WINGS
-V-
I remember. I had found a seat in the last coach of the Paris to Frankfurt train and was trying to put together a few disturbing thoughts. I wanted to know why suddenly my life appeared boring, I needed to understand what was that urge for open spaces, for constant change, that need to keep moving instead of being glued to a station, even if in the brand-new Charles de Gaulle airport. My train had left Paris early afternoon. I had packed lightly. I would find a cheap hotel in Neu-Isenburg, where the American supplemental carrier had offices. The plan was that there was no plan. I would simply show up, and tell them that I was looking for a job, eager to work hard, and that I could speak some English, reasonably Italian, and fairly good Spanish. I would not tell them that I was looking for adventure and that I was ready to accept any kind of working conditions to reach my goal. Needless to say, that the meeting at ONA’s European headquarters did not last long. The people there looked at me like if I was coming from another planet, and anyhow, they were not hiring. My hope had turned short of results and the return to Paris and my traffic agent job, was a rather sad affair. I would have to continue enduring the commuting, the routine that was eating at me. Luckily, I could see airplanes every day. Ours, of course, but also those of other airlines operating cargo flights and parking their airframes near our grounds. UTA, the second French carrier, after Air France was carrying all kind of fruit from Africa to Paris. Through some of our warehousemen, whose cousins or brother worked at UTA, we had access to ripe mangoes, and in these days, mangoes were expensive and rare. There was also the newspaper flight operated by the freshly created British Airways on the remnants of British European Airways and British Overseas Airways Corporation. They operated a « Merchantman », one of these legendary airplanes powered by four turboprop engines. It was delivering in Roissy the newspapers freshly printed in England, which would find their ways to the Paris newsstand before it was even breakfast time.
Through interlines agreements, I escaped every now and then. Most of my trips were to London or to New York, for a couple of days shopping for clothes and electronics. These breaks were welcome, but generated a lot of frustration. It was a constant flight forward as I finally realised. I simply had to accept what I had, and stop looking for something else. I Had, at this time, no idea of what laid ahead of me.
Since 1961, Angola, a country from southwest Africa under Portuguese rule since the XVIth century, was trying to free itself from colonial rule. Several internal conflicts led to independence in November 1975, with the help of various countries such as Cuba, Soviet Union, and China, for instance. Thousands of Portuguese refugees had to leave the country before November 1975, hoping for a new future in Portugal where most of them had never set foot (1) A program of refugee’s flights had been launched under the umbrella of the UNHCR (2) involving many different airlines including the Portuguese flag carrier, but also UTA (3) and Seaboard World Airlines. There again, French personnel would have a play a key role. The flight program called for operation from Nova Lisboa and Luanda airports to Lisbon, with a fuel stop and crew change in Abidjan, in Ivory coast. The company had been looking for volunteers and it did not take me long to propose my services. I had spent so many hours at Terminal 1 during lunch time, listening to boarding calls for long distance flight. I had never thought that, one day, I would be waiting in a lounge, on my way to Africa. The flight from Paris CDG was with UTA. Leaving Roissy around noon, the flight would stop in Marseille, Nouakchott in Mauritania, then Conakry in Guinea, and finally Abidjan. We arrived there by the end of the day. Our handling agent was Air Afrique and already, hardly deplaned and looking forward for a shower, the problems started. Our incoming flight from Luanda, due to land within 45 minutes of my own arrival to start the operation, had contacted the handling agent through the HF radio and a phone patch. One of the passengers was in extreme pain.
