I'm home again, and awfully wiped after this trip. The overnight flight didn't help, but I did break the number one rule of travelling this direction and took (oops) a six hour nap. I expect to be up until 5:45 or so tonight...

The trip was, well, packed. This has been my first few hours alone in 2 weeks. While I saw so many people (about fifty eight, at a guess) that I love to bits, I really didn't stop moving for more than a few hours at a stretch. I missed seeing some of the more important people to me, and saw some people that I honestly never cared to see, but that's the name of the game. Some days, I had a breakfast, a coffee, a lunch, a dinner, and a drink - each with different people. The idea of seeing everyone at once was a big fail - I saw just three people at once in New York, and couldn't really catch up with any, as they made awkward conversation.

But I didn't cry leaving. Part of it was that I was asleep when the plane took off, part of it was that despite loving being in the states and seeing people, I was ready to just get out of there. The schedule had really taken its toll, the novelty had worn off, and I just wanted to wake up and understand how to use the coffee maker, and know where the mugs are.

It's not all a misery, though. I brought back about half a suitcase worth of American goodies. I now have three jugs of maple syrup, maple spread, o-cello sponges galore, 4 jars of apple butter, 3 pumpkin butter, rice pilaf, a ton of Goya products, and seven tide pens. So, you know, I made out like a bandit. Because to this day, when I whip out my tide pen, my local friends, fellow residents of first world countries still marvel at it...and try to mug me for it. Want a business idea? Sell tide pens. They're just that revolutionary.

I have a circle of witches. Not many people are so lucky, but I managed to inherit them along with my mother's pots and pans, and old clothes from the 60's. When mom died recently, all was confusion and hard work, until the emails started coming. "Just call us the witches," wrote her best friends, and based on their unique magic, it's a good name. We knew them before, vaguely, but suddenly, we had a support group of earth mothers. enter..

Monica, the flamboyant! Argentinian! Witch!!
Irina, the sweet and serene Russian New Age witch.
and Lynn, the super efficient, get it done, American witch.

Mom and this group used to do everything from going to see healers to going to the Metaphysical church in Arlington to watching Sex and the City with a bottle of wine. All very important witch things, you understand.

My sister and I came to DC on this trip to deal with banks and the DMV, but mostly to commune with our adopted coven. Monica is off in Argentinia, but the others dropped their lives to be with us, help us, and be our best friends.

Lynn took me around today for about six hours (don't even get me started!) to deal with DMV paperwork, which ultimately ended in tears, Irina and I giggled and spoke of reincarnation. It all came down to a moment in Lynn's dining room, with her husband playing the piano, and mom's old rug across the hall, the one she and I chose from a flea market. I just let loose and the tears came out, silently flowing down my cheeks, unstoppable, sobbing for my dead mother and old friendships and my old home.

Today, we took mom's ashes to her gym. She would swim 5 days a week for 45 minutes, she saw it as her solace and her peace. Lynn found a little park behind the gym, and lo and behold, there was a path into a majestic woodland (in the middle of DC?!) with soaring trees, vines, quiet gulleys, and a burbling stream. A lush jungle - mom's perfect resting place. Burials may be solemn and somber, but this scatternig of mom's ashes was silly, giddy, and delightful, because we knew she was so delighted to be there. Jen and I waded into the stream and let her go, watching her cloud the water then settle into the rocks.

This evening, Irina and I sat in the field by the woods, watching the fireflies light up the trees and grass like a kid's fantasy of a sparking wonderland woods. We giggled, told stories, and talked about the nature of our universe and our lives. Mom, I know you're gone, but you're obviously not so far away.

I'm sitting on the back porch of my grandmother's old red farmhouse in Vermont. There are wild meadows of flowers, her overgrown garden of roses and tiger lilies, and a little chipmunk who sits on the mossy stone wall and eats rose petals. He lives in the hollow of the maple tree over there by the vegetable patch. The house is old and creaky, and most certainly haunted, I still sleep in the same room as my big sister, despite the many unused rooms. Every square inch is a memory. Fading pictures of my ten year old father sit next to newspaper clippings about my great aunt on the piano, and underneath is the toy chest that I used to be distracted by while the grown ups had grown up time - and there, out the window is the tree that my best friend and I sat in for maybe 100 hours of my childhood. When was the last time you climbed a tree? Much cheaper than prozac. Out back is another tree, my dad planted this one, and his scattered ashes have made it grow big and strong. the rest of his ashes are in the compost heap, by his request. We're a practical New England family.

