Minor surprises in great hights seem to be business as usual: Earlier on this year our plane lost the (only) door at 12000 feet altitude; at another occasion, our plane had to turn back to Nairobi due to failure of cabine pressure fifteen minutes after take off. Yet another time, a friend of mine happened to be in a plane where one of the two (!) propellors all of a sudden refused to turn around (one hour after take off, somewhere above Somalia).Keeping in mind these minor incidents, there is one airline which is in itself a synonym of shaky business: the legendary Dalloo airline. Many years ago, still back in Austria (before even dreaming that I would ever end up in this corner of the continen) I watched a documentary, with the titel "Business in Afrika". Dalloo airline was introduced as one best practice for business in Africa. Although I was impressed by the supposed profit generated by the airline, it was the apperance of the plane which got stuck in my mind: rusty, dusty, shaky, you name it. But nice green color. Color of hope? Not even in my wildest dreams I would have imagined myself inside this green can one day.
I admint, it took me somewhat by surprise when I was told that I was booked on Dalloo for my return to Somaliland. A closer look at the ticket made me even more surprised: the route would be Nairobi - Djibouti - Galkayo (Somalia) - Hargeisa. This crazy trip would take me eight good hours, and a crisscross over Somalia. My facial expression must have suddenly changed from "brave" to "worried" - "So far they have never crashed" was the last sentence I heard from the girl behind the counter, while leaving the travel agency. But than again, how often can a plane really crash?
At the airport, I asked a Dalloo staff member to confirm the route. And guess what happened? They squeezed in a detour via Mogadishu; that means that I was now faced with a trip Nairobi - Djibouti - Mogadishu - Galkayo - Hargeisa. Why not ask for a parachute and jump out of the plane when somewhere over Hargeisa?
Sitting in the cafeteria, sipping tepid coffee and nugging on a chocolat croissant, I waited for my flight to be announced in the speakers. All kind of thoughts went through my head. Pictures from that documentary popped up. Words, stories, told by brave friends who had flown Dalloo before came back. But I really only faced the reality when bording the plane.
Everything was simply shaky. In particular the seats: All of them stood in a different angle to the floor of the plane. Sitting down on one of these funny seats, its squab suddenly fell back, and landed on the lap of the guy behind me. While I was struggling with my seat, more and more people entered the plane. Women, men, children, with loads of luggage, jerrycans, bags, all sort of staff. Hysteric laughter must have escaped my mouth when one of the two stewards passed by my seat. Instantly, she offered me a seat in the business class. The first time ever I would get the opportunity to fly business. Once ensuring that my new seat (which was, despite being called business class, worse of what another airline would call economy class) was stable, I started inspecting the plane around me. What stroke me most was the security pamphlet pinned on the wall in front of me. It contained the following words:
"Our plane is fitted with modern and reliable equipment, which guarantees a save many-hour-long flight. It is hardly probable that you will need the on board emergency equipment. However, according to international requirements, we suggest that you get aquainted with the equipment".
Should I know look around for the swimming vest, the parachute or the oxygen mask? Or simply believe in the "hardly probable"? ;-)
Take off was another adventure. While the steward, a russian guy in his early twenties next to me played around with his mobile phone (the "no electronic devices allowed during take off and landing" doesn't seem to apply to Dalloo), the plane slowly slowly slowly gained height. Really slow. All of a sudden there was smell of smog in the air. A look out of the window confirmed that the propellors where not burning yet, but steadily screwing their way up through the clouds. Only later I discovered that the smell came out of the toilet, which was at the same time smoker room for steward and pilot. Just a pity that I had quit smoking some few months ago... Would have loved to smoke a cigarette in this bizarre environment!
Three long hours, a cup of sweet and sticky coffee, more cigarette smell from the toilet and some bumpy moments later we landed safely in Djibouti. Not sure what would happen next, I asked the steward where we would go next. Shortly he consulted with the pilot. And then, guess what happened? He looked at me with a smile, and said the only and single word "Hargeisa" - I tell you, the name of this city has never sounded as sweet in my ears! From that moment onwards I enjoyed the trip. No Mogadishu, no Galkayo. Just Hargeisa. And another (true and great) story from a far away place for grandchildren, if I ever happen to have any...
And for those of you who still don't believe that Africa is the continent where planes come to die, get yourself some more visual impressions from planes and brave pilots in Congo:
http://www.vanityfair.com/politics/features/2007/07/congopilots_slideshow200707
