19 Feb 97 - Sanaa, Yemen, Arabia
In Djibouti, a
little girl comes up to me to say good-bye. I lean down to kiss her, and she
puts her arms around my neck. As I stand up, I notice that her eyes are filled
with tears. She wants to know when she will see me again. She doesn't like
"good-byes" her mother tells me.
I have just taken off from Djibouti, and I am carrying 1,080
pounds of fuel that Mobil has kindly given me. This is a lot of fuel - enough
for 15 hours - but I am not sure where I will find any again. I am climbing
slowly and thinking mostly of that little girl's eyes. I don't like good-byes
either. I prefer to avoid them. She is too young to mask her emotions and to
pretend that things don't matter. I wonder if I have become too good at leaving.
I think, in many ways, that when I leave a place, I have already left it.
Instead of "good-bye", I prefer "take care" or "see you later". Good-bye seems
too permanent, too certain, too painful, and the emotion begins to hurt if I let
it in.
Eritrea hands me off to Yemen, and I can see the Red Sea
beneath me. To move from one large geographic mass to another is like moving
one's finger across the surface of a map. Ahead of me, I can see the town of
Hodeidah on the Yemeni coast. I look one last time back to Africa. I realize
that I am leaving a place that has become a part of me - like one's parents -
and that has taught me so many things about life and about myself. My forehead
rests lightly against the window as I look down, and I hear myself quietly say,
"Good-bye Africa."
The mountains rise abruptly and soon I am buried in clouds.
Sanaa Control is calling me every five minutes, and they want to know my
position. I am tempted to tell them that I am five minutes further than I was
the last time they asked, but I am distracted. There are holes in the clouds.
Down beneath me there are castles. I circle down through the clouds into a world
of steep valleys, mountainous cliffs, and towering castles of clay. It feels
like I have flown back through time. The structures cling to the sides of
mountains surrounded by lush green terraced boxes of sorghum, and across the
empty valley the light streaks down through a hole in the clouds onto another
tiny mountain village. I start to juggle cameras, airspeeds, and the microphone,
and Sanaa wants to know where I am again. The mountains rise to a vast plateau,
and I find myself in a very different place.
Sanaa is over 7,000 feet elevation on a plateau. The whole city
looks like a collection of fortresses and minarets. I can feel that the air is
hot and thin. I approach at a high speed because I am overweight, and I need to
keep my tail up, but my groundspeed seems much faster than expected. I feel like
a jet as I touch down; then I notice that they have landed me with a stiff wind
behind me. There are a lot of Russian and American fighter aircraft on the side
of the runway, and I am wondering what kind of a place this is.
Over the radio, I hear the transmissions from other aircraft.
They keep using this word inshallah. After each position report, they
will say their estimate for the next reporting point, followed by "inshallah". I
have never heard this radio term before, and I am confused by it. Djibouti is
hot, and I am still wearing shorts. As I walk into the terminal, there are men
with guns and dark pointed Arabian faces. Some of the men are wearing uniforms
and hats, others are wearing cloths tied on their head and Jambia daggers around
their waist. I don't have a visa, so there is some discussion about this. Very
few of these men speak English, and the rich flowing gurgling sounds of Arabic
wash through my brain. At one point, I am led up to another office to see the
man who will hold my passport because I do not have a visa. He wants to charge
me $100 for a visa, but I explain that I am a pilot in transit, so I don't need
one. In the airport lobby, I notice that I am being stared at by many men. They
are smiling, and I feel like a fresh piece of meat amidst a pack of dogs. They
do not wear shorts here, but long light robes called tobes that fall to
their feet. I quickly return to the plane to dress for this different
culture.
A woman from the American Embassy comes out to meet me. I
usually try not to rely on the American Embassy in places where I go, but I was
advised to call this woman upon my arrival, and the customs here seem different
enough that I feel I must be careful. She is very surprised to hear that I am
here. The last American aircraft to land in Sanaa was full of supplies for the
US Embassy, and it was charged a $60,000 landing fee. The plane departed again
without discharging its supplies and without paying its landing fee. The control
tower wants me to report there. It seems I have arrived on the wrong day from my
flight clearance. They tell me that they could have shot me down. I explain that
I confirmed my flight date by HF radio and telex from Djibouti and then again by
VHF radio while crossing the Red Sea. This does not seem to matter. I am to
report to the department of Civil Aviation the next day. A lot of things come
from a lot of different directions, and I start to talk to myself and to laugh
at myself a little. Perhaps, this is a nervous reaction to pressure and a lot of
unknowns. I know I am in a place where not many people go. I can feel that the
generous woman from the American Embassy is not quite sure why I am here. I have
the name of someone who I might be able to stay with. His name was given to me
by some friends in Ethiopia. I am very concerned that all these people not think
that I am a spy, or an arms smuggler, or a drug smuggler. My concern lies in the
fact that I know I could quite easily be any of these, so I think the best
defense is to attack. Again, I have learned that you live by your face, and you
don't have to have a good memory if you always tell the truth. I am not clever
enough to do it any other way.
