Let’s go back to when I was in town; I arrived on a Wednesday in late afternoon and as stated, spent three days shopping and chasing parts for equipment at the concession site.

The President of the Country had commandeered all of the air planes in the area for a whirlwind campaign tour of the country. The elections were coming up in four weeks. So I wasn’t able to leave until Monday with Jake and our wild flight to camp.

Mustafa picked me up early on Sunday morning and told me we were going to visit his mother and see his farm. We were headed out of town and I was looking at something out the side window, when the car hit a hole in the road and a cloud of dust enveloped us and the car. I jumped, looked around and asked what happened. I was told we had just left the town (city) limits, and that was the end of the asphalt. From there on it was either mud or deeply rutted dust depending on the time of year.

We bumped along for about half an hour and came to a small village (in Africa a village is one hut or more). This one had three huts and we stopped. Mustafa bought two small loves of hard crusted bread, handed them to me and drove on a few hundred yards. He then stopped, reached into a paper bag and handed me a can of very warm Coca Cola, took one of the loves of bread and said, “we’ll eat breakfast here.” He then told me it was yesterday’s bread and it was always better. Now I was only a little over four days away from civilization and my mind quickly told me that I could see hundreds if not thousands of tiny little fly footprints on this loaf of bread. I wondered just where the little fly feet had been walking before discovering and then stomping around on my little loaf?

I pondered this situation for about thirty seconds, then throwing caution to the winds, I made a swipe with the bread on my shirt saying it looked a bit dusty and went ahead and tore off a big chunk and started to eat. I should tell you; in a third world country nutrition is secondary to having a full stomach. If it tastes good or almost tastes good and is filling, that’s all that matters. Mustafa only ate half his bread and drank about half the Coke, so I followed his example and tore off a little piece from the paper bag and wadded it up and stuck it in the top of the Coke can. He smiled at me and did the same thing, saying, “it keeps the bugs out because some of them scratch your throat.” With that wonderful thought embedded in my mind we continued on our journey.

We traveled about another five miles and then Mustafa sat up straight and said a very nasty word and told me to lock the doors and roll up the window quick-quick. Being a stranger in his country, I did as I was told without asking any stupid questions. The temperature in the vehicle went up about ten to fifteen degrees in less than a minute.

To be continued.

TRIP TO AFRICA, PART 7. GETTING SETTLED IN CAMP

Last time we left off when I had just finished my first breakfast in camp. Herb and I walked toward the washroom and he asked if I would mind sharing a bungalow for a few weeks. By then the roads would be passable and our truck could bring in two more cargo containers, one for me and one for the new mining engineer who was coming from Ghana. My first thought was, if I say no, where do I sleep? So I said, “lets take a look.”

We walked to the last bungalow on the right side where the door was just about ten feet from the washroom. This would prove to be a very strategic location in the months ahead. The front, along with three others, was appointed with three rattan chairs with arms and cushions. We entered the bungalow. Against the far wall was a single bed with my trunks stacked on the floor at the foot of the bed. Down the right side were a desk, small bookcase, table and another bed across the end. Above the bed was an air conditioner. Herb turned on the lights so I could get the full effect of our ½ star accommodations. Looking at the other wall, there was a screened louvered window, a chair, table with a little lamp, another window and back to my bed.

This may sound like we had all the props, but the furniture looked very much like Genghis Khan had dragged it behind a horse from Northern China to this very spot. Herb saw my face and added ”I fixed it up.” My retort was “spell fixed.” He went into a fit of laughter and mumbled, “well anyway you still have your sense of humor.”

Just then there was a gust of wind and the sound of rain so loud that we had to shout to hear each other so we went back outside, sat in the chairs and watched the rain. This was pleasant. Usually when you took one of these jobs you didn’t know anyone on site, but in country it doesn’t take long to get acquainted. We hadn’t seen each other for a few years so we caught up on what had happened. He had gotten a divorce and did a year in Africa about 400 miles North of here for another company, then back to the states and to El Cajon California to be near his children. He had taken a job there, then this job came up and here he was. He went on to tell me that Sam had asked him if he knew anyone else and he gave Sam my name and phone number. That, along with my resume, is how I got here.