A doctor, amongst the passengers, had diagnosed a kidney stone. The sick passenger had to be transferred to the hospital has soon as the plane would have landed but this was Africa and the facilities available in Europe were not exactly the same. As the airplane landed, the sick passenger was met and transferred onto a fireman’s truck for a quick ride to the hospital. I stayed with him for the duration of the transfer, to ensure that he was cared for, and collect necessary identity information and phone numbers of his family in Portugal. I had never been to Africa before. Of course, at home, there was a large population of French-African coming from the Caribbean, and former French colonies but the contrast proved to be a violent one. The smell first, on the way to the hospital, this incredible smell of burning wood coming from hundreds of small houses in the suburbs of Abidjan. It was dinner time and everyone was cooking at home on small stoves. Obviously, there was a lot of poverty by European standards and some sights were, for me, shocking. Being an unseasoned and carefree young man, I felt, however, that this trip would change me through an incredible experience. I simply did not expect that the extent of this change would be so important. The Intercontinental Ivoire hotel complex, in the Cocody district, was an incredibly luxurious affair. There was an ice rink, seven restaurants, two swimming pools and luxury rooms overlooking a palm tree garden. Although during my childhood I had been lucky to visit some of the best hotels in Switzerland, Greece or even Egypt, I had never been exposed to such an incredible environment. My bedroom could have contained the Paris studio where I lived and when I spent a couple of hours sliding on the ice whilst the outside temperature was over 35°c, I realized how incredible the whole thing was and how lucky I was to be able to experience such an unusual mission. The United Nations had contracted the company to fly refugees from the war-torn Angola, back to Lisbon, in Portugal. To do so, the company had positioned one of its Douglas DC 8 60/70 Leased from Saturn Airways and configured in high capacity to accommodate as many refugees as possible on each flight. One crew would fly from Abidjan to Luanda, stay on the ground till passengers boarded the airplane, ad fly back to Abidjan where a fresh crew was waiting to fly the mission from Abidjan to Lisbon, and back to Abidjan. It had been decided that the safest schedule would call for an arrival in Luanda by night time.
One of the first issue that I had had to resolve was the catering for the crew. I had arranged for fresh fruit trays, hot crew meals, and a complement of American cigarettes to be billed directly to the headquarters through the IATA Clearing house. I knew that in time of war, cigarettes could be a source of goodwill so on each flight several cartons of Marlboro and Camel were secured in the after galley in a location kept secret to prevent disappearance. During the three hours and half from Abidjan to Luanda, the cabin crew caught up on sleeping, wrote postcards to family and friends, read books. The cabin was unlit and here and there individual lighting was casting narrow beams on the seats. There was a weird atmosphere on board. For most of us, it was the first time we would be confronted to such a misery. We were all young, had no political education for most of us, and certainly no idea of what was waiting for us in Luanda. In the cockpit, in the heart of the night, the crew was talking with the New York headquarters through a phone patch. I remember my astonishment when the flight engineer explained to me that we could establish radio contact with headquarters through a Swiss radio station located near Bern, whose name was indeed BERNA RADIO. This company sold its services to airlines and could phone patch you to anywhere in the world. The flight time was hardly enough to get a good rest as 3 and ½ hours after take-off from Abidjan airport, it was already time for a quick descent into Luanda.
The airport was havoc. Thousands of people with basic luggage were waiting for a flight to Portugal. Adults, children, babies, tired and dirty. There was hardly any water available, not enough toilet facilities and the stench was so strong that it would draw tears from one’s eyes. Outside of the airport protected by military personnel, thousand more people waited for the early morning flights. Some of our passengers were hurt, some others sick. An old man wandered around the airplane, appearing totally lost. He was. I took him by the end and helped him get onboard. We had to swiftly board passengers. Due to weight restrictions, we had to forcefully limit luggage to the strict minimum per person. Thousands of suitcases had been piled at one end of the airport. There were no checking facilities, such as one expected to find in an international airport. There were no operation personnel. Besides the few ATC people, and the fire brigade staff, everyone else on the airport was either military, red cross or United Nations personnel. The lack of scale and weighing capability presented to us a challenge. In order to complete the weight and balance, we needed to know the weight of each piece of luggage boarded on our plane. There was however no way we would know with certainty unless….
