Flight to Coban

Air Drop Leaflets:
I am looking forward to making a ½ hour flight to Coban today for supplies. Among other things, I’ll contract with a printer to purchase a large box of leaflets. These are small, yellow fliers, that I will toss out of the airplane window, with a request for the village to repair their airstrips and a phone number where they can reach us in case of a medical emergency or other missionary or humanitarian transport needs. Many villages have simply let their airstrip get overgrown while we were gone. All the phone numbers have changed now that there are digital cell towers in the area – so leaflets are a convenient way to make a plea to an entire village, all at once and with a LOT of fanfare.

Other Items on my shopping list include:
Hydro-cortisone crème, for various itchy body parts.
Water filter – stone cylinder type - to clean the rain water
A visit to an internet café to up/down load e-mail and to pay bills online
I need to send a QSL card (acknowledgement) to a ham radio operator I talked to in Avila, Cuba
Wine in a box (not as bad as it sounds)
Butter (real butter)
Powdered milk (whole crème powdered milk – mighty good stuff – can’t get it in the US).
Blackberry Jam – if I can find it!
Cash – for villages expenses

Plumbing Parts:

Plumbing parts for our hillbilly sink on the front porch. This advanced technological system is composed of a garden hose that leads to an elevated rain barrel and a plastic wash basin with a regular sink drain installed on it. I could not bring myself to buy an actual sink, as it would make the rest of the system look too un-sophisticated (and they cost $100). This is all fixed to a board, that acts as a counter, fixed to the railing of the porch. While we were gone on furlough, someone took the parts that I had rigged-up earlier, so I now need to purchase new parts that will attach to the garden hose and act as some kind of faucet that I can mount on the railing. It’ll be set-up so that water can be turned on and off and run into any one of three wash basins we use to clean our plates. Currently, we simply hang the end of the hose from a couple of closely spaced nails near the roof so that the water does not run out. This solution is too low-tech of my tastes. In the picture, you see Jennifer standing on a bench to was dishes. When the “guys” from the Directiva came over to help replace some of the boards on the porch, they pulled apart my hillbilly counter, that was at the correct height for washing dishes, then, for some unknown reason did NOT replace the floor boards in that area of the porch. They did replace my counter-top arrangement, about 1 foot higher than it originally was located, thus necessitating the ladder in order to use it.

Friday, December 15, 2007:

Made a flight to Coban today:

I took an empty propane gas cylinder, the outgoing mail, our laptop computer in a black nylon case and my flight kit.

My flight Kit:My flight kit is basically a black nylon satchel, just large enough to contain a standard clip-board and about six-inches thick. The clip board has a legal pad on which I record all the details of each flight, including the fuel in the tanks before and after the flight. On the back is a check-list for almost every aspect of aircraft operations and a list of all the airstrips I have landed at along with their lengths, altitude, orientation and how much weight I can depart with from the airstrip. I also carry a handheld VHF (backup) radio, my GPS (when not mounted on the yoke), sunglasses, calculator, a leatherman tool, pens, water purification tables, aircraft instruction manual and so on. Like all flight kits, it has too much stuff and weighs too much. When I leave the aircraft in a place like Coban or Guatemala City, I take anything with me that would make me cry to loose.

My plan was to first find a printer and get started on the job of creating fliers that I can throw out the window of the plane. Then go to the post office, send the mail and get a PO box. If I could find the internet café I might upload and download e-mail and then go to the hardware store to purchase some supplies needed for the house. If there was still time, I would go to the grocery store and buy some items that we have been craving – like butter, powdered milk, wine and cheese. How I figured I could do all that and still leave before dark I do not know. I have not been back in Guatemala long enough to loose my youthful optimism when it comes to “getting things done”. Americans are pretty good at “getting things done” and “quickly”. These concepts don’t translate the same here in Guatemala, where things get done, eventually, mostly, and where the concept of “quickly” only produces an counter-productive resistance that will guarantee that whatever it was you wanted quickly, won’t come quickly.