An officer from the American Embassy escorts me down to the
Department of Civil Aviation. I do not have much experience reading Arabian
eyes, but I am not very comfortable with the ones on the man we are sitting with
now. He is short and aggressive. Things happen fast. My American escort is
trying to follow the line of the conversation between the Arabs in the room. I
am told that I have arrived on the wrong day, so I must pay a $1,000 fine. There
is silence, and I am being studied. I produce the stamped piece of paper from
Djibouti which is a copy of the telex with the revised arrival date for Sanaa.
The information is very clear. There is more rapid Arabic discussion followed by
telephone calls. I am not really sure if there are any rules here; this all
seems a little arbitrary. Then the man says to me, that he has a proposal for
me. I can pay $100 to him, and they will overlook the incident. Slowly, I become
very aware of the game we are playing. I know this game from Africa. It is a
little like Russian Roulette, and I decide to pull the trigger. I explain that
the piece of paper is very clear and the arrival date was confirmed from
Djibouti. The short man is visibly not pleased. He says he gave me a chance, now
it is out of his hands. He was trying to help me, but now he has done all that
he can. He takes my piece of paper and puts it into a fax machine. This is
followed by a phone call to someone to refer to this piece of paper that is
arriving by fax. Now, we wait. I look across to my American friend, and he isn't
quite sure that what I have just done is the correct thing. I am not either, but
I was trusting my instincts. There is more discussion and waiting. The polite
conversation has become strained, then there is a telephone call. The short
aggressive man hangs up the phone then tells me that I do not have to pay any
fee. The uncomfortable troubled looks are gone, and we are all smiling. "Welcome
to Yemen," he tells me. He wants me to enjoy my stay. I can see that he is a
little surprised by my intransigence, but I also feel that this whole affair may
not be completely over yet.
I meet American Embassy staff in many remote countries, and I
am amazed that the rougher the place, the closer the sense of community amongst
the staff. In the faraway places, these people only have each other, and they
stick together. I am invited in. I have never received such a warm welcome by an
American Embassy community. One invites me to stay with him; the International
School invites me to speak to their students, and the Ambassador's secretary
offers to take me to Babel Yemen. This is the gateway to the old city souk
(market). A few years ago, you could still find human hands or heads nailed onto
the large arched gate from those who had recently been punished. There are women
here, but you don't see them. They are like ghosts that drift silently through
the streets. You don't touch them, and you don't speak to them. It is almost as
if they don't exist. They cover themselves with their black sharshaf when
they leave the house, and there is a black veil or a black mask which covers
their face. The Ambassador's secretary walks with her hand bag in front of her
and me behind her. I am not sure why, but then I hear her yell at someone lost
in the crowded street who has grabbed her in a place that he shouldn't have.
This happens often to foreign women. If you dress in their clothes, they don't
respect you. But if you dress conservatively in the clothes from your country,
you get pinched. The longer I stay in Yemen, the more intrigued I become by
these black shapes that move through the streets. When they are uncovered, you
can see them; it is over. When they are covered, you mind races. I find myself
looking at their ankles as they walk and trying to imagine the shape of the
woman within. These are not evil thoughts; they are just thoughts. I can't see
it, so I must imagine it - and strangely, it makes it all the more
alluring.
In the old city, I climb up inside of a tall stone building to
look at some paintings. There are three young women there whose faces are
visible beneath the black, and they are speaking English. I politely ask where
they come from, and they tell me Iraq. There is a slight pause in my reaction. I
want to talk to them more. They can tell I am an American by my accent. I want
to ask how they are, or what the war was like in Baghdad. There are a hundred
questions I can think of; I have never met Iraqis before, but they must leave. I
am left feeling stupid and ignorant. I am very aware that I have been judged by
the place from which I come. I don't mind this, but I wonder how much we all
miss in our lives because of it.