We were just about to get into a deep discussion about the fishing and hunting possibilities in the area when Jr., one of the houseboys, came up and told us Mr. Sam wants “boat you, come to cook shack.” Herb got a fiendish glint in his eye and said “your goin-ta love this” and let me go first.

Nearing the door there came an unmistakable odor from my childhood, frying Spam. The horror stories told a 5-6 year old by older neighbor children during WW11 came flooding back. Do you know what that’s made out of? “Dogs, cats, rats and enemy solders” I was told, were packed into those little cans with the slotted key soldered to the lid. Even before the kid stories I didn’t like Spam, but the memories brought a smile to my face as I walked through the door. Seated at the head of the table was Sam, sandwich in hand, two slices of bread with very thick slabs of raw Spam hanging out both sides. “Glad to see that smile on your face, knew you were a Spam man”, Sam remarked between large bites of sandwich. “I like it natural but they”, he said, gesturing to the crew, “like it burnt.” “What’s your pleasure?”, he continued. “We got six full cases of Spam and two cases of DAK for backup in the storeroom and more ordered on the next truck headed this way, so don’t hold back.” About this time my stomach did a full 360 degree roll with audible gurgling sounds. This morning’s combination of an empty stomach, overcooked eggs, bacon, potatoes and too much palm oil had taken its toll. With as much dignity as I could muster, I calmly ran for the washroom, to remain in seclusion for well over an hour.

When I was able to reenter the known world, I saw Herb and Sam down the walk sitting in front of Sam’s bungalow drinking coffee. As I made my wobbly approach, Herb with a vicious glint in his eye and a sly grin said, “we saved you some cooked Spam.” My first lunch or whatever was cold cooked Spam and mustard sandwiches chased with hot coffee.

TO BE CONTINUED.

TRIP TO AFRICA, PART 6: MY FIRST BREAKFAST IN THE BUSH & A SURPRISE

Last time we left off with Sam and I headed for the mess hall or cook shack as we came to call it, for the long awaited breakfast and more coffee. Upon entering the mess hall, I noted there was a table to the left of the door set for six. Across the room to the right was a cabinet with dishes then a small four burner propane stove with an oven then a counter with a sink, pot and pan storage and at the end a small refrigerator that ran on electricity, and in an emergency, kerosene.

About this time my cup was being filled with hot steaming coffee. One of the house boys said “I get Mr. Bush.” Then another man came into the cook shack. I was introduced to Ken, the Assistant project manager who had a noticeable and seemingly very painful limp. We shook hands and he explained that yesterday, when Jake and I had buzzed camp in the plane, the truck had left for the Solomon Store and was probably on the way back to camp. He jumped on the camp motorcycle and took off to turn it around and send it back to pick me up. Then the story got interesting.

He found the truck near the store and he headed back to camp. It was raining and the road was slick with mud and rainwater. He came to a blind turn and was putting the power to the bike coming out of the turn and not twenty five yards ahead was an elephant blocking the road. He said his options were few, hit the elephant or lay the bike down. He chose the latter and banged up his leg in the process. He said the elephant must have watched the whole crash then turned and ambled off the road, into the bush and disappeared. He was lucky. If the elephant had taken the notion, Ken could have been stepped on or worse.

About this time there was the sound of footsteps on the boardwalk and a low and somewhat familiar voice came from outside the cook shack wanting to know “did that worthless old bald guy show up yet?” Standing in the doorway was what looked like a cross between a Grizzly Bear and a Buffalo. I wont mention which end of the buffalo.

Some of you may remember Herb. He and I had reworked the fishing rods in my sporting goods store to catch those big catfish in Pardee Lake in California. He had left EBMUD and we had lost track of each other. Now here he was in the middle of the African bush, standing in the cook shack doorway grinning at me. After just the proper amount of back and forth insults, we sat down as breakfast was being served.

At this point I should explain Herb’s appearance...5-10, well over 200 lbs. About a 34” waist, olive skin, coal black shoulder length hair, a full beard, and an amateur weight lifter. Yep, looked like a Grizzly/Buffalo cross to me. Now for breakfast.

