibly be for the glory, the swag, and not to mention, chicks dig the Air Medal. There's probably some truth there, too. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior, cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-machine model. It is however, time to get out of this hole. Hey copilot how's 'bout the 'Before Starting Engines Checklist." God, I love this job!!!!
And about the rules. How we decide when breaking the rules is ok and when it is not ok? There are rules or there are not rules. Selectively picking just rules I like is not the good way.
I suspect you are merely uncomfortable because he flew in a manner you are not accustomed to and perhaps one you had not previously considered, ie a practical manner in order not to get an extra hole in his ass. These are self-help skills required in bush or tactical flying and can save your life, certainly make it a lot less stressful. The skills themselves don't apply much or often in airline work but for sure the mindset that comes with them does - the ability to problem solve outside the box and not rely on outside support to get you out of trouble.
Children Of The Magenta Line NB;
Look how the PF takes his SA from looking out the windows - whilst the aircraft reports audibly its concerns.
Eyes Mk1; still the best instrument in the cockpit.
This means you.
Look how the PF takes his SA from looking out the windows - whilst the aircraft reports audibly its concerns.
Eyes Mk1; still the best instrument in the cockpit.
This means you.
Last edited by Auxtank; 5th Dec 2019 at 18:48.
You don't learn these skills ablely demonstrated in the clips, sitting in a classroom!! You cannot be taught ability. You are born with it. These skills are also attained and maintained through practise. Oh and there's no substitute for experience.
Paxing All Over The World
- Watch the video and see how the horizon is set across his window - once there, he keeps it there.
- Watch how he keeps looking further round the turn.
- He has a Co Pilot to watch outside and listen too.
- He has also got an FE to watch anything inside.
- He briefed the turn when he saw the light aircraft ahead of him - so they had time to check for traffic.
- From the start of the video and awareness of the other a/c, to starting the turn is about 23 seconds.
- So no one was taken by surprise.
Consider that, at some small African stopping points, you have to buzz the tower to let them know you have arrived as their radio is u/s. In some places when there is a war, the 'tower' decamps to the tallest hotel building in town and you buzz THAT.
I am not a pilot in Africa but my nephew is.
Join Date: Oct 2010
Location: France
Posts: 342
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
If you don't see the surface of the earth, it's certainly stupid to do a 360 below MSA. But if the ceiling & visibility are good I can't see anything wrong in doing a 360 below MSA. 100ft AMSL is certainly a bit low but in Somalia there are certainly many things to take into account when it comes to make a decision about flying height.
Join Date: Jan 2013
Location: Right hand seat of a 777
Posts: 168
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Welcome to Africa, in light of everything it was a pretty sensible option.
im not surprised he didn’t go ahead with the landing initially and ignore the light aircraft. Hit the TDZ and give it max berries on the reversers/brakes and hope he comes up short.
OMAA
im not surprised he didn’t go ahead with the landing initially and ignore the light aircraft. Hit the TDZ and give it max berries on the reversers/brakes and hope he comes up short.
OMAA
The pilot maybe at 100ft but the wing tip is about 70 feet above the sea which is a bit too close for comfort and to what end. He could have easily have increased height to a safe distance without altering the aircraft's configuration.
Nice low level flying in a big jet though .
Perhaps I am a bit paranoid but you do have to wonder a bit why there was somebody with a camera hanging out at the barbed wire fence at the start of the runway, and if you look in the second video there is a high speed zodiac that seems to be trying to track the plane...
Join Date: Jun 2001
Location: Rockytop, Tennessee, USA
Posts: 5,898
Likes: 0
Received 1 Like
on
1 Post
Some years ago I read the following on one of the threads here. Cant tell you where or who wrote it but I loved it so much I copied it onto my PC, hence I am able to paste it here for all to enjoy:
There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq , two hundred eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf; hotter than a rectal thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting.
There I was at six thousand feet over central Iraq , two hundred eighty knots and we're dropping faster than Paris Hilton's panties. It's a typical September evening in the Persian Gulf; hotter than a rectal thermometer and I'm sweating like a priest at a Cub Scout meeting.
):
There I was at twenty six thousand feet over central Iraq, 330 kts TAS and we're dropping faster than the US dollar. It's a typical November day in the Persian Gulf -- hotter than a chicken vindaloo in a heatwave and I'm sweating like a paedophile in Toys-R-Us.
But that's neither here nor there. The sky is obscured over Baghdad today and greyer than my shirts after the Cameroon contract. But it's 2007, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in navigation technology. Namely a window.
My 1975 Fokker 28 is equipped with an effective missile warning system, too. When the missile hits the engine, the fire bells come on in the cockpit, its amazingly efficient.