What I forget every year is that being here is like being a child. I forget the small things. chipmunks! Holy hell! Like rats, but they live in trees, and they're so cute they make your eyes hurt. Skunks! OK, can we talk weird? they defend themselves by smelling bad. and if you get close, they make you smell bad. Cousins of the rodents that giveyou bad hair days, perhaps? Triscuits! Harleys! Bikers who look all badass but they're really dentists! The cowbells on grandma's door - wood houses - tide pens - maple sugar candy - fire hydrants - bumper stickers - earwigs (how terrifying!) - fireflies - the smell of waking up in my grandmother's house and smelling bacon and coffee. We have moss all over the world, but the moss between my bare toes in Bennington is the absolute pinnacle of mossiness and pure joy.

I'm lucky. when I'm with my family, I am constantly holding my bladder. I don't even want to go pee, because I'd miss 2 minutes of their conversation. Living abroad certainly helps, my family is scattered across the world. Dad grew up in Thailand, my mom in the middle east. Living all over the place is natural for me, but it also means that seeing this kooky group of New Englanders is so precious and rare that I feel like I'm on a mild dose of a very illegal substance. I feel grounded here - at peace - at home. I know I'll cry going back on thursday, but it's worth it for the smell of the clover in Bennington, Vermont.

Boston is absolutely stunningly beautiful. Why do I seem to forget this every year? It's really, really the most beautiful city in the world. Maybe it's because I grew up here, but it seriously makes me feel euphoric to walk around.

In other news, I'm hopefully going to be flying this year's group self-fly safari in a couple of weeks. It's the same itinerary as last year's trip, which was a really good one - the central kalahari, the okavango delta, victoria falls, the tuli block, then down to the kruger park. I just need to find an airplane and see if there's room at the lodges for me. Let's hope. I need my fix, man. I won't be leading this one, but I'll still probably be doing the same thing: smiling and being the tour guide. I hope my group's as good as last year!

For now, though, I think a picnic in Boston Gardens is about my speed.

So here I am again. Expected, but oh so jarring. Foreign. Alien. But it's me who is the foreigner, in my own homeland. Everything is wrong, I'm sitting in the airport for a few hours to escape the inevitable confrontation with the outside reality. At least the airport is a safe space, it's kind of in every country at once. Airplanes shoot off reassuringly, this one to Bangladesh, that one to Paris, it's a kind of weird normality made up by being a non-space. There's Lufthansa landing, a little pocket of Frankfurt in all of this big scary America-ness. There's Emirates, a bit of Dubai, right over there. Life here is familiar, I can stave off the scary world with the placelessness of a 747, of the flight announcements over the tannoy, and my own jet lag. There's a graceful airbus taking wing out the window, there's my exit.

But I know that in a few short weeks, I'll be at this same terminal, desperate not to leave but to stay. It's how it works, and knowing the emotional turmoil it will inevitably bring is frankly terrifying. It makes my stomach crawl and my mouth dry. Look, there's Olympus Airways, I know they must be off to Athens. I can catch a flight from there to London, or even all the way down to South Africa, and shiver with my friends in the chilly winter night air. 2 more long haul flights might be daunting, but it's nothing compared with my next task: slowly falling in love with my home country, then leaving it all over again. I emigrate once a year.


--------------------------------------

Since then, I've been running around seeing a lot of lovely people and having a great time with anna_esq doing dress shopping. Sure, I'm enjoying seeing people, but not settled into America quite yet. Wait until I'm hit with Storrow Drive in Boston or catch a glimpse of the Citgo sign. Then, I'm screwed. Ahh well. Let's do this thing.