This was to be only one of many memorable meals that are forever etched in my memory. In this area, as with most of Africa, rice is the main staple and eggs seldom are available. The fried eggs were a white rubbery substance with hard yellow spots in the middle. The toast was great (there was a toaster) but best used as a sandwich to stifle bacon shards from severely wounding your eating companions sitting nearby. The boys were told that when I got to camp I would be bringing supplies. Bacon, eggs, fried potatoes and toast would be breakfast. What they weren’t told was cooking oil would also be in with the supplies. Not wanting to ruin the meal, they brought red crude home processed palm oil from the village including minute pieces of palm nuts suspended in the oil. When the platter of fried potatoes smelling of scorched palm oil with a glistening red sheen was set on the table, I thought Sam was going into cardiac arrest. His face turned redder than the potatoes.

At that point Sam excused himself from the table muttering we would have an early afternoon snack and called the two boys outside for a talk. Everyone else excused themselves from the table except Herb, who sat there with one of those “I dare you to” looks in his eyes. Bad as it was, I hadn’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours so I experimented by soaking the bacon in the potatoes. One could get it softened up to an almost chewable state. That, along with a bottle of tabasco sauce, made a fried egg and bacon sandwich that kept me from getting a terrible headache.

TO BE CONTINUED.

TRIP TO AFRICA, PART 5: LOOKING OVER MY NEW HOME

Last time we left off where after a fairly eventful trip I had arrived in camp hungry and very short of sleep. I must admit camp looked a whole lot better when Jake and I flew over it than it did from ground level.

Lets go back a few minutes to when we were in sight of camp. I thought we were going to stop but we went on by for another two miles and let our passengers out at the edge of a river, the name I never could pronounce.

The passengers started to cross on a log bridge comprised of two logs of about four feet in diameter laid next to each other and a three foot diameter log on top. they just got in line and balanced packages, children and whatever else they were carrying on their heads or in their arms and headed to their villages.

We backtracked up the road to camp. As we crawled out of the truck I was greeted by a large man with gray hair and a steaming hot cup of coffee. we shook hands and he said, “hi Mel, I’m Sam the project manager, we talked on the phone, welcome to camp”. He added, “I wont ask how your trip went”. We both laughed at that.

About that time a teenage native boy came up and asked Mr. Sam ifshould we start cooking now. Sam told him, “yes, as soon as you get the bacon and eggs unpacked out of the truck”. Jim was already directing traffic unloading the truck.

My duffel was carried off to my bungalow, wherever that was. I reached behind the seat and got my AWOL bag and told Sam that I had something for him. He said, “let's go to the office”. I had been handed $10,000 cash for the payroll before boarding the plane in town. Now it was in the company safe.

We headed for the mess hall for more coffee and a long awaited meal. The mess hall was a combination kitchen, food storage and dinning area made from a cargo container, as were the bungalows. The ends were closed and a spot weld kept the big doors from opening. A door and windows hjad been cut out with a torch. The doors were made from local lumber obtained from a mill we passed on the way to camp. Louvered windows had been installed with screens to keep out mosquitoes, flies and the many other pests that were around day and night. Our main protection while eating or sleeping were air conditioners that also seemed to serve as dehumidifiers. If we kept the temperature below 65 degrees, the local bugs couldn’t handle the cool and stayed out.

Now if you're thinking that was a good quick way to make living areas you are right, to a point. But, we were in the tropics and a cargo container can be like a giant oven. To combat this problem, bamboo was brought in from nearby groves. This bamboo was called reeds and was 2 1/2 to 3 inches in diameter. The cargo containers were set in two rows end to end with about six feet between and about sixteen feet across to make an open living space. Then a framework of reeds was erected up about ten feet higher than the top of the containers and lashed together with “tie-tie”, a local vine made into kind of a rope. Then a thatch of palm leaves was woven and tied into place to protect us from rain and sun. There was a boardwalk between the two rows of living quarters to keep us out of the mud. One container was set sideways at the north end of the complex to block the wind and rain that came horizontal most of the time. This was called the washroom. It had a sink, commode, shower, electric water heater and a Maytag washing machine.