The Coban Airport:
The airfield in Coban is a quaint place. It is couched in a mountain basin, frequently closed in by low clouds. The airstrip is paved, one of very few paved airstrips in the country, and oriented north-west and south-east. It is about 2000’ long and situated at an altitude of 4,350’ above sea level. The far end of the runway (to the north-west) is about 4,310’ above sea level. The altitude difference is mostly the result of a the tall hill on which the runway begins. The hill drops sharply for the first two or three-hundred feet, making take-offs to the north-west a bit of a roller-coaster ride, and greatly assisted by gravity. In fact, a lightly loaded aircraft can usually be airborne before it gets to the bottom of the hill, attaining a flying state in an extremely short distance. This “state of flying” can be a bit deceptive as the novice pilot soon discovers that “flying” and “climbing” are two very different things. A heavily loaded aircraft is actually required to climb, fairly quickly, if one hopes to avoid the pine trees at the far end of the airstrip. It can be surprisingly hard to climb in a heavily loaded plane at this altitude, as the thin are reduces both the effectiveness of the propeller, wings and especially the engine. My personal technique for determining how much of a load I can take-off with is to experiment by gradually adding weight until I no longer feel comfortable with the take-off performance. This has to be done considering winds and temperature, as a headwind or cooler than normal temperatures will greatly aid the performance of the take-off. Even a small tail-wind will negatively affect performance greatly. I arrived at a fairly chicken-hearted cargo take-off weight of 1200 lbs. This would include the pilot, fuel and cargo. I arrived at this, something most local pilots would scoff at, by careful experimentation. After making several departures with 1300 or 1400 lbs., easily clearing all obstacles, I departed one day, with missionary volunteers on board no less, and was astonished to suddenly discover that my climb performance was not good enough to clear the pine trees along the perimeter of the airport. Not only that but I was approaching them at an extremely high rate of speed. Finding a small gap between a couple of the trees, I aimed for it and managed to avoid a collision that would probably have ended my flying career. I struggled to turn, every so carefully, to the east and circle quite low over the city until I could climb sufficiently to depart the area over the mountains to the West. Almost certainly, the reason for the poor performance was due to a tail-wind that did not advertise itself on the ground but was painfully effective just above the ground. Unpredictable winds are an ever-present danger in mountainous areas like this. Even though the local pilots will take-off overloaded all the time, it is also well known that many, many of them have crashed in close proximity to the airport. The 1200 lb. limit will mean 100-200 lbs less cargo on each flight. It will also help to insure that there is plenty of margin for error in case something does not go according to expectations.

Another peculiar aspect of the airstrip in Coban is the fact that the location, as advertised by the GPS database, is nowhere near where the airport really is. I notified the database publisher, a well respected authority in charge of instrument approach charts all over the world. Its been over three years now and I don’t believe they have gotten around to updating their information.

Also, there is a large, faded, “X” painted in white, on the approach end of the north-west runway. The internationally understood meaning of this is that the runway is closed. Presumably it was put there because of the fact that that the first two-hundred feet of that end of the runway consists of a 40 foot drop and is a bit tricky to land on. Its been like this for at least five years and is universally ignored by everyone, as far as I can tell.

After arriving at the airstrip in Coban, I secured the aircraft and pulled out the gas cylinder, my flight kit, laptop computer and bag of outgoing mail. There were two small aircraft still operating on the field and I knew the pilots of each. I stopped and said hello to those operators before making my way to the gated entrance, where a taxi awaited. I asked the driver, whom I also recognized, how much for a ride to centro (center of town) would cost and he replied, twenty Q. Even though that is less then three dollars, it seemed a bit high to me and I tried to talk him down. He wouldn’t budge. I asked him to wait while I carried the gas cylinder across the street intending to leave it at the gas recharging shop, but when I arrived at the door, a sign said that they were closed – probably for lunch. Lunch typically starts around 11:30 and frequently lasts until 1:30 or 2:00. Most businesses close during this time of the day in Coban and trying to get things done during mid-day is difficult.

While I was standing outside the closed gas tienda, a bus came along the street and I figured I would save 19q by hoping on board, which I did. Not a particularly easy thing, carrying a gas cylinder, laptop computer and full flight kit and bag of mail. I found a seat near the back and got comfortable, expecting to recognize all the landmarks on our way to centro. The bus veered off onto a diagonal street and made some odd excursions onto streets that I had never seen before. Before I knew it, we had passed centro and were on the far side of Coban. The fellow next to me assured me that we could walk to centro with no problem, so I got off with him and followed him up a steep hill for a couple of blocks. He pointed farther up the hill and bid me good-day as I continued without him, carrying all of my cargo on my back as I went.

Eventually, I began to recognize some landmarks and pretty soon found my way to the post office.

The Post Office (La oficina de Correos): There were two young men in the office. I asked if they had any PO boxes available, known here as an apartado. One of the attendants walked behind the open, unlocked and unguarded cabinet of boxes next to the counter and searched around for one that did not have somebody’s name taped to it. He indicated that they had some open boxes (most of them) and that I could have one but needed to give a copy of my sedulas (ID). I asked if my Michigan driver’s license was good enough, and, surprisingly, he agreed that it would suffice. I asked him to figure the cost of sending fifteen letters and two large envelopes to the US. The total was about q330 ($44). Not only was this significantly more than the annual cost of a PO Box, It was also q4 more than I had in my wallet. I asked where I might make a copy of my license and the fellow directed me to a shop along the main square. I picked-up my gas cylinder, flight kit and computer and sack of mail and headed out the door.