Every few years, I get the urge, and the sewing machine comes out, gets dusted off, and put to good use. Too much free time combined with too little money and needing gifts leads, inevitably, to...

( My quilting projects. )

I'm utterly devastated to write about the loss of a dear and trusted friend. She has been with me since I was ten, lit up my life, and shown me the possibilities for what I can do. I blame her for my love of flying, and she can also accept blame for me going to Africa.

I'm at a loss for words. Dear old N222LT, you will be deeply missed.




My uncle and aunt were flying into a bush strip today, Madikwe, not far from home base. On landing, the plane started pulling hard to the right. He applied full power to take off again, and it wouldn't go anywhere. They ended up in the bush. My instructor used to use the delicate phrase "They went farming," that's roughly what happened. The aircraft is a write-off. Wings broken, prop came off, right landing gear broken off. My aunt and uncle are just fine, though I don't know how anyone can be just fine after this. My uncle's had that plane for over 20 years. He flew it from New York to South Africa, drawing lines on charts I'd later retrace.

When I was ten years old, he took me up for my first flight in a light aircraft in this bird. He gave me control for a while, let me do a few turns, get the feel of flying. That was all it took for me. The great and fateful day was captured by my dad, from the back seat:



Of course, I'm extremely relieved that my aunt and uncle are OK. Landing prangs can happen, and while scary, these aircraft are built to crumple, the cockpit and cabin were just fine. The slow landing speed of the Helio made that easier - this thing flies straight and level at about 25 mph, so you can land it in a tennis court. It's an ultimate bush plane.

I can't imagine how they must be feeling. I know he'll be back in the air soon, because if he doesn't, I'm going to take him up myself and refuse to land. Hangar Z-5 at Lanseria will be big and empty now. Thanks, 222LT, for the memories.

Note: before you flame me for caring more about the aircraft than the people, I sure wouldn't if they were hurt. But they're OK, and just as upset about the loss of an old friend. Pilots reading this will get that!

If you're interested, here's a clip of another Helio showing off what these amazing machines can do: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkLPFvcg-0Y

Brian and I went to an old friend's wedding yesterday. He's Indian, and had a big proper Hindu wedding. Halfway through the ceremony, a friend turned around and whispered, 'I'm converting.' I think that summed it up for me.

( my own wedding was so. boring. )

but no, it's that time of the year. Time for the Yearly Schlepp next week. If I sound unenthused, it's because I am. I am thrilled to be seeing my grandmother, who is 101 next month, and thrilled to be seeing my dear friends (ok, and some not-so-dear ones, but that's life!)

But here's two good reasons why my yearly trip to America is a cause for some not so minor trepidation.

1. Because I have ten days: 3 in NY, 3 in Boston, 2 in Vermont, and 2 in DC, then back to New York. Add that to travel from London and the travel days within that stretch, and you find that there's not a lot left. Then, thanks to the joys of Facebook, I will be a bad friend if I don't meet up with each of the 261 people that I vaguely remember from High School ('ohhh, right, wait, weren't you the one who laughed at me for that shirt I used to love?') not to mention family. There are a lot of people I'm dying to see, don't get me wrong, and I love the chance to see them, but ten days solidly of catching up and being asked about my plans (of which I have none) is extremely full-on.

and 2, the really tricky one. I know what will happen, because it happens every year. I arrive after a long flight, and am hit in the face with America in its fullest. The accents sound wrong, harsh and exaggerated. The street signs look like something on TV, the food tastes wrong, and everything is far too big. It's a foreign country, but I grew up there. People don't REALLY talk like that? It's as foreign as it gets, yet it's home. I get off the plane stunned, confused, and really not liking this big shiny place very much at all.

Then, I find myself in the middle of a New England summer. Sweet wooden houses, the birds I remember from growing up, a gin and tonic on Grandma's porch in Vermont. I soften, and have thoughts like "aww, Red Sox! Jordan's furniture ads! Apple Cider! Those cop cars are awesome!" and realise that I really adore these people I'm spending time with here.
The last stage is at the airport again. Only now, I'm wracked with sobs, and ready to chain myself to Logan airport's furniture because I CANT LEAVE WHAT THE HELL AM I THINKING THIS IS MY HOME. I sniffle and mourn through most of the flight. I always end up with a skyline shot out the window. I always lose it.