At any rate, the clouds covering Baghdad International Airport are as thick as Mike Tyson’s lips after fight night. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the Pitch Up One Arrival. Basically you just pitch up and see what happens. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, (much like many African operations) thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Or large arms fire, for that matter.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my tight white ass on that theory but we’ve forgotten how to do a normal approach and that's the real reason we fly it.
Speedbrake out and gear & flaps down through 15000, I gently ease the aircraft into a 60 degree right hand bank. This maneuver is called ‘looking out of the opposite window for the airport’ but you do have to be careful because it can dislodge peanuts from the throttle quadrant. Even worse, it might wake the engineer who is slumbering on the jump seat.
Lying to ATC, we ditch the minnie-mouse voiced yank chick on Balad and chop to approach. Still in cloud, with the 6-mile TCAS looking like one of those kaleidoscopes you had when you were a kid. Or a mathematical version of alphabet soup.
It's strong coffee effect appreciation time as I descend the agile Fokker to six thousand feet AGL on downwind, turning to smile for a couple more pics by the new flight attendant and emptying my mug in case of spills when I bend it in like Beckham. We get a visual on the runway at 0.7 dme overhead at 2000' still going down like a whore’s drawers just before we suddenly have to pull a 2G turn to avoid that $#&%ing balloon again. Now the fun starts. We chop to the trainee Iraqi in the tower whose job is it to take ninety seconds to tell us that we are cleared to land, having forgotten to call him through 4000 as usual because the numbers on the altimeter were a bit blurred still. The VSI needle has finally unpegged itself and the new hostie is now shaking like a constipated dog ****ting on a sheet of ice.
Ignoring the GPWS whose CB the engineer forgot to pull I grab a fistful of Rolls Royce and stabilize at 300’ still in a 45 deg bank on base, pulling back on the yoke just enough to hear the business-class pax start to grunt. Turning the aircraft onto the runway heading over brick one of 33R, the engineer finally wakes from his slumber. I flare and as soon as we roll out of the turn, I land. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “Short Finals."
I look over at the F/O and he's getting his wallet out already – the whiskey is only $10 a litre here. Looking further back at the new hostie I can clearly see her face regaining a bit of colour again. In fact her cheeks are redder than Monica Lewinski’s knees. I wonder why but then notice the wet spot spreading around her feet. Finally, I glance at our steely-eyed Engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Are we going to be able to diddle the fuel man again?
”Where do we find such stalwart comrades?” Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I take the first turnoff at 90 knots, destroying all the crockery in the trolleys and deeply unimpressing the new hostie. That’s my chances out the window then. Bloody bumpy taxiways….. The comparatively small, 33 ton, bouncing cacophony of groans comes to a lurching stop with the radome less than one foot from the marshal’s nose. Let's see a Jumbo do that! We notice that he’s the one we suspect of pinching the cellphone last week so we turn the radar back on. Keeping one engine on because the APU is u/s, it's time to let the quivering pax unload themselves. As they finish staggering down the stairs I shoot down the back to see if they’ve left any English newspapers lying around, and of course, have a slash in the smelly chemical loo.
Walking down the crew entry steps savouring the fume-laden 46 degree celcius Baghdad air, dull thuds in the background, with my lowest-bidder Browning 9 mm stowed safely back in Johannesburg under my pillow, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm not on a Nigeria contract. Then I curse God that I'm not living in Sydney, flying for Virgin, lying on a beach 10 000 miles away with two chicks on each arm.
Knowing that once again I've cheated death-by-boredom, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess? Is it Duty, Honor, and Country?” No, it’s the double S&T allowance. Or the fact that the alternative is somewhere in West Africa. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-contractor model. It is however, soon time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey, is the fuel truck here yet?” “No, its still on the other side of the field filling those *^%*ing Hercs.” Meantime I curse the APU for the fortieth time today and try and signal the Iraqi ground-handlers through the thick black smoke emanating from their forklift to push the unserviceable pickup truck with the barely serviceable Copco starter on its back into position next to us, and then to get the pushback tug out to jumpstart the Copco so we can get the airstart we need...
God, I love this contract!
But that's neither here nor there. The sky is obscured over Baghdad today and greyer than my shirts after the Cameroon contract. But it's 2007, folks, and I'm sporting the latest in navigation technology. Namely a window.
My 1975 Fokker 28 is equipped with an effective missile warning system, too. When the missile hits the engine, the fire bells come on in the cockpit, its amazingly efficient.
At any rate, the clouds covering Baghdad International Airport are as thick as Mike Tyson’s lips after fight night. But I've digressed.