Foto-Copias of Sedulas:
Americans might find it strange that a shop would be dedicated to making photo-copies, but in Guatemala, copies of sedulas (ID) is a thriving business. I asked for a double sided copy of my license (yes, you need to copy both sides of everything) I paid my q.5 ($.07) and aksed where I might find an off-set printer. The lady in the window asked if I were familiar with St. Martin’s Squiare (I wasn’t) and then proceeded to give me directions to a place I was pretty sure I could not walk to. Knowing that I would need lots of cash for the post office, the printers, a taxi, lunch and getting gas cylinder filled, I headed for the nearest ATM machine.

The Money Machine:
Amazingly, this is a service that has existed and functioned in Guatemala for years. It seems like the most likely place to get mugged, so I always exercise extreme caution when withdrawing money from these things. As I approached the small, enclosed booth, built into the side of a building on a relatively quiet street, I noticed that there was a man already inside, conducting business. I waited patiently outside and periodically glanced in to see what stage of the process he seemed to be in. I couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to be doing the same thing over and over again, with different cards each time. After about five minutes, I began to wonder what he could possibly be doing and why he was going through a stack of cards to do it with. Presently, I began to suspect that the cards he was using might not be his own, perhaps he was a pick-pocket and was trying various PINs with each of the stolen cards – as I waited patiently outside, possibly positioning myself to become his next victim, I become a bit self-concious and started to glance around for another ATM. These are the kinds of funny tricks your mind plays with you when your tired and far from home and a strange land where nothing works right and everyone speaks in a different language. I think some folks refer to it as culture shock. In my case, it frequently manifests itself with a decidedly paranoid bent. After another five minutes or so, the man emerged, without having actually gotten any cash, as far as I could tell. I entered, quickly, making space for all my stuff, including the gas cylinder – lest someone walk away with it while I was doing my business. I felt for my wallet and suddenly realized that it was missing as my hand felt my pocket without the reassuring bulge indicating it’s presence. I quickly checked my other pockets and was soon relieved to find it in my other back pocket, something I must have done accidentally at the post office. Then, for a moment, my heart skipped a beat as I recalled a story relayed to me by my friend who had once had his wallet removed from one pocket, money and cards extracted and the wallet put back into another pocket, all while he was standing on a public bus in Guatemala City. Opening my wallet I was relieved to find everything where I and left it and felt silly for allowing myself to get jittery and paranoid. The day wasn’t going as I had planned and that always put me a little off-balance. I put my card into the machine and typed in my PIN. The instructions, in Spanish and English, instructed me to push the appropriate buttons and before long I had q1000 ($133) in band new, crisp, clean q100 bills in my hot little hands. Since q1000 was as much as I could get in one transaction, I did another, then another. Now, having withdrawn $399, I felt quite rich and very vulnerable.

Returning to the post office, I found nobody manning the desk. The cabinet full of PO boxes was wide open along the back and quite accessible from where I was standing, situated as it was next to the counter (not behind it). I made several loud noises for several minutes, periodically clanging my gas cylinder against the cinder-block wall that composed the counter. Eventually, one of the young men appeared in the doorway at the end of the office and made a hand signal indicating that he would be available soon, then he disappeared again. After another five minutes or so, I accidentally on purpose knocked over the gas cylinder, making sufficient noise to wake up the other young man who appeared from behind another door and immediately starting taking care of another customer that had arrived AFTER me. This is a common problem in places like Coban, where “difficult to understand” customers with complicated problems get shifted to the end of the line, indefinitely. Eventually, the first guy came out of his hiding place and went through the process of weighing and computing the postage of all the letters I had brought the first time. The total, q330, was paid and he dutifully wrote me a receipt and took the letters. I can only hope that he will actually put postage on them and send them. Who knows? I again asked about a PO box and was told that the person that could actually process my request was not there but should arrive in twenty minutes or so. I took that as a hint to get lost for a while so I left to go find the printer’s office. As I stepped outside, I could not help but notice the Pollo Campero restaurant across the street.