I wake up, jet lagged, back in South Africa, or London, or wherever home might be, but I'm in a foreign country. Things look wrong, food tastes wrong, the accents are foreign, the street signs and license plates are odd looking, and I'm left looking around wondering what the hell I'm doing here. In my own home.

Knowing that this will happen, and having repeated this trip yearly for the last 7 or so years won't make it easier. I think that after Grandma is gone, I'll save myself the trauma and find excuses not to go.


manley1 and anna_esq, as with every year, will mercifully be making my life so much easier by giving me places to stay, listening ears, and a hell of a lot of understanding. Poor things watch me do this year after year, I must look like some kind of crazed zoo animal who can't seem to overcome the urge to beat my head against the feed bin. Honestly, going into places like Saudi are a million times easier. Just whatever you do, don't make me go to see my childhood neighborhood, because THAT's scary.

I can't just bloody well stay on the ground, you know.

I got the idea on wednesday night at about midnight of taking a little plane over to France for lunch, and texted dear Abi that she should really bloody well join. So this morning, we met at 8, grabbed a little flight school plane, and off we toodled. Out over the legndary white cliffs of Dover, across the channel, and into Le Touquet. I'd done this leg once before, for the ferry, but that was on instruments, in and over cloud, and I didn't see a thing. Missing the white cliffs is really unforgivable. Every WW2 fighter ace fantasy anyone has ever had in the history of the world should really involve flying over those cliffs in triumph. So over we went.

We landed in Le Touquet with a great deal of euphoria. And this time I couldn't blame it on lack of oxygen, either. My dear sweet flight club loaned us a life raft and so on, but excitingly, they also happened to have portable fold-up bikes. Score! After no small amount of "wait, no, she showed me, THIS bit goes...oh, crap. No, that's backwards." we were off. There's a paved cycle path through the forest to town. It's beautiful Franch countryside, with an odd pseudo-Bavarian, Hansel and Gretel fantasy type feel. Little thatched houses and tangled vines and all. The cycle was quick, and soon we were moaning in joy as our toes hit the velvet sand on the beach. I mean, you can't just NOT go sit on the beach and pick up shells, right?

We cycled into town, worryingly, already having to stop and walk our bikes due to bruised, er, bottoms. I strongly doubt either of us will be able to breed henceforth, actually. But no worries, the seafood was brilliant in the little sidewalk cafe we stopped in, the coffee was strong, and the sunshine was warm. Soon, we were back on our black and blue tailbones on our way to jump in the plane. My phone rang as we were cursing at the fold up bikes in front of the airport. The airport was closed, due to some kind of accident. Uh oh. Not our day. I wandered in to find a group of people, mostly English, and a hopeful smile our way.

A lovely older gentleman came our way and asked, very politely, where we were headed. He had done a wheels up landing, you see, hence the closure. The light failed to go on, the gear was manually pumped down, but to no avail - it collapsed out from under him on the runway. Poor thing, he'd had that airplane for ten years, it'll take months to fix the damage. Luckily, we were headed his way, and the airport was reopened. After some worry about weight and balance, we tucked him into the back next to a bicycle, his lap full of flight bags, backpacks, and the champagne we'd picked up. The aircraft was fine on takeoff, though a bit tail heavy. I promptly moved several bags onto dear long suffering Abi's lap, and off we went.

The flight home was a joy. Over the channel, over the cliffs, over endless perfect farmland and estuary, and back to our homebase. We happened to pass over our passenger's home base, and I was happy to give the poor guy a break by dropping him at home. Shame. He was so calm and cool, but when he tried to take our numbers, his hands were shaking too hard to use his phone, even hours after the incident. His gratitude was overwhelming. And the fact that he gushed about my landing didn't hurt. The guy has about 15 times the number of hours I do, and yes, flattery will get you everywhere. Even home.