The jewelry here is
beautiful. "Don't worry about the price," I am told. It is old silver crafted by
Jewish artisans with red coral. The pieces are made from larger ethnic pieces
which come out of the Hadramout. In that part of Yemen, your jewelry is your
wealth. You don't keep your money in a bank; you wear it, and for a woman who
becomes divorced, this is her insurance. The "Yemeni silver" is sometimes called
"Bedouin silver" and it is not pure; it is made from the Mother Theresa dollar
and is about 85% silver. The Jewish silversmiths that used to live in Yemen had
three main styles of design. The Badihi style of working silver was
principally a succession of six raised dot groupings that were presented on the
jewelry like bunches of grapes. The Bosani style was a very fine and
intricate filagre work, and the Monsuri was a process by which the design
in the silver was engraved or cut out. All of this was for a purpose. Many
designs were used in creations for the delicate Koranic reading holders that
were worn around peoples necks to bring them good luck and to ward off evil. I
am amused that every time I inquire from the shopkeeper how much a particular
piece costs, he tells me not to worry about the price. The price simply isn't
important. If you like a piece, you like it. The price can be negotiated later
on. I had never been aware of how clever a sales tool this could be. If you are
told the price in the beginning, you block the item out of your mind as being
too expensive, but without the price, you begin to feel strongly that you like
it. The price is then less of a factor once you have decided you want the
necklace.
The shopkeeper has a
cheekful of qat. It is still Ramadan, so just after sunset, the streets
in the souk are alive and everyone is stuffing qat in their mouths and drinking
glasses of strong tea and coffee. Yemen grows the highest quality coffee in the
world. Coffee originally comes from here, and the Dutch carried it with them
from here to Indonesia and Colombia. The term Mocca used for coffee comes
from the Yemeni port city of Mokha to the south. At one time, much of the
world's coffee came from here. Today, coffee earns far less money in Yemen than
qat. I am driven through fields of qat with medieval towers scattered along the
boundaries to guard them. Dogs are used to patrol the fields and the guardians
are armed with automatic weapons. The fields are harvested a day at a time. You
want the young shoots that are soft, but that still break. Qat is a weak drug,
so you need a lot, and you have to hold it for 5 hours. "Last year, Yemen was
running without a budget," I am told. "You can double the price of fuel or bread
and not have a riot, but don't take away the qat. Qat keeps this country clean;
no one needs alcohol." When the Saudi King Fahd was on his deathbed in the
1940s, he said to his sons that the prosperity of Saudi Arabia depends on the
misery of Yemen. The Yemenis are mountain people, and they are hardy warriors.
In the past, this area was know as Felix Arabia (happy Arabia). This is
the heart of Arabia and this is the true Arab spirit, as yet uncorrupted by too
much money and western influence. This is also a country that has lived through
war. In 1994, there was a civil war between the north and the south. It was not
unlike from the civil war in the United States in the 1860s; the south wanted
local power and the north wanted central power. The Arabs don't fight long wars
though, and in July, after five weeks, the north had won. Cellular telephones
have not yet returned. During the war, the spies from the south used to call in
the strike locations for the scud missiles as they landed in Sanaa, so the phone
system was discontinued. "If you ever get confused, just remember you are on the
moon," someone tells me. "There are no rules, and the cost of anything here is
whatever the market will bear."
Another shopkeeper
shows me a ceremonial Jambia. It is made of finely finished silver with a handle
of carved African rhino horn. It is worth several thousand dollars. All the men
wear Jambias here. It is incredible to think that the demand for the rhino's
horn to make the Jambia has led to the near extinction of the black rhino in
Africa. The color of the Jambia scabbard shows which tribe you are from, and it
is worn in a most provocative way slung around the stomach and sticking out in
front of you; the fatter you are the more it sticks out. This whole place
reminds me of what the "wild west" in America might have been like. You carry
your gun and your Jambia, and there are two laws here. There is the law in the
books, but when that doesn't work, you revert back to the old tribal laws, and
they still work.
I am taken to the Johanna Gun Souk outside of Sanaa. This is a
very good place to be kidnapped. In 1996, over 600 foreigners were kidnapped in
42 different instances in Yemen. It is a wonderful way to experience Arab
hospitality though. Two years ago 17 French tourists were kidnapped in Shabwa,
down near Marib; now, they are in the process of negotiating with the government
because they want to come back and visit their kidnappers. Almost all of the
people who have been kidnapped have received extremely generous treatment. One
group was even fed meat which can be a rare luxury in some parts of Yemen. In
Khawlan, 4 Dutch tourists were recently released. All the kidnappers wanted was
for justice to be done. An Iraqi man had killed his Yemeni wife. He had been in
jail for two years on a suspended death sentence. The kidnappers wanted the
sentence carried out, so the government executed the Iraqi and the tourists were
released. Eight days ago, a 50 year old American oil engineer was kidnapped by
the Murad tribe in the southeast of Yemen. It seems like a good way to get the
government's attention, and this time the tribe is upset about a valuable piece
of land near the President's palace in Sanaa.