Someone came up with a weird idea. We selected a “standard” type of suitcase, and a “standard” type of bag, and weight them individually on a scale found at the medical service. With the captain’s agreement, we decided to use said weight as “standard weights” regardless of their real weight. We had selected a few young men ready to board N 8955 SW, our DC.8, to help us loading the bellies. Three out of the four bellies were available as in the fourth one, key spare parts had been stacked up. One of us, with a paper pad and a pen, would simply tick the quantity of suitcase or bag as it was coming up the conveyor belt onto the airplane’s hold. Once the belly door was ready to be closed, the flight plan filed for the return leg from Luanda to Abidjan, and the passengers finally settled in their seats, it was time for start-up. The mechanic would then go on the headset to supervise the start up along with the Portuguese maintenance staff from TAP (5) then, once the four engines were started, he would climb back in the airplane, stairs would be removed and the passenger door closed. After taking off from the Luanda airport where it was hot and humid, the air conditioning was more than welcome. If flying ferry from Abidjan to Luanda, gave us time to reflect on the political events taking place in Angola, on the return leg, things were indeed different. Exhausted passengers often dozed off before wheels were up. Some of them cried, breaking down with emotion. There was not much that we could do to give emotional support, besides making sure that the first part of their trip to their unknown future, was accomplished with care and kindness during the next three and half hours of the flight’s duration back to Abidjan.
With over two hundred passengers including babies, the cabin crew had its hands full. On the way back, I would be seating in the cockpit, listening to radio conversations. All of this was new to me, and although I realized that the upcoming independence of Angola was a dramatic scenario for the refugees, most of them having lost everything, I could not help feeling elation at being a part of this refugee uplift. There was a deep contradiction between what I felt when crossing the airport hall whilst thousands were waiting without food for a flight to safety, and how I felt once in the relative quietness of the cockpit, strapped on the observer’s seat just behind the captain.
From Luanda to Abidjan, there was nothing under the airplane, just the waters of the Gulf of Guinea, this part of the eastern tropical Atlantic Ocean. About 45 minutes after taking-off, snacks were provided to exhausted passengers. Those who cried before now slept, those who were awake, did not talk. The stench on board was terrible. It was the smell of war and human misery. Early landing in Abidjan was a guarantee that the temperature would be bearable. The crew change would take place in silence to protect the refugee’s sleep. On the way back from the airport to our peaceful Intercontinental Hotel, some discussed the events seen in Luanda, providing political analysis of the Cuban involvement. True enough, as I was trying to find my way in Luanda Airport, looking for the ATC office, a man dressed in military fatigues and wearing a helmet had provided the required information in Spanish, although the language of the country mostly used, was Portuguese. Surprised, I had stopped for three or four minutes, offered a cigarette to the man and talked to him in Spanish:
-De donde viene usted ? Como es que hablas espanol ? (6)
and the man had given me this answer, unforgotten to this day
-Soy Cubano. Vengo de la ciudad de Mayari para ayudar a mis hermanos a combatir el colonialismo (7)
Between flights, whenever there was an operational lull, crew members could go to the Treichville market, and catch a whiff of authentic Africa. The taxi cabs were cheap, so was eating out provided that one did not eat in” European” restaurants. “Kedjenou” (8) was a few Francs and beer produced locally by SOLIBRA (9) was ten times cheaper than any cheap pint of beer in London, Paris or Amsterdam. Time was flying away. Short of finding passengers to pick up in Luanda, the United Nations had us switch operation to Nova Lisboa. Fresh operation personnel were on their way to replace my team. I already dreaded, once again, going back home. But there were no options and I had to make space for my “replacement”. After spending a few weeks in the midst of an incredible operation, an airlift of great significance, I found the relative quietness of the return flight. On the way back to Paris, I started to recap the events of the last few weeks, in order to put together some kind of report upon arrival. It was a night flight. The cabin lights were dimmed. The smell of airplane air freshener was overpowering.
(1) Same thing happened with the French from North Africa when Algeria became independent, also with the support of the Soviet Union.
(2) United Nations High Commissary for Refugees
(3) UTA Union des Transports Aerien was formed in October 1963 through the merger of Transport Aeriens Intercontinentaux and Aéromaritime. It ceased operation in 1992.
(5) Transportes Aeros Portugueses, Portugal’s flag carrier established in 1946.
(6) Where do you come from? How comes you speak Spanish
(7) I am from Cuba. I come from the city of Mayari to help my brothers in their fight against colonialism.
(8) Typical chicken stew served in Ivory coast. It is VERY spicy and goes well with a cold beer.
(9) Société de Limonaderies et Brasseries d’Afrique, the oldest brewing company in Ivory Coast dating back to 1955.
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