This was Abi's first time in a small airplane. She was initially worried that she'd be sick, but in the end, she took the controls for up to 20 minutes, even through bumps and gusts, and (this actually makes ME sick) didn't go off altitude by over 50 feet or our track by 2 degrees. That's commercial pilot's license test standards. I love this woman to little tiny bits, but kind of hate her to death for it. Hell, I can't do that half the time. But, as revenge, I seem to have inadvertantly addicted her to flying. HA HA SUCKER!

It was a 20 minute hop home, and after getting the message that immigration had turned up to meet us, only to leave us word that we were "very naughty" for diverting, we unloaded and cracked open the Champagne.

Sitting in the balmy evening around a picnic table, watching little planes land, was just my speed tonight. The incredible sense of satisfaction I felt was almost as lovely as the one I got in Kenya. Incredible day, smooth landings, helping a fellow pilot in need, time with a dear sweet friend, and a lovely Dover Sole to boot.

There are some photos up here if you care to look.

Damn....it's GOOD to be a pilot.

I went out for breakfast today with my uncle Jim. He lives in the states, and I don't see him often, we had a lot to catch up on. After I rabbited my head off about the trip, and we discussed various family member's goings-on, it came out that yeah, he was on the plane that went into the Husdon.

WAITAFINGSECONDHERE..."oh, yeah, I just got my luggage back last week..." I spent the next half hour utterly spellbound, just wishing he'd keep talking.

I've read a hell of a lot of accounts of it, listened to the tapes, and so on, but it was amazing to be able to ask all of those dumb questions. For the morbidly fascinated, I hereby present these juicy tidbits.

The bird strike made a bang, like a sharp crack. He knew something was wrong when the engine noise stopped. No, he didn't panic, and no one was screaming. Everyone was calm. Tense (wow, really? You think?) but quiet. He remembered an issue of Life magazine in the 50's, which showed a picture of a Pan Am airplane in the water, with everyone on lifeboats. When it was clear they were going swimming, he thought of that.

Nothing was said on the PA until the captain came on and said to brace, about 90 seconds after the strike. Then, the flight attendants came around and showed people how to. He was looking out, and seeing buildings, familiar places, and said he didn't panic because, well, life just seemed so normal out there. How could a big tragedy really be going on? A couple of minutes after the captain said to brace came the impact, which was far from a smooth landing, as some reports claim. I didn't see how it could have been. It was massive...

...and then silence. He recalled a few seconds of utter silence, as if the entire load of people were mute with shock that they were alive. He was in the second from last row, and by the time he got out of his seat, the water was waist high. He knew there was a rear door (which is actually in the news these days a lot for some reason) so he went that way. But it was twisted, and couldn't be opened, so he turned around. Hundreds of people were trying to get out, and he was last in line. The water was neck high now.

He was telling me his thoughts, which I won't share in detail. Knowing that you're about to drown, and that your 4 year old daughter will never know her daddy is not something I think anyone can bear to think about. But people moved, and as he walked forward, he discovered that the water got shallower and shallower. He made it out and onto the ferry, completely unaware of the icy water and subzero temperatures. He was the last passenger to exit the airplane - the captain was the only one after him.

Oh, right, and so, how about your summer plans then? Oh? Can you come visit us in Paris? So great to see you...please send your sister my love..

Oh, and one last tidbit. So We Know. There seems to be a kind of plane crash etiquette. Don't take your bags. Really, just don't. It's very looked down upon in the raft. I mean, people like US just don't do such things. Which makes sense, given that while you're getting your bag, people behind you are waiting for their certain doom. But srsly, if it's on your lap...?

I'll refrain from moaning too much about the tube strike, except to note that London is hell on earth chaos today. As if it's not bad enough getting around this city?!

Yesterday, Brian and I went out to a flight school down in the south of London, he to check out places to do an instructor's rating, me just because I kind of like airplanes. I am kicking myself for not bringing a camera, due to two of the best items of signage I've come across in a long time.

