WFP Flight

A few days ago I took a World Food Programme (WFP) flight to Wau in northern South Sudan from the capital city Juba and back again. It was a first. I always fantasized about these flights. The rumors of drunk Russian or bad ass Israeli pilots traipsing across crap holes in Africa delivering heroes of humanitarian work sounded amazing when friends sat around tasting Tuskers and telling tales. But the Quakers were never hooked up enough to get these flights and then I was settled in Gulu. So I felt pretty cool rocking up to Juba airport with my ID that says “Emergency Humanitarian Assistance Worker.”

It’s also a bit funky to travel to small airports in Africa. And by funky, I mean terrifying. It wasn’t the smallest plane I had ever been on; it fit about 40 people on it. But it had propellers and landed on a dirt runway in Wau, and these are to me the telltale signs of gutsy travel. Before boarding I had to select my bag from all of the baggage lined up in front of the plane and then personally hand it to the guy loading the plane. I kind of like this idea and think we should be able to do it for transcontinental commercial flights. After that it’s basically the same drill as a normal flight: “ladies and gentleman please fasten your seatbelts…” Although I was delighted to spot a rarity: a female co-pilot.

I’ve always said that Air Burundi cured my fear of flying. If you are flying at 18,000 feet in a plane that has original 1967 upholstery and you are in Africa, well you might as well let go of your fear, because it truly doesn’t matter. And I was reminded of this as we took off and pitched through the clouds while huts and people and goats faded away.

On the way back to Juba, I took out my traveling savior, my Kindle, and began to read a New Yorker from two weeks ago. The article was about the raid on bin Laden. It was perhaps one of the most griping things I’ve read in years. Hayden said it read like a van dam action film. Seriously. I couldn’t read it fast enough yet I read it meticulously so as to comprehend every SEAL acronym and every minute detail of their mission. Stephen Greenblatt knew he had a winner and teased his audience. Just when the pilot realizes the helicopter is going to crash Greenblatt cuts to Obama and the efforts to make the right call.

While I remain gripped on the article, I bounced through South Sudan airspace with my humanitarian compatriots. I barely even noticed the thing I had dreaded the night before: a pit stop at some other po-dunk SS town. The night before I worried that I’d have to land and take off an extra time, which would leave more occasion for pilot error. However, when we landed in Rumbek I was more worried that the flight attendant was going to ask me to switch off my kindle – right as the SEALS breached the inner wall! Luckily she did not.

As we landed back in Juba and jumped on a white bus marked “UN” (how cool?!) of course I recognized how different my mission was from these guys in Pakistan. Not just in terms of levels of badassness but also in service to a very different mandate. But it was still undeniably poignant to read this article on my 20,000 ft sojourn to humanitarian street cred.