The preferred method of approach tonight is the Pitch Up One Arrival. Basically you just pitch up and see what happens. This tactical manoeuvre allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, (much like many African operations) thus exploiting the supposedly secured perimeter of the airfield in an attempt to avoid enemy surface-to-air-missiles and small arms fire. Or large arms fire, for that matter.
Personally, I wouldn't bet my tight white ass on that theory but we’ve forgotten how to do a normal approach and that's the real reason we fly it.
Speedbrake out and gear & flaps down through 15000, I gently ease the aircraft into a 60 degree right hand bank. This maneuver is called ‘looking out of the opposite window for the airport’ but you do have to be careful because it can dislodge peanuts from the throttle quadrant. Even worse, it might wake the engineer who is slumbering on the jump seat.
Lying to ATC, we ditch the minnie-mouse voiced yank chick on Balad and chop to approach. Still in cloud, with the 6-mile TCAS looking like one of those kaleidoscopes you had when you were a kid. Or a mathematical version of alphabet soup.
It's strong coffee effect appreciation time as I descend the agile Fokker to six thousand feet AGL on downwind, turning to smile for a couple more pics by the new flight attendant and emptying my mug in case of spills when I bend it in like Beckham. We get a visual on the runway at 0.7 dme overhead at 2000' still going down like a whore’s drawers just before we suddenly have to pull a 2G turn to avoid that $#&%ing balloon again. Now the fun starts. We chop to the trainee Iraqi in the tower whose job is it to take ninety seconds to tell us that we are cleared to land, having forgotten to call him through 4000 as usual because the numbers on the altimeter were a bit blurred still. The VSI needle has finally unpegged itself and the new hostie is now shaking like a constipated dog ****ting on a sheet of ice.
Ignoring the GPWS whose CB the engineer forgot to pull I grab a fistful of Rolls Royce and stabilize at 300’ still in a 45 deg bank on base, pulling back on the yoke just enough to hear the business-class pax start to grunt. Turning the aircraft onto the runway heading over brick one of 33R, the engineer finally wakes from his slumber. I flare and as soon as we roll out of the turn, I land. Some aeronautical genius coined this manoeuvre “Short Finals."
I look over at the F/O and he's getting his wallet out already – the whiskey is only $10 a litre here. Looking further back at the new hostie I can clearly see her face regaining a bit of colour again. In fact her cheeks are redder than Monica Lewinski’s knees. I wonder why but then notice the wet spot spreading around her feet. Finally, I glance at our steely-eyed Engineer. His eyebrows rise in unison as a grin forms on his face. I can tell he's thinking the same thing I am. Are we going to be able to diddle the fuel man again?
”Where do we find such stalwart comrades?” Naturally, and not at all surprisingly, I take the first turnoff at 90 knots, destroying all the crockery in the trolleys and deeply unimpressing the new hostie. That’s my chances out the window then. Bloody bumpy taxiways….. The comparatively small, 33 ton, bouncing cacophony of groans comes to a lurching stop with the radome less than one foot from the marshal’s nose. Let's see a Jumbo do that! We notice that he’s the one we suspect of pinching the cellphone last week so we turn the radar back on. Keeping one engine on because the APU is u/s, it's time to let the quivering pax unload themselves. As they finish staggering down the stairs I shoot down the back to see if they’ve left any English newspapers lying around, and of course, have a slash in the smelly chemical loo.
Walking down the crew entry steps savouring the fume-laden 46 degree celcius Baghdad air, dull thuds in the background, with my lowest-bidder Browning 9 mm stowed safely back in Johannesburg under my pillow, I look around and thank God, not Allah, I'm not on a Nigeria contract. Then I curse God that I'm not living in Sydney, flying for Virgin, lying on a beach 10 000 miles away with two chicks on each arm.
Knowing that once again I've cheated death-by-boredom, I ask myself, "What in the hell am I doing in this mess? Is it Duty, Honor, and Country?” No, it’s the double S&T allowance. Or the fact that the alternative is somewhere in West Africa. But now is not the time to derive the complexities of the superior cerebral properties of the human portion of the aviator-man-contractor model. It is however, soon time to get out of this ****-hole.
"Hey, is the fuel truck here yet?” “No, its still on the other side of the field filling those *^%*ing Hercs.” Meantime I curse the APU for the fortieth time today and try and signal the Iraqi ground-handlers through the thick black smoke emanating from their forklift to push the unserviceable pickup truck with the barely serviceable Copco starter on its back into position next to us, and then to get the pushback tug out to jumpstart the Copco so we can get the airstart we need...
God, I love this contract!
https://www.pprune.org/african-aviation/264780-pay-iraq.html#post3146360