The first was in a roundabout in Croydon. Often, in big roundabouts (what Americans call a rotary) there are various lanes for various destinations, with the destination painted onto the appropriate lane. Since the road painters couldn't fit the word, say, Hammersmith in a single lane, they are often abbreviated, to something like H'Smith or K'ton for Kensington, and so on. Can we guess what a creative sign maker decided to abbreviate "underpass" to?

Yup. Big arrow and the word U'PASS. But, see the apostrophe had worn off.

The next was more along the lines of the signs we all guffawed at as kids. Remember the signs that said "SLOW CHILDREN"? This one one upped it. "DANGER: CHILDREN AT PLAY" - you can just see the scene now. "Now, Tommy, make sure you don't use your new anti-tank missiles on passing cars." "Gee, Dad, thanks! I promise. Gee Whiz! Pete down the road only has shoulder fired rocket launchers! Ha ha, I'll show him!"

Bloody hooligans, British children.

I'm really bad at being aimless. My sister and I were talking the other night, and discussing how we both seem to function best: in a crisis, with walls falling in and flames bursting from the sky, people screaming and demons riding in on their ghostly steeds, we are calm as a snowy morning.

But in a period of calm, with little to do, I get antsy. I pace, I wander from room to room, I heave great sighs, I snack too much, I get moody and cranky. I look up things to do in Time Out, then never get around to doing them. I aimlessly click around the internet and apply for jobs I'll never get. I tidy up the house, then realise that it's already tidy, in fact, it's insufferably neat.

This weather in London isn't helping much. It's grey and rainy, and the idea of going out is really not all that appealing. I can't spend a lot of money, as I'm unemployed, so I'm rather limited. I'm just not designed for this listlessness. My list of things I need to get done stares at me, but I can't face things like dealing with my US driver's license or that IRS letter.

I need a damn job.

The last set of photos are up, which are of the prettiest leg, the leg from Addis Ababa to Nairobi down the great rift valley. And that brings this chapter to a close. What began as a possibility which would almost certainly fall through ended up a large collection of photos on my hard drive, 26 hours in my logbook and a free calendar made of papyrus that our handlers in Egypt gave us.

It's experience under the belt, and some of the steepest learning curve I've ever seen. And on a small dirt strip northeast of Nairobi, a fairly grubby little airplane sits in her shiny new tin hangar, waiting for her new Kenyan callsign to be given and new life to begin.

And now I'm left working out my next move. It's lovely and warm and floral here in London, but it's time I work out a real job, a way to be back in the air, or at least productive. Unless any of you have an airplane that needs to be brought around the world, I need to make a big decision about my next plan.

This beautiful video shows one of little SAAM's new owners in a rented plane, a bit bigger then our plane is, but same deal. This is why they bought that little 182, and it's her new job. It makes me think, if airplanes have the feelings I routinely assign to them...I did right by this bird.

And it reminds me why I learned to fly. This is it for me, it shows in a nutshell why I love what I love, and why I chose this life. I may end up an airline pilot some day, but this is where it's really at.

(note: anna_esq, manley1, and sofija_m, that airplane is a 206. Just like good old OYV, the one we all flew around Namibia and Botswana not so long ago!)

The latest installment of photos is here - there's still a bit more to come.

We arrived this morning, shattered but rather satisfied. It's absolutely beautiful out here in London, which is a nice homecoming, but I wish I was more awake to appreciate it.

The last hurdle didn't fall easily. We had to get all of the stuff I stressed about loading into the airplane back home. The weight was one thing, the contents another. We had a few things that airlines aren't fond of: a cylinder of Carbon Dioxide for the life raft, 2 Oxygen cylinders for breathing, and the little cylinders for the life jackets. The big ones, we discharged, the life jackets, we couldn't. This was all stuff made for Aviation, all stuff found already on the airplane, but it was still due to be a hassle.

And, of course, it was. We showed up at the airport in Nairobi three hours early, then had to wait to ask the captain personally. He was impressed with our method of travel down, and said he had no problem, but had to defer to Emirates headquarters. Needless to say, by the time we got the go-ahead and made it to security, it was 5 minutes before the published departure time.