We drive down through a lunar world of rock and treeless dusty
desert. The midday sun whips towering "dustdevils" up off the desert floor into
ominous looming pillars of swirling dust. I am reminded of the Arabian tales of
the Jinn who emerges from the lamp to grant its master three wishes. It
is obvious to me that these dustdevils are the origin of the myth. We pass
through several roadblocks of Yemeni army officers. There is some concern as to
where we are going, but our driver skillfully avoids the question. We eventually
arrive on a open street of a dusty town. There are dark shops on one side of the
street. The shopkeepers are young boys, and they are selling machine guns, hand
grenades, and rocket launchers. I watch two men walk down the street. One hands
an automatic pistol to the other, and he points it upward and fires two loud
shots into the air, before handing it back. He does this casually in a way that
a horse trader might look into the mouth of a horse that he was considering
buying.
Several Arabs gather
around me to find out why I have come. This is another place where you live by
your face. I practice my Arabic and get the young boys to hold armfuls of
weapons in the doorways of their shops. I can't help but notice a form of honor
in the faces of all the people here. It is almost an "honor among thieves" type
of honor. These are people who could either kiss you or kill you. There is no
law here, so they are the law. They are rough and we are dealing with weapons of
war, yet their faces look so relaxed and innocent. I talk and move quickly to
photograph these delicate faces. I don't want them to get the idea that they
should charge me for my pictures, so I begin inquiring about various weapons
while I take my pictures. The AK-47 is about $250. The hand grenades are $3
each, and they also have old German Lugers and Thompson's machine guns. They
would like to sell me a Russian RPG-7 rocket launcher, and they suggest that I
should try it first. The rocket part will cost me $30. I have never fired a
rocket before, so we head off to the empty valley just outside of town. Abdul
Alrahman cautions me to keep my mouth open. I lean back to support the weight of
the heavy rocket while I listen to Abdul. He has those cool eyes of someone who
has handled one of these quite often, so I listen carefully. If you close your
mouth the shock wave can blow out your eardrum, he tells me. He shows me where
to aim on a nearby hill. I ask what is on the other side of the hill in case I
miss, but this doesn't seem to matter to anyone. I am shown how to position my
feet and that there must be nothing behind me to block the fire that emerges
from the back of the launcher. It is this feature on the RPG launcher that makes
it recoilless; you just aim it, mouth open, and pull the trigger. There is a
loud hazy thrushing sound next to my ear, then I watch this object leave from my
shoulder and strike the side of the mountain. The shape charge at the end of the
rocket is designed to blow up a tank, so there is a second explosion as my
target is hit and rocks explode across the face of the mountain.
I turn around to many warm smiles. They want to know if I want
to shoot some more things. It is obvious that they don't get many visitors like
me, and I am a good source of income. On the drive back to town, there seems to
be a question of the price. I had taken the precaution of writing in ink on the
hand of the owner the agreed upon price of $30 before firing the rocket. I point
out to him that the price we agreed upon is written on his hand. He still seems
to be sure that I should pay more. It seems a little silly to argue, since I
would then probably be kidnapped, so I ask if it is possible for me to come back
again and bring many people with me to possibly fire these weapons. I can see
little dollar signs swimming around in their heads, and the $30 is happily
accepted without further discussion.
My companion on this excursion is an American named Mike. Mike
used to be an explosives expert on the U.S. Navy SEAL mobile support team. Mike
tells me that only 4 Seals have ever died in combat. "They are the most mellow
characters," he says, "and they are the only unit in which individuals can
refuse a mission for moral reasons." He explains that they only get to refuse
three times before they are reviewed, but this shows the sensitivity of the
characters who choose to be Seals. Mike has since moved on to working with
electrical explosions for film studios in California. He tells me that Seals are
never stationed outside of the USA and that units 1 through 5 are on the east
coast, and units 7, 8 and 9 are on the west coast. "There is no unit 6," he
says. "There is some myth that Seal Team 6 is an assassination team, but no one
is sure."
