Travel on a commuter plane with three dozens of chickens tied together. A celestial symphony.
“I wish I had visited Bukavu during my stay here,” I concluded, as I delivered my farewell speech on my last working day in town. “I understand it’s Eden on earth.” I was having lunch with colleagues and acquaintances encountered during my assignment in Leopoldville.
“You still can,” offered Ed, an attendee who worked in the travel office.”The weekly company plane is leaving the day after tomorrow.”
“Maybe I should,” I told him without pausing to think.
“We always have room for passengers. You’ll be back in time to catch your plane to Togo. You’ll never have another chance like this!”
I was all packed for my transfer to Togo but I was finding it hard to leave. Leopoldville had been home for me for the last thirty months. I had a free week ahead of me without any particular plans except lingering on memories. Before the handshakes were over I made up my mind.
“I won’t say goodbye to you Ed,” I whispered in his ear, as I squeezed his hand on the farewell queue.”I’ll come to see you this afternoon.”
“The papers will be ready for you,” he answered.
Wow! What an opportunity! As employees we were allowed to travel on United Nations’ planes, DC3’s probably. It would be the adventure of a lifetime. I could finally relax during the flight and maybe get some sleep. The transfer to Togo had kept me awake for days. What kind of life awaited me? Was I burying myself alive in Africa, thousands of miles away from loved ones? Was it worth it?
Ed wiped away all those apprehensions when he handed me the pass.
“You won’t be sorry. I hear it’s Eden on earth. You know you’ll be on board of a commuter plane, right?”
I nodded. I didn’t know, but I was not about to show my ignorance. I wouldn’t have missed this opportunity even if I traveled on a camel.
“What about accommodations?” I asked, assuming full service was provided by our internal travel office.
“I advised the administrator in Goma of your visit,” he told me.”He’ll take care of you and arrange for your travel to Bukavu, through the jungle.”
“What do I owe you?” I asked.
“You’ll pay for your hotel accommodations over there, in Goma or Bukavu.” he said.”Your travel is for free. This is a commuter plane. We happen to have extra room for you.”
“Thanks Ed!” I could have danced for joy.
“We have something more for you,” he smiled as he handed over a carry-on bag.”We want you to always remember us.”
Just what I needed! Leopoldville was not the place where you shopped for what you wanted. You made do with what you found.
“I can’t thank you enough!” I could barely contain my urge to hug him.
……….
Excitement interfered with my sleep all night. Early in the morning I dressed up in a flared checked skirt, white linen top and two-inch high sling sandals. In 1965 pants were not casual wear for women. My soaring spirits could have flown me to the airport faster than the company shuttle.
I arrived much earlier than anticipated, hurried past the airline counters to the take-off field, which seemed to be on the boundaries of the regular airport. No other passengers were in sight, not even a plane on the tarmac, just a few porters unloading bundles from a beaten up truck.
After a long wait a young man came by:
“Are you waiting for somebody?” he asked.
“I’m here for the flight to Goma.” I flashed my UN passport and pass.
“We have some delivery delays. The plane will be ready in an hour,” he said.
I looked for a cool spot inside the building without losing sight of the patch of airfield where the plane would take off. An hour later a small plane, possibly a DC3 came into sight. It took more than an hour to load the plane. Another hour passed before the young man came back to pick me up. We walked to the plane in the middle of nowhere.
“Go up and relax,” he offered, pointing to a rope ladder.”We’ll finish loading soon.”
I looked at the toy sitting in the middle of the tarmac. Could I trust my security to its wings?
I started my ascent on the rope ladder clumsily, hoping to meet the stewardess at the top. Wishful thinking! Barely an inch inside the door, my carry-on bag followed me in a half arch orbit. The cabin was a little rugged, with four dusty seats. I sat down on the front seat by the door. Some boxes had already been placed on the stretch in front of me. I was having second thoughts about my flight.
The mail bundles came in first, thrown in from the tarmac, basketball style. Then the vegetable crates, some containing fresh radishes and cabbages, were carried up the ladder, to avoid the impact of a breakage in case they fell down. Paperwork followed, packed in cardboard boxes, addressees clearly marked. Finally the young man came up the ladder to put some order in it all. He made a reasonably neat pile in the center. He asked if I was comfortable and said I would have company. I beamed back with great expectations. Soon I heard some cackles that sounded like a foreign language. It didn’t matter who they were as long as there would be a human sitting across from me.