We had a glorious few hours in Dubai, the stopover capital of the universe (seriously, if you've never had a stopover there, fly somewhere - I don't care where - just to hang out in this airport city of dreams!) before trying to board. Brian's ticket gave an error, and he was whisked off while I was told to board. Uh oh. I'm going to have to get him to type up what happened, it involved being brought down to the belly of the airplane, screamed at, and all kinds of stress. I was meanwhile in the airplane, listening to the pilot tell us all every five minutes that we're delayed due to one passenger and his baggage, and that would we all mind giving him the evil eye and spitting at his feet when he arrived?

And, of course, despite all of this, the bags never made it. They're being delivered tonight. But home we are, back into our own clothes, and a bit disoriented to not be running around any more.

Anyone else need an airplane...?

I'll slowly be filling in the holes where I couldn't post. It's out of time sequence, but the freshest on my mind, so I'll type it up as it comes to me.

Brian flew us into Jeddah, an airport we nicknamed 'the Death Star,' due to the fact that it was absolutely bloody massive. It's the airport for Mecca, so its three huge runways serve about a billion terminals. Brian flew a picture perfect approach, and landed on the big center runway as we watched 747s all around. It was hot on the apron, and putting my improvised headscarf on was not very welcome. The wind kept whipping it into my face as I tried to tie the plane down, I have no idea how women manage to look so elegant in those things. The handling staff smiled at me, and spoke to Brian. Fine by me, at that point.

We got through the private terminal our handling company operated out of and made it to the opulent hotel. There was a lovely cafe in the atrium, it frankly annoyed me to not be able to just go have a coffee there alone, though we did see another woman there alone. Maybe it's different in hotels.

You have to understand, in Saudi, a lot of things we take for granted are forbidden. I could go only to family sections of restaurants or cafes, and then, only if accompanied by my male guardian. I wasn't allowed to be with an unrelated male, even if my husband was present. Outside of places like hotels, there are religious police that make sure that women stay covered up properly and nothing forbidden goes on. Alcohol is banned, of course, and customs is known for ripping out pages of magazines that have too much flesh, searching your laptop for porn, and watching any DVDs you might bring in. Women are not allowed to drive, or to work in sectors other than charity and healthcare - places where they can be separated properly.

Brian got a tour of the hotel. There's a pool and gym upstairs, with nice big signs telling you that women aren't allowed. The hotel manager told him that a wedding was taking place soon, and showed him the setup. But it was for women only. The men have another party in another hotel. Brian asked about the religious ceremony, and was told that only the bride's father and groom are present. I guess my horse wasn't present for his sale.

We asked at the hotel if we could go for dinner, they said yes, and that they'd send out for an abaya for me. We tried to get a cab for 7, but that's when prayers are, so 7:30 it was. The restaurant had a seperate entrance for the family section. We walked up to what I thought was a totally empty restaurant. Only after a few minutes did we realise that half of the booths were occupied - only they were hidden behind a wooden movable wall, presumably to protect us from having to be seen (gasp!) eating. That said, I don't see how women can eat with their faces covered, so maybe it's just practical. The food was delicious, though, and the waiter very friendly.

We arrived the next morning at the airport, and went through security. Brian had a swiss army knife, I had a leatherman. Brian's knife went by without comment, but the security guard was very concerned with my knife. He kept asking Brian if it was OK, that he was sure I wasn't going to threaten him with it. Yeah, I can see why he wouldn't arm HIS wife...

OK, so I saw a very small slice of Saudi. My Saudi friends tell me it's really a wonderful place in many ways, and it's not all about oppression and such. I just saw a brief 18 hours of Saudi life, saw women shy away from making eye contact with me, saw men who wouldn't speak to me, saw a land full of places I was forbidden from entering and careers I was forbidden from having. I had similar stops in Egypt and Djibouti, both places that were widely Muslim, and got smiles from people and genuine friendliness. Part of me was just left wondering what on earth the Saudis are so afraid of that my bare arm would somehow undermine their way of life. Is a lock of woman's hair that scary?