Pollo Campero:
I carried my gas cylinder, computer and flight kit across the street to the local ‘Pollo Campero’ which is roughly the equivalent of a Guatemalan Kentucky Fried Chicken, but very popular. I got in the ‘to go’ line and made my order of ‘pechujitas’ or chicken strips. Apparently, I am the only person in Guatemala that actually orders pechujitas because every time I have done it during lunch hour, it takes forever for me to get my order. I was given my little receipt and send down to the far end of the counter to await my meal. This is the equivalent of being put in the “wait forever” part of the pick-up counter. After about fifteen minutes, during which time about 6 other customers’ orders were processed, the pechujitas magically appeared from somewhere. They were pitifully dry and shriveled. I don’t even know why I like them. The place was packed, so I found a table with a spare seat and asked the woman if I could sit there. She had two kids with her that were extraordinarily dirty and had runny noses – but they didn’t seem to mind me, strange as I was to them. So we all sat together and ate our lunch.

Private Security:
Many business establishments in Guatemala employ armed guards. This practice seems to be the result of a number of factors, one of which is that the police are seem to be outnumbered, under paid, and so on. I don’t want to put too fine a point on it, but recently, a group of Guatemala City Police were investigated for the gangland murder of a group of gang members (rival gang members – if you can get that concept in your mind). The reason they were even investigated is because the GPS transmitters in their police cars, transmitters that they were all perfectly aware of, were not turned off during the aforementioned atrocity. Their route was perfectly traced from the location where they apprehended the rival gang members to where the deed was done and the bodies were found. I won’t go into the corruption issues here, just know that the problem is wide-spread according to the newspapers. Add to this the fact that Guatemala City is the most crime ridden city in Central America and you can see the demand for a private security service. The armed guards are typically kids or young men, wearing nice looking uniforms, carrying 12 gauge shotguns and bandoliers of shotgun shells full of buckshot. They are probably paid about $3.00 a day and certainly have little or no training. Virtually every bank has at least two of these guards standing outside AND frequently two more inside. Every pharmacy, hardware store, grocery store or other retail establishment of any appreciable size has one or two. All McDonalds and Pollo Campero restaurants have at least one as well. Coban does not have the same crime problems that Guatemala City does but the culture of private security is alive and well here. For this reason, there was one of these armed guards standing outside the door at Pollo Campero.

Trapped while leaving Pollo Campero:

After my quick lunch, I picked-up my gear and made a classical gringo error of expecting things, any thing, to be the same and as predictable here in Guatemala as it is in the US. A fatal combination of being momentarily lulled into a state of mental complacency and the simple mistake of not properly interpreting the signs in front of my nose, suddenly caused me to become the object of momentary amusement for the entire restaurant. As it happens, at Pollo Campero, there are two sets of doors, separated by about two feet, as is the case with many stores in the US. The vestibule between them presumably helps keep out flies and warm air. Loaded up as I was with my computer, flight kit, gas cylinder and all, it was a bit of a clumsy act getting through the first set of doors, compounded by the fact that only the left-side door would move, the right side being secured. This momentary clumsiness was aggravated by the fact that, after going through the first door, the one that say “push”, I tried to “push” through the second set of doors. Not expecting the obvious, I pushed with a bit too much vigor and made a large banging noise when the door suddenly did NOT open, against my considerable force. The fact that the sign on it says “hale” didn’t register. In a moment of gringo confusion, I turned around and pushed on the door I had just come through, thinking that I should exit and re-read the signs on the doors, not being completely sure of what had just happened. Of course, when I attempted to push open that door, the one I had just pushed to get through, the one that only says “push” if you are exiting, it did not open. At this point, loaded up as I was and in such small quarters between the two sets of doors, I could hardly turn around. I felt a bit like a cow in a kitchen. The guard with the shotgun just outside the exit, a Mayan kid of about twenty, turned around with a surprised look on his face, grabbing his shotgun in a rather assertive manner. The look on his face increased my level of anxiety a couple of notches as I suddenly felt trapped in what is essentially a glass box with a restaurant full of noisy Guatemalans on one side, some of whom were now trying unsuccessfully to exit the restaurant and on the other side, a kid with a startled look on his face carelessly pointing a 12 gauge shotgun full of buckshot at me, more or less blocking my way out. Quickly composing myself, I put the gas cylinder down, took a deep breath, smiled at the kid pointing the gun at me and pointed at the sign on the door. I laughed, he laughed, everyone in the restaurant seemed to be laugher and smiling at the stupid gringo in the glass box. These are the moments that test the mettle of gringo pilots lost in Guatemala. I proceeded to pull open the door (in the manner suggested by the sign that read: “hale”) and leave, walking quickly away and trying not to make eye contact with the people in the restaurant who could clearly see me through the long row of windows that lined the entire side of the building. Sweat was now profusely soaking my shirt, a condition that I seem to be afflicted with often in situations like this, which I frequently find myself in. Now I know why gringos are treated a little differently.