The man leaned out the door to take a dozen chickens bound together around their feet. He placed them on top of the pile, like the icing on a cake. A second down was taken in. By the third dozen I was ready to fly out of the plane, but the bundles were in my way. I was a captive passenger already. The man exited. A few minutes later the pilot climbed into the cockpit and we took off unceremoniously, without so much as an introduction. Was he aware that there was another person on his flight?
Breakfast was obviously foregone, and lunch would certainly not be served during our five-hour flight, unless I picked a live bird. Oh, did they cackle, these loud chicks, looking straight at each other with bulging eyes, beaks open, ready to fight for territorial rights! Each pushed the other to gain an iota of breathing space, shrilling nasty messages to their captive companions. I’m not sure if I wanted to laugh or cry at my predicament. I wanted to lend a deaf ear. I might as well try shutting off the sun blazing right at me through the window.
As we gained more mileage the heat in the cabin mounted. Pungent odors emanating from the radishes and cabbages, combined with those emitted from the fowls, overpowered my perfume already worn thin with profuse sweating. An occasional feather flew in my direction. I followed its trajectory, hoped that none would land on my hair. I diverted my attention to counting the banana trees in the plantations below, anxious to reach my destination before we used up all the oxygen in the cabin. I was hungry, disillusioned and a bit apprehensive about the wisdom of throwing myself into space. Did anybody know, back in the office, that I was on this plane?
Two hours into the flight, the disputes were still hot and the voices no less shrill, when a deep, white fog enveloped us. Lightning beams were followed by rumbles of thunder a few seconds thereafter. For a split second the fowls stopped their negotiations, stupefied by the flashes of light. Then, as the torrential tropical rain relentlessly pounded the window panes, the fowls screeched in unison with each roar of thunder, a thirty-six member chorus of chicks. In the absence of a maestro to conduct this celestial cacophony, I was tempted to unbuckle from my seat. I had to bring some order into this chaos. My good intentions vanished the moment I took a step forward. Though I had the benefit of height for once, I lacked equilibrium. I fell back and buried myself deeper and deeper into my seat, dreading the moment they might break loose into the cabin.
I prayed for “peace on earth” but we were in the skies. Would the prayer hold? “Chicken, chicken, everywhere and not a bite to eat!” Hunger roared in my chest, making last night’s crocodile dinner look like a luscious meal.” Lord, give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses for thinking of eating a live chicken.”
I must have fallen asleep from heat exhaustion. A few jolts warned me that we were slowing down. Outside the window the earth looked closer by the second. Dignitaries from the Eastern Office of UN operations were waiting at the deserted end of the tarmac. After we came to a stop I waited impatiently, until the cargo was unloaded. The chickens were taken out first but their din buzzed in my ears for a long time, to the point of making me dizzy. The vegetables followed, leaving behind a trail of pungency mixed with chicken sweat, magnified to the nth degree in the heat. Gravity helped in throwing out the bundles on the tarmac. I must have looked like a ghost from another planet, probably reeking with cabin odor, when I appeared in the doorway, dressed in a flared skirt and high heels.
“Bienvenue, Mlle. Terzian!” called out the supervisor of the operations, waving for me to come down.
My feet trembled. I started to go down the rope ladder slowly, manipulating the ropes with dexterity under six pairs of watching eyes, until one of my heels became entangled three rungs away from the ground. In my efforts to hold on to my purse, and free my twisted leg from the rope I let go of it and slid out with a spectacular back dive onto the tarmac, skirt flaring like a parachute, exposing myself more than I cared to, to the top brass of the organization.
One of the gentlemen rushed forward to lend me a hand.
“Welcome to Goma,” he beamed, pulling me up.
I learned the meaning of “commuter plane” the hard way. Of course, by now the gentlemen were “intimately acquainted” with me. There was no need for introductions.
I thoroughly enjoyed your hilarious story, so well-written I could bring a handkerchief to my face to block out the "fowl" odors of your commute in the sweltering heat. There's nothing like flying commercial! Hope Bukavu was the Eden you anticipated.
