Turbulence in Congo
(continued) “The accident rate in Africa is 13 times that of the rest of the world for transport aircraft,” Air Serv’s international chief pilot Mike Ventre tells me. Part of that statistic is due to what Ventre calls “normalization of deviance.” Fly IFR through a volcano gauntlet, fly blind into unknown weather or land on a runway shortened by obstacles or flooding enough times, and the risk attached to it begins to feel normal. So the bar of “unacceptable risk” gets raised.
For example, pilots in the region still talk about a spectacular crash that happened in northwestern Kenya a few years ago. A Hawker 748 cargo plane coming into the Lokichoggio Airport there landed gear up. The plane stopped about one-third of the way down the airport’s only runway, causing other inbound planes to divert to distant alternates. But a C-130 crew, accustomed to landing on difficult, short and obstructed runways, decided they’d simply land in the opposite direction, on the remaining portion of the runway. They aimed for the numbers … and miscalculated. They hit short, wiping out the 130’s gear and sending the Hercules careening sideways down the runway. The crowd around the Hawker scattered wildly as the C-130 came screeching toward them and crashed headlong into the already disabled 748.
But the other reason for that statistic is simply the conditions in Africa—no radar or weather assistance, hostile terrain and marginal airstrips. On my first day of Caravan flying in Congo, we flew into one strip that’s actually just a curved stretch of paved mining road through the jungle. The road is a whopping 20 feet wide, with ditches on either side, and the runway threshold is marked by two wrecked Antonov An-2 cargo planes—graphic reminders of the fate that awaits any pilot who doesn’t land precisely on the center of the pavement.
But in Congo, the risks go beyond the mere physical. “In terms of day-to-day difficulty, Congo is the worst of any place in Africa we fly,” Ventre says. “Because the challenges you face as a pilot increase when you shut the engine down. Things are unstable and change very quickly,” he cautions. “And because of that, and people not knowing if they’ll be around tomorrow, whoever’s in charge takes what they can get today. And we’re a target, because we operate expensive aircraft.”
In short, it’s hazardous country. And the combined risks of the Congo start closing in on us, even while I’m there. When I arrive, the powerful rebel commander Laurent Nkunda has moved his forces to Sake, a town 15 kilometers outside of Goma. The Congolese government, meanwhile, is flying in troops and ammunition daily to keep the rebels from taking Goma. When we land, we can hear artillery fire in the distant hills.
There’s a contingent of United Nations peacekeepers stationed in Sake to keep the two sides apart and enforce Congo’s formal peace agreement. But on Thursday night, word comes that the UN forces at Sake have been forced to retreat, Nkunda is advancing, and some UN vehicles in Goma have been attacked. Humanitarian organizations impose curfews on their workers, and there’s talk of evacuation. The Air Serv pilots are calm, but I can’t help wondering if they really know that there’s no cause for alarm, or if this is another case of “normalized deviance.” Even in my short time here, I’ve realized that you can get so used to guns and soldiers that the possibility of conflict begins to seem normal. But at least we have airplanes and know how to fly them. That’s a comforting thought.
On Friday, there are more government soldiers in the streets and at the airport, many of them with rocket-propelled grenade launchers slung over their shoulders. The two Air Serv pilots who were involved in the jungle accident, meanwhile, spend the day awaiting word on their fate from local authorities investigating the crash. Mike Ventre’s cautions about the unpredictability of both local officials and the overall security in Congo begin to seem uncomfortably prescient.
On Saturday morning, Cindy and I are up at dawn for a Caravan mission. As we ride out to the airport, we see white UN tanks and armored vehicles headed down the road in the opposite direction, followed by truckloads of blue-helmeted UN soldiers, all heading toward Sake. I shoot a quick glance at Cindy.
“So, are tanks normal around here?” I ask sharply. Cindy frowns and shakes her head. Even she now looks concerned.
“No. We’ve known they had them, but I’ve never seen them before,” she says.
We take off and fly to Punia, where we have a short pow-wow with Air Serv’s chief pilot in the Congo. He’s been told that the pilots who were in the crash can leave the country, but it’s uncertain how sure or lasting that permission will be. He tells Cindy he wants her to fly them to Uganda immediately.
We head back for Goma. As we near the town, Cindy points off to our left, where a blockade of square, white objects is clearly visible on the road between Sake and Goma. “I’m thinking those are the UN tanks,” she says, “but we’re not going any closer to verify that.”
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