"The city is a
woman's invention," Francois tells me, "because men are nomads." Francois is a
pilot friend who has spent many years here. His father was the previous French
Ambassador to Yemen, and he has a great interest in the Yemeni culture. I am
taken on a tour of the city. The buildings in Yemen are unlike any other
buildings in the world. These people are born stone masons. They use different
colored stone and translucent alabaster on the roof to let the light in. The old
city has over 7,000 houses and palaces in it which date from between 500 to
1,000 years old. Along the tops of some of the buildings is a zigzag pattern of
white gypsum stone carefully crafted into the stone. Traditional Arab houses
look inward to a courtyard, but Yemeni houses look outward. The bottom floor is
used as a stable area for cattle and goats. The heat from the animals helps to
warm the house and rises up to next level which is the kitchen. The women live
on the floor above the kitchen, and the men live above the women. The top floor
is the mafraj, and this is the most important and elegant room in the
house. It has windows on three sides with cushions and woolen mats on the floor.
In the afternoons, friends and family will sit in the mafraj to drink coffee and
chew qat and discuss matters of importance while looking out across Sanaa's
skyline. This similar design is seen all over northern Yemen, including one of
the most famous castle structures, Dar Al-Hagar, which is precariously balanced
on top of a huge rock along the side of wadi dhar.
Yemen is Arab Islamic, but it is different than most Muslim
countries in that some of the major buildings carry women's names. This is very
unusual in the Arab world. Yemen was maternalistic for a long time before Islam
arrived. The Queen of Sheba came from here (although the Ethiopians would
disagree), and she is mentioned by in The Holy Koran in the 27th Surah Al -
Naml (the Ant). The best times were when the women ruled, I am told. Queen
Harawa ruled 400 years ago and is known as the "great builder". There were also
Queen Aliamama and Queen Bilquise. Today, there is an Arawa College, and many
women are named Arawa. My friend Abdulla explains the reason that Arabic women
are covered with black sharshafs (or abayas). "These are our
mothers," he says. "They are the 'brothers' of the man, and we must respect
them." Abdulla married a girl from his village who was covered at age 10.
Arabian girls begin wearing this as soon as they have received their first
period. "What is life without woman," Abdulla continues. "If we don't cover her,
everyone will look at her and not respect her. If you lose respect for the
woman, the whole life will break down."
A young Yemeni woman
invites me to her home. Her father used to be the Yemeni representative to The
United Nations in New York. He likes America, and he has given his permission
for me to visit them in their house. This woman is 25 years old, and she has
asked that I not mention her name. Their house is a beautiful traditional Yemeni
house on the edge of the old city. We make our way to the roof where I
photograph her in her sharshaf. The old walled city of Sanaa sprawls off
in the distance. I am then invited to join her and her father for coffee in the
mafraj. It is a very relaxing time, but I am aware that the only reason I have
been allowed on the "inside" of this world is because I am from the "outside". I
ask them about courtship. "If you want a pretty wife, you have to be nice to
your mother and your sisters," this girl says to me. This is how things work in
Yemen. The men never see the women. There are men's parties and there are
women's parties. If your sisters and mother go to a party, they can see all the
other young girls without their veils and talk to them. They will then come home
and tell you about a girl. If you are interested, then you can discuss this with
your father. Then your mother and sisters can then approach the girl and explain
your interest in marriage. If the girl then says yes, the two families meet.
This is called khudeba (engagement), and after this, there is a period
from 1 month to 2 years in which you can fall in love or break up. During this
time, you can see the woman, but never alone. The woman becomes your
responsibility once the agt (contract) is completed and then after the
wedding you can sleep together.
The most interesting part about this arrangement is the power
that it gives the women of the house. They are the ones who choose the mates for
the men, and they choose women who they like. The mothers also know the sons
well, so they can choose a woman who will suit their son and who will make a
good mother and in-law for the other members of the family. It happens quite
often in Yemen that the brother and sister of one family will marry the brother
and sister of another family. This can be quite convenient, however, if one of
the couples becomes divorced, then the other couple must also get
divorced.
