4/17/06

10:30 AM, the next day- Brownie's on the phone with Peace Corps Cameroon again.

"So, they've got it, right?"  

Pause.

"And it's on the way?"  

Another pause.

"All right, thanks."   Most of us are sitting on the hotel patio, and hear the exchange.

Brownie hangs up.   "OK folks, the plane is on the way, and will be here in an hour," she says to scattered applause.   We quickly load up our stuff, pile into the hotel shuttle bus, and set off for the airport on the other side of town.   As with seemingly everything in Francophone Africa, getting to the plane means rubber stamps, taxes, signatures, and plenty of waiting- we sit for easily two-and-a-half hours while everything gets sorted out with visas, passports, and more.   We're waiting in the lounge, the only air-conditioned room in an otherwise swelteringly hot airport, about to start a game of 'Mafia,' a Peace Corps Chad favorite, when word comes in- we can go.  

Walking out onto the tarmac feels like stepping into a blast furnace, although it's still cooler than N'Djamena.   We pass the two pilots, standing off to the side of the plane, along with another guy in a dirty white T-shirt chatting with them.   Surprisingly, they aren't African, but look Middle Eastern, or possibly Central Asian.   I try a quick "bonjour," but they don't respond.

I wouldn't call myself an especially nervous flyer- I get a little tense on turbulent rides, but other than that, don't have any real issues.   Our plane ride from Garoua to Yaoundé is enough to make even the most seasoned traveler feel a little jumpy.   The flight itself isn't all that bad, just the plane.   From the outside, it looks like a reasonably modern small jet plane, maybe the size of a large Learjet.  

On the inside though, the plane is a time warp back to a USSR-like bizarro-world.   There are no steps leading to the front door, so we walk around to the back of the plane where a narrow set of steps with lined with red rope handrails await.   The fuselage is covered with stencils in what appears to be Russian; if I look closely, I think I can laboriously sound out the word 'communications.'   There's a tiny anteroom before the passenger cabin, partitioned off by a round wooden swinging door upholstered like a vintage La-Z-Boy.   The cabin itself is covered in a wall-to-wall ancient green shag carpet that looks like it was installed during the Stalin regime, and probably last cleaned during the Khrushchev administration.   Continuing with the Soviet living room theme, the seats are red velour (no hammer and sickle, unfortunately), and although they look like easy chairs, they're just as uncomfortable as your average economy-class airline seat.  

The plane, an old Tupolev, has seats for 34 people.   With the added additions of Jeff and Chad, we're 35.   Nobody seems to notice this until we're on board.   With no other choice, Jeff contorts himself in the aisle, leaning against the back door.   The single flight attendant, a boyish-looking Cameroonian in a white button-down shirt with a clip-on tie protests.

"Well, do you have a better idea?"   Jeff asks.

"Non."

"Right, well, I don't see any other choice either, Jeff says, and leans back.

I'm fortunate enough to have a seat, and I settle in- I notice the emergency card in the seat pocket.   "KRYGYZSTAN AIRLINES," it proclaims in white and red Roman and Cyrillic characters- I was right, Central Asia indeed. I skim through the English instructions, completely aware that if a plane this old has any serious problem in flight I won't need the safety instructions- or anything else ever again, for that matter.   I look at the card again anyway; according to it, if things get really bad I can use the 'Saving Rope,' located in the compartment above me.   Looking around I can see a few other people reading the card, and realizing that seems more than a little absurd.

"What do you use the rope for?"   I hear someone ask in front of me.

"To hang yourself if we're crashing," says Greger, another volunteer.

The pilots haven't turned on the plane, apparently unaware that it's still northern Cameroon in April, the height of the hot season.   There are 29 PCV's on board, a handful of staff including a woman pushing 70, and a three year old (Danielle's son) slowly roasting on the tarmac. Sweat is pouring down everyone's face and people are fanning themselves with the safety card- the Saving Rope hasn't come into play yet, but if it gets much hotter, people may start tying nooses.   With a sudden shudder, the engines start, rattle, and build to a high-pitched whine.