This is a rather opinionated post for me, but I couldn't post about this experience and not say it. I was very glad when the weather favoured us, and I was able to fly out of there the next day, the one female voice on the radio...save a US Air Force fighter jet.

Here at last. We crossed the equator yesterday morning, after a surprisingly quick leg from Addis Ababa to Nairobi. This was supposed to be a seven hour leg, we were almost concerned with fuel, but we were treated to a whipping tailwind, and speeds of about 40 knots faster than we were used to. Made it in five. We sailed down the great rift valley, watching as the lush green Ethiopian fields changed to jungle, then to desert, then slowly back to striking green as we approached our destination. Mount Kenya was shrouded in cloud as we passed, but the cloud managed to keep sparse and light for us, leaving us free to proceed right to Wilson Field in Nairobi unhindered.

The homecoming was a joy. The new owners met us with hugs and a Kenyan flag, and a beer at the East Africa Aero Club. This club, started in 1927, is the kind of place where gentlemen must remove their hats before enjoying the ambiance in the magnificent teak veranda, watching airplanes land.

And now we're in Northern Nairobi, staying with one of the owners who has very kindly allowed us to rest here for a little while. His house is a magnificent old stone house, one of the old colonial great houses, in the leafy green Muthiaga area of northern Nairobi. Monkeys come to steal fruit from the trees, magnificent birds call, and the patio looks out over a forest, as wild and tropical as anything you could imagine.

We went to go see the airplane's new home, a dirt strip not far from here. Lovely little strip, little tin hangar, the whole works. But the best part was where the plane is going to live. See, as a child, I fell in love with the boo/TV miniseries The Flame Trees of Thika, by Elspeth Huxley. It's the story of a little girl growing up in Kenya, and I blame it for my Africa Addition...errrr, bug. It all takes place in Thika, north of Nairobi.

Yes, folks, the airplane will be living just outside of Thika. There's some kind of meaning or message in this, right?

It's 8:30 AM, and I'm sitting on SAAM's tire on the Djibouti apron. The heat already rises in shimmery waves off the tarmac. This airport is a jumble of nationalities and colours. American Air Force, French Foreign Legion, Japaneese Army types, Chineese soldiers, Italian military aircraft, even the Dutch have a seat at the little armed jubilee. Djibouti is about as colourful as it comes. The local women wear headscarves, but in contrast to Saudi, they're brightly coloured, draping elegantly down their backs. They all smile at me eagerly, wishing me "Bonne Journee!" or some such. The men are more often in western garb, though many sport sarongs or arabic looking dress. The streets are a messy jumble of people of all description, broken concrete, people selling bright fabrics and plastic trinkets, and the everpresent stray dogs. Back to Real Africa.

While we were in the cab to our hotel, Voice of America was on the radio, the international radio station put out by the American government to spread the word about how nice and good we are. They use "special english," which is a limited vocabulary, spoken very slowly. The segment we heard was on budget tips. We drove through tin shantytowns, with wide eyed naked children peeing on brick walls, listening to a chirpy woman telling us to try finding free concerts or open air events, and clip coupons from the sunday paper. The discordance was shocking.

Our - ahem - modest hotel was in the bustle of downtown Djibouti City, which was nothing if not colourful. We wandered around a bit and finally escaped to the magnificent Kempinski Palace hotel, having flown 7 hours being justification enough for a really bloody expensive meal. The Kempinski is an opulent hotel, marble halls and elegant local design. It was a sight for sore eyes. After dinner, we went to their posh bar where a blonde lounge singer in a little red dress huskily sang old crooners songs. The bar was packed full of well dressed types who looked like they belonged. You just wanted to ask all of them what on earth they were doing here? It's really not a place you'd go on vacation. Even if you're a bit adventurous and rather eccentric.

Now, I'm sitting at 10,000 feet with Ethiopia below me. The hills are slowly rising to meet us, ground level will be a whopping 14,000 feet soon. The nature shows I just watches had a big segment on the Ethopian highlands - I simply can't wait to see them for myself. With this superb tailwind - the first of our whole trip! - it won't be long now.