"If you know how to bargain for carpets, you will learn
everything you need to know about politics in the Middle East," I am told. This
is the politics of compromise, and it is based on mutual respect. The next leg
of my journey will be almost 11 hours across the Hadramout in Yemen and the
Rub-al-Khali (the Empty Quarter) in Saudi Arabia and Oman. I have been trying to
find out if fuel is available here for over a month. Finally, it appears that
the military has a drum. I arrive at the airport and make my way out to the
plane. Several military officers arrive with a drum of fuel. They are all
wearing many more bars and stars than I would have imagined for people bringing
me a drum of fuel. They present me with a piece of paper that I must sign. I ask
how much the fuel will be; I am hoping to buy 100 liters which will add another
two hours to my endurance across the desert. The officers don't speak much
English, but I eventually hear, "Don't worry about the price." I have heard this
before, and by now I know that this is precisely when I should worry about the
price. I explain that I am not going to accept the fuel unless I know cum
floos (how much money). Eventually, the number saba (seven) is
mentioned. I ask, "Saba what?" and I am told, "Dollars." I am then informed that
this is the price per liter. This is $26 a gallon, or $700 for 100 liters (2
hours) of gasoline. I begin to laugh almost hysterically at this price, and I
thank them very much but explain that this is too much. All of the officers are
confused. I think they can't believe that this is a lot of money for me. I think
they may also think that I probably don't have any alternatives.
I remember a bush pilot I once met in Botswana told me that
bush flying is only two things: Understanding, and always having an alternative.
The understanding is of your aircraft's limitations and also your own, and the
alternative is always having another way out. I think these rules apply as much
to life on the ground as they do when in the air. However, there is another rule
which I have only recently learned about in Arabia, and this is called
inshallah. This word means "if God wills it", and this is used all the
time by the people here. It means that we can try as hard as we want, but
whatever happens will be the will of God. The more I hear this phrase, the more
I like it. It takes the worry out of our hands and lets someone else worry about
it. The other very important Arabic phrase that I have learned here is Allah
wahad (God is one). Our Gods are the same, and every time someone asks me
why I do not convert to Islam, this provides a very erudite and satisfactory
reply. The books are different, but the God is the same.
However, I am still concerned about my fuel alternatives, and I
have one more hurdle to cross. When I had first arrived in Yemen, I had inquired
about the landing and parking fees. I had been told, "Don't worry about the
price." This was before I learned that Yemen is actually like a real life
version of "Alice in Wonderland" and that one must always worry about the price.
I walk into Mohammed's office, and I don't like his shifty eyes. I can see that
this is an office where people get eaten. I ask him casually how much he thinks
my landing and parking fees might be, and he knows exactly how much they will
be. He smiles at me as he tells me, "You must pay $1,700."
There is a Yemeni
proverb that says, 'The hand that you can't break, you kiss.' I didn't really
understand this expression before. It means that a strong enemy can become a
strong friend and that you must know when to join them, if you can't beat them.
This is one of the wild places. All you have to do is look at the International
Regulations for Operations and Fees in Yemen to realize that there is no law
here. It is easy to feel indignant about it, but it probably wouldn't be too
difficult for my airplane to then be confiscated. I remember the camel that I
stumbled upon in the basement of a building in the old city. It was harnessed to
a grinding mill living its life by walking in circles extracting oil from
sunflower seeds. I decide it is better to not to be indignant, and I return to
my friends at the Department of Civil Aviation. They are glad to see me again,
and they are pleased that I have been enjoying my stay. Fortunately, I have
completed my usual rounds of "survival publicity", and in all of the newspaper
articles I made sure to thank the Department of Civil Aviation for their
generous assistance and warm welcome to Yemen. Now, I am back to ask for a
discount. I can see that this is a highly unusual request, but I think they are
amused by it. I know the routine now, and we sit down for coffee and talk about
lots of other things. I am asked to write out my request on paper, and then
several men begin looking through large books of Arabic text for some rule which
applies to my special request. There seems to be little hope, but then a rule is
found. I have been here for over a certain period of time, so I am entitled to a
reduction. A paper is drafted and signed, and I am to present this to Mohammed.
$900 is a lot cheaper than $1,700.
As I have traveled across the world, I have collected a number
of pilot friends. I have discovered that pilots all over the world are like a
band of brothers in the air. Many of them are now also on email. I find myself
with a difficult decision to make about adding illegal lower octane car fuel to
my fuel supply, re-timing my engine, and leaning the mixture at very high
altitudes. I am most interested in not harming my engine. I begin to receive
replies and advice from pilots in Alaska, Maine, South Africa, Djibouti,
Ethiopia, and other parts of the world. They are real answers. They are not the
kind of answers that tell you what you can't do; they are the kind of answers
that tell you what you can do from people who have learned through the school of
experience. I make the safest decision I can and say to myself, "Inshallah, we
will make it."
Tom Claytor |