Next time, my first breakfast in the bush, and a pleasant surprise.

TRIP TO AFRICA, PART #4: CAMP AT LAST

Last time we left off in the middle of the night with the truck in a ditch, raining, four of us in the cab of the truck and still a long way to camp.

One of the men came from the back of the truck up to Jim’s window. They talked for a few minutes then Jim pulled a flashlight out of the glove compartment and extra batteries and said, “yeh yeh, you go, you come back quick, ya hear?”. The man answered, “yea boss, OK”, and headed up the road.

Jim explained that Ma-ma-dee (nick name for Mohammad) was our head mechanic and had looked around and thought we were about two miles from a small road that led to a village. There was a man there who had a motorbike he could rent to ride to a logging camp about ten miles up another road and get help.

My first thought was, he looked around? Good Lord, I couldn’t even see Jim and he wasn’t four feet away, its pitch dark, what did he look around at? I must have mumbled my thoughts because Jim said he didn’t know either but would bet on Mamadee’s coming back with help. Nothing to do now but wait.

*Note* I was going to omit this next part of the story, but then, it might help some of you to understand the “third world country mentality”.

One of the women in the back of the truck had a very sick child. She had taken it to a village that had a doctor. The doctor told her there was nothing he could do, so she was taking it home to die. About 2:00 am there was a shrill scream that broke the silence, and it didn’t stop. Jim told me that the child had died and the screaming would go on all night. About ten minutes later there was a knock on the window and a man talked to Jim in an excited voice. It seemed that his wife was having a baby in back of the truck and no one would help. Jim and I got out and went to the back of the truck. Jim asked the other women if they would help? They turned their backs to the women and answered, “she is not from us” (meaning she was from a different tribe, and they didn’t care if she and the baby lived or died). So much for compassion in Africa.

Jim’s wife passes out at the sight of blood. Jim knows nothing about babies and its 2:20 in the morning. I’ve been up and traveling for 20 some hours. I’m hungry, its pitch dark, I’m standing in almost knee deep mud, its raining again, and an African family I’ve never seen before is having a baby and want me to help and I’m still 30 odd miles from camp.

First things first. I reached behind the seat for my bag and grabbed a flashlight and a bar of soap. I took off my shirt, got another new blue tarp from under the seat and found a non-muddy spot just off the road in the bush. I unfolded the tarp and spread it out. By now it was raining so hard that the drops hurt. While washing my hands and arms, I called the women and her husband over and handed him the soap and told him to have her wash. Here I learned the difference between Town girls and Country girls. Town girls give birth lying down. Country girls sort of squat and the helper (if there is one) catches the baby. So as not to get graphic, all went well and a baby girl was born that night (no I didn’t drop her). I washed off again, put on my shirt and climbed into the truck and tried to relax. Thinking that at least I went on the payroll when I left Los Angeles.

Another hour went by and help arrived. It was full daylight when we were ready to resume out journey. We had been on established roads and just a few miles ahead were our new roads not yet worn in from years of travel. With just a few more breathless moments we were in camp at 10:45 am that morning.

To be continued.

TRIP TO AFRICA, PART #3: HEADIN TOWARD CAMP

Last time we left off with me being left alone at the airstrip because Jake, the pilot, had to fly back to his home airport before dark.

I had been in some primitive areas before but I was wondering if this was going to be way above my average. But reflecting on the situation would have to wait because old Jake was right. It started to rain so I got under the end of the top blue tarp and watched the rain.

It started with a shower but the drops were big and in about twenty minutes it progressed to a torrent. Small bushes twenty-five to thirty feet away were obscured by rain coming down so hard and fast that it looked like there was only a gray sheet of water at that distance. The whole storm lasted about an hour then the sun came out.

While waiting for my ride I decided to look around the hill top. I found the muddy, rutted road that came up the hill and walked the edge of the clearing looking at the wide variety of small plants that grew in the cleared area and the difference just a few feet made beyond. It seemed that where the sun hit, vines and unknown plants grew up the trees like a wall. But if you stepped into the bush just a couple of feet, it thinned out quite a bit.

