Refugees and Legionnaires
(continued) “Chad historically is a violent nation,” says Pauline Ballaman, Oxfam-Great Britain’s program manager at Goz Beida, one of the refugee areas in eastern Chad. “It works on reprisals. Normally, the Sultan [of the region] could solve things, but now outside interests have reduced his power.” The result is a disturbingly high and palpable sense of tension and violence bordering on chaos. And the pilots who fly here are in the thick of it.
The Air Serv crew house is surrounded by high cement walls, topped with coils of razor wire, and few westerners in Abeche venture out after nightfall. Not that there’s much nightlife in this strict Muslim community, of course. Or other comforts, like paved or drivable roads, reliable electricity or running water. There is, however, an abundance of heat, dust, mud and malaria-carrying mosquitoes.
In short, for anyone who’s ever fantasized about quitting their job and running away to be an adventure pilot in Africa, Abeche is a serious reality check. And yet, the two women I stayed and flew with there seemed to take it all in stride. In Myriam’s case, that might be because her last assignment with Air Serv before Chad was Iraq. Everything is relative, after all. But Air Serv’s chief pilot in Abeche, Lauren Stroschin, came to Chad direct from nine years of flying Dash 8s and Twin Otters in Alaska. Which means she’s no stranger to physical discomfort, of course. But Alaska still doesn’t prepare you for an armed and lawless place like Chad.
On the other hand, flying in Alaska does tend to give a pilot a good eye and feel for rapidly changing weather and airstrip conditions, practice in making decisions with little outside help, and really good airplane handling skills—all of which are important. The other critical traits for doing this kind of work are an easygoing, flexible and adaptable nature, and a love of adventure and challenge. And while Myriam and Lauren are different in many ways, they both have those last requirements wrapped up in spades.
I ask Myriam what she did when the rebels attacked Abeche, last November. Did she crawl under a bed, like I imagine I would? A grin spreads across her face and her eyes light up with excitement.
“No!” she says with a laugh. “I went up to the roof to see what was going on!” Even when the crew retreated to the French Army base for safety, she was restless. “I kept saying, ‘Come on, we’ve got airplanes. We should be doing something. Evacuating people, getting supplies … something!’ I wanted to keep flying!”
And when I ask Lauren about coping with all the deprivations of life in Abeche, an equally broad grin lights her face.
“But it’s great!” she protests. “I love this place. It’s like going back in time, before there were cars or any other part of modern life, where people use donkeys to get around or carry things!”
All this, mind you, in addition to being unarmed, civilian, western women, with no military back-up, tasked with asserting command pilot authority in a land of armed strongmen and a very strict Muslim culture. Myriam may be from a small town outside of Geneva, Switzerland, and Lauren may hail from urban Michigan. But somewhere in each of their ancestries, there must have been some serious pioneer blood.
The flying in Chad is like any other desert bush flying, with sandstorms and Harmattan winds that sweep across the northern deserts, and rough, dirt airstrips that blend into the surrounding sand during the dry season and turn into mud-slicked water slides when the rains come. The Twin Otter Lauren and Myriam fly is an impressive airplane for this kind of work—rugged and dependable, with a good payload and terrific short-field performance. But they still have tales of hydroplaning down watery airstrips and having to dig wheels out of unexpectedly soft ground.
As Lauren checks our passengers for weapons before allowing them to board at one of our stops, I ask if I can take some photos. Taking photos around airports—even remote dirt strips—is a very touchy thing in Africa; forbidden in many places. And in Chad, taking photos of any kind—anywhere—can quickly get you in all sorts of unpleasant trouble. Lauren looks around and says she doesn’t see any soldiers, so to go ahead. I hesitate and say maybe I should wait until I have a formal journalist’s photo credential, which is supposed to come through that afternoon.
“After all, we’re coming back here tomorrow,” I say. Lauren smiles wryly and looks at the overcast sky. “Insh’allah”—if Allah wills it—she says with a resigned gesture.
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