"Fuck, we're going to die on this plane," Josh says across the aisle to me.

I try to think of a way to be comforting, despite my own nervousness.

"Well, you can think of it this way," I say.   "The plane made it up here from Yaoundé this morning and can probably make it back.   Also, if it's old, that means it's experienced, so there shouldn't be any problem."  

Looking around at the ancient plane, I realize that I'm not convincing myself either.

"Right," Josh says, "whatever."   He picks up a copy of US Weekly that's been floating around the volunteers, and tries to forget he's on the plane.

All things considered, the ride turns out more or less OK- more in the sense that we made it and I'm writing this, less considering that I've never been as nervous on a flight in my life.   The first few minutes after taking off are particularly turbulent, and looking around, everyone, including the three year old, is gripping the armrests as though they are the only things keeping the inside the fuselage.   Adam, another volunteer and a flying novice, looks as though he's about to have a panic attack, but just as he's near the breaking point, our trusty steed reaches a cruising altitude.   From there on things go remarkably smoothly, the only exception being the flight attendant needing to step around Jeff, who's lying prone on the floor, each time he comes down the aisle with soda, reheated pastries and Nigerian candy, our in-flight meal.

An hour and a half later we touch down at Nsimalen Airport, on the outskirts of Yaoundé.   Our group of 29 PCV's , who normally couldn't agree on anything, collectively and without speaking decide that a round of applause would be a good thing as the landing gear hits the runway.   As we taxi to a stop the cockpit door opens and the pilots race down the aisle, almost trampling Jeff in their rush, and out the back door.   Fortunately, short of blowing up on the tarmac nothing else could really go wrong, and it turns out that the pilots sprint down the aisle was just to open the back door.   We step onto the concrete- Adam looks as if he's been pulled back from the light at the end of the tunnel.  

Grabbing my bag off the conveyor belt inside the surprisingly modern terminal, I walk over to where a group of 2 nd -year PCV's, my friends, are standing.

"So, you going to Chad or Mali?" asks Greger.   The question throws me for a second, until I realize.   This was the way we all met for the first time, at the Holiday Inn in downtown Philadelphia- another group, going to Mali, was having their Staging Conference (before leaving for their posts) at the same time as us.   Its been 21 months, more than 7,000 miles, and what feels like a lifetime since then, and in that time, that casual question made way for lifelong friendships- who knew that any 29 people could become so close?  

"Chad," I answer, playing along.

"Oh really, me too!" Greger continues.

"So, have you heard anything about Chad?" Monica, one of my closest friends, asks.

"Just that it's really poor," says Josh, having fun with the charade.

"Well, I heard about Chad- they said that it is poor, and that there are only a few volunteers, and that it's probably the hardest assignment in Peace Corps.   True story, yo.   Jonathan and Abby told me that women are really oppressed, and..." Darren says. He's normally the perfect example of a laid-back stereotypical Southern California surfer guy, and it takes a second to realize that he's doing a dead-on impression of Alyssa, a PCV who can be a bit of a know-it-all sometimes.   He means it only in fun though, and has all of us shaking with laughter by the time he finishes.

Leaving the airport and the joke behind, we pile into shuttle buses parked outside, and speed off to the Mont Fébé, a luxury hotel perched on a mountainside (Mont Fébé, I assume) overlooking Yaoundé. Peace Corps Washington has taken charge of everything by now, so money clearly isn't an issue.   As we pull up, it's getting dark, and the sea of lights stretching for miles is an incredible sight, something I wasn't anticipating seeing for several more months..   The rooms, the view, everything- all the opulence is nice on a material level, but it's disorienting and disturbing at the same time.   While I'm sitting in a luxury hotel with every need taken care of, the situation is going from bad to worse in Chad.  

At dinner Brownie makes a quick announcement- our Transition Conference, the bridge back to the real world, begins tomorrow morning at 8:00.

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