After around 45 minutes I heard the sound of a vehicle heading up the hill. It was a mud covered 4 wheel drive little Japanese something. It stopped and four men got out. The youngest asked if the plane had left yet? I told him about two hours ago. He looked disappointed but said then you must be Mr. Mel, I said “yes”, and we shook hands. He introduced himself as Naihgee Haseem. He and his uncle Solomon owned a store. He then introduced the other three men. They were also Lebanese store keepers in a nearby village. They said a hasty goodbye as Naihgee had to drive through what I had flown over in about 4 hours. The trip would take him 20-24 hours over terribly rutted, muddy roads and swollen streams.

Now I was alone again and looking at the sun. It would be dark in a couple of hours. It seemed that every time I looked around there was something new and interesting to look at and investigate.

After about an hour there was the sound of another vehicle headed my way. In just a few minutes a big white dump truck came into view with the box full of natives waving and shouting “hello Mr. Mel”. It wasn’t rocket science to figure this was my ride. As the truck slid to a stop, a short redheaded man jumped out of the passenger door and said, “hi Mel I’m Jim. Welcome to Africa”. He then turned to the truck and called six natives by name and instructed them to get this cargo loaded up, and cover it with the tarps. He then took me to the truck and introduced me to his wife Bonnie.

In just minutes we were loaded and on the way with three of us, and the truck driver jammed into the cab.

By the time we hit the road at the bottom of the hill I knew why it took so long to pick me up. The mud was about 8 - 12 inches deep and slicker than fresh cat scat on a waxed linoleum floor. It would later turn to 8 – 12 inches of dust... no middle ground in this country.

The sun set and I knew it was about 7 pm. I lost track of time, looking out the windshield of the truck seeing mud and obscure brush in the dim headlights.

We finally came to the village where Naihgee and Solomon had their store and stopped. The clock on the wall showed 9:00 pm. We dined on small loves of hard crusted bread and some kind of imported soda pop from Sweden or Norway. After a brief rest we started out again, only to slide off the road into a ditch at about 11:30 that night.

So here we were about 20 miles from camp, stuck in a ditch, and it started to rain again. Jim and Bonnie tried to apologize, but I stopped them by saying after this it could only get better and we all laughed. But I was thinking, ”welcome to the bush”!

TRIP TO AFRICA, PART #2: GOIN' TO THE BUSH

Last week when we left off I was in the cockroach arms hotel. After three days of shopping and chasing equipment parts I was taken to a small airport where the provisions, equipment, my gear and myself were loaded into a small ancient single engine plane .

The pilot, Jake, had flown in the North African Campaign during WW ll, had no home to go back to, so he stayed in Africa after the war.

We were in the air for about 45 minutes when I asked him about a map. He said no, but in about 15 minutes we should see a road and we’ll follow that until we are over the third village. Then head southwest to the coast, turn inland at the Firestone rubber plantation and follow the river. You know I was wondering about my sanity at this point, much less his.

This was the end of the rainy season. We were flying through clouds, rain, then a little sun. The bush is beautiful from the air. Lots of green foliage and water to look at.

Jake knew where he was going. After some four hours in the air he said, “there’s the field, but no one to pick you up. We’ll wake the camp. It's 25 minutes by air”. Jake got a little smirk on his face and asked, “do you want to fly over the camp or have some fun?” I looked at him and remarked, “I like fun” maybe not the best answer. Jake stuck a cigar stub between his teeth and said, “fasten your seat belt.” I did. Then he reached behind my seat and flipped a shoulder harness over my head and said “this too”. We came full throttle out of the afternoon sun at around 25 ft. above the trees. At the edge of the clearing he dove to less than 30 ft. from the ground, banked and climbed over 75-100 high trees and made another (what I termed a strafing run). After four passes we dipped our wings at the little crowd and headed for the airstrip. He grinned and said he hadn’t had this much fun in over forty years. I believed him.

We had come very close to a couple of treetops on two of the runs. Jake patted the instrument panel and said, “she runs pretty good don’t she?” “I rebuilt her from parts off crashed planes around the airport.” Now that gave me a warm feeling in my stomach.

When we passed the airstrip the first time it was on his side and I wasn’t able to see it, now I had a look. It was a green strip about 50 feet wide hacked out of the bush from the bottom of a hill to the top at what looked to be about a 36 degree angle with a cleared circle on the hilltop. Jake said, “here we go”, and headed straight for the bottom of the hill. Just before contact with the ground, he pulled the nose up and in a sort of pancake landing gave it full throttle and we sped bouncing toward the top of the hill. At the crest he spun the plane 180 degrees and shut it down facing back downhill. He looked at me with a grin and said “your home”. I looked at him and said, “You old SOB you're crazier than I am”. He laughed and said, “naw it’s a toss up. I glanced at your face a couple of times and you loved it.” The part that bothered me most was, he was right. Jake handed me a big blue tarp and said, “pile everything on this.” When the plane was empty, he handed me another tarp and said, “its going to rain in about 20 minutes. Put this over the pile and put those rocks around the edge to hold it in the wind.” With that, Jake shook hands and said he had to get going since there were no lights at the airport. “See ya next trip, he said, and climbed back into the plane, started the engine, revved it up and headed down the hill. About half way down the plane lifted and when clear started to climb to get over the trees.

So here I was alone, mid afternoon in the middle of the bush, thinking I have food, matches, 2 tarps and a knife.

CONTINUED

TRIP TO AFRICA, PART 1

This morning I was sorting through some old notes made while out in the African bush. I was writing under a palm leaf shelter to keep the morning dew off my blanket. In this loose leaf binder were some of my thoughts, written by the light of a little Chinese lantern using European oil and a Bic pen. Now that’s a combination to remember!

Just getting through the airport was an adventure, with two foot lockers, two carry on bags, two cameras and four fishing rods in an oversized aluminum tube, all I needed to finish off this show was a Japanese passport.

This adventure started with a phone call to my home with a job offer, a one year stint in the African bush as field superintendent for a gold mining concession. It offered good money, and all expenses paid and looked like a twelve month vacation to me. It wasn’t a hard sell. After reading my first Tarzan comic book I had dreamed of going to Africa and here was my chance. I had no illusions of swinging through trees on vines with Jane, I just wanted to see Africa first hand. So I caught up my overseas shots, passport, visa, packed my stuff, kissed my girlfriend good by and asked Richard DeChambeau to drop me off at the airport.

A day and a few time zones later I was alone in the middle of an airport surrounded by several hundred dark skinned people uttering some kind of English and staring at me. I stacked my trunks one on top of the other, put the two carry on bags on either side of the rod case and sat on the whole mess stared back and waited for the liaison from the company to pick me up.

About twenty minutes later I noticed a young man in his mid to late twenty’s peeking around a corner at me. He finally came close and held up a little sign with my name on it. I said “that’s me”. He smiled and then told me that solders outside had said that a crazy white man was in there sitting on a big gun, while he was looking at my rod case. They thought the case was a bazooka. I guess they had seen too many WWII war movies. So I opened the end and showed him the fishing rods and he told the crowd it was alright and they started to leave.

Now for the customs people: Everything went fine until they found my tackle box and fly selection. Every lure had to be checked, held up for inspection and laughed at. The most popular lures in the airport were the “crazy crawlers”. The most asked question was “wha dis fo?” My answer, as always, was “to catch a fish.” I provided at least 45 minutes of entertainment for the whole airport staff. When we hit the fly selection, they couldn’t understand why I brought insects to Africa. I was informed that they had plenty- plenty bugs there. I found this was to be a very large understatement. After another half hour of getting a fifteen day visa and several hundred dollars in bribes I was cleared through airport security and on my way to a hotel in town.

The hotel was old and kind of clean. I was looking forward to a hot shower and a change of clothes then some food. After getting registered, the desk clerk handed me two plastic bottles of water. This told me “don’t drink tap water”, having been in third world countries before. I turned on the shower and stood back. Sure enough a two to three minute stream of cockroaches came out with the water. After swishing several hundred or more down the drain and using my own soap, I sanitized the area and had my shower. I spent three days in town before heading out.

Next week “Goin to the bush”.