My path took me immediately through the produce market street. As I walked I was amazed at the vast variety of things you can buy here. Every kind of handicraft, every type of tropical food, there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of women sitting on the streets selling every type of food and commodity you can image. Behind the Mayan women on the street, and on both sides of the street there are small tiendas, each completely open on the front, each about 15 feet wide and each one specializing in some specific product. One would be full of paper products, pens, pencils, paper, notebooks, ink, erasers, stencils, stickers and so on. The next might be full of glassware, cups, dishes, bowls, mirrors of every description. As much as you could fit into a fifteen by ten foot recess, these small stores were packed. The next tienda might be full of cell phones and related merchandise, then one full of hardware store items, then one full of plumbing, then one full of plastic products like bins, boxes, trash cans, dishes, bowls, buckets and so forth. Every one seems to have evolved over the years so as to find a niche in his or her nook as it were. The variety of tiendas and sheer number of them, combined with the multitude of Mayan street vendors and the crowd meandering through this maze of merchandize, periodically plied by a slow moving pick-up truck and the cacophony accompanying the scene made an appropriately bizarre background for me, a tall gringo wearing blue Dockers and a clean, red, button-down shirt, carrying a gas cylinder on one shoulder, a laptop computer slung from the other and a large black satchel strapped across my back, soaked with sweat and glancing around nervously looking for something that he could not possibly find here – a Quickie Printer or Kinkos.

Mayan Kinkos:
After a nice long walk with several excursions onto the wrong streets and sometimes in the wrong direction, I finally found what I was looking for – an offset printer shop. None of the directions I had received would have led me to this place, I simply stumbled across it by accident. It was tucked away into one of those 10x15 foot enclaves built into the side of a larger building. It had a sign over it the read “Medina Impresos”. I was impressed. The lady behind the counter was clearly Mayan, of the Q’eckqui (Kekchi) persuasion, and was wearing glasses. I explained that I wanted to print 10,000 fichas, or fliers, similar to the ones I had with me, and placed my samples on the counter. Each was about 4x4 inches made of extremely thin yellow paper. I explained, as she listened expressionlessly, that I would fly low over small villages in the Ixcan and throw hundreds and thousands of these out the window in order to compel the villagers to repair their village airstrips and then to call me on the cell phone in case they needed air transport for medical emergencies or for support of Christian missions or other humanitarian needs. The look she gave me was one of complete passivity as though I were describing how water will flow downhill if not impeded. When I was through talking she looked at me and asked, “So, how many of these did you say you wanted?” I repeated that I wanted an entire box of them, about 10,000. She motioned me to wait end picked up the phone. When she returned she said, it’ll cost q765 for the job. I gave her the same expressionless look and said, that is fine. How long will it take. Amazingly, she started talking about the layout and the wording and suggested locations for graphics. She suggested using a line drawing of the airplane placed in otherwise white spaces, so the villagers would know who’s plane it was. I was very impressed. As we were talking, her father or husband appeared from behind a curtain and greeted me. I asked him if there was a place nearby where I could refill my gas cylinder, pointing at the one on the floor next to the open door. He motioned me to wait and made a quick phone call to a nearby propane shop, instructing them to come and bring a full cylinder for me to exchange. The lady with the glasses asked for some graphics of the aircraft and I noticed that they had an Ethernet hub connected to their computer so I asked if they had internet and if I could connect to it and download the graphics from our website. The owner readily agreed. I pulled out a twelve foot long Ethernet cable from my laptop case (something I now take one with me everywhere) and connected to their hub. Before long, I was on the internet! I downloaded an engineering drawing of the airplane and copied it to a USB key that the lady had hanging around her neck. Then I asked if I could just leave my laptop connected to the internet while it uploaded and downloaded e-mail. They agreed and we continued our discussion of the artwork. In less than 10 minutes, the gas cylinder man drove up to the door with a pick-up containing full gas cylinders. I exchanged my empty one for a rusty, but full, one and paid the man the q120 it cost for 25 lbs. of propane. It was nearly 4:00 and I knew that I didn’t have enough time to wait for the remaining gazillion junk e-mails to download. I thanked them for having better service than any Kinkos I have ever been at and bid them farewell. Stepping out into the street, I flagged down a taxi and headed back towards the airstrip. I asked the driver to stop by the grocery store on our way, which he did and waited while I quickly went in and purchased a few items that I knew I would really miss and could not get in the village; cheese, several types of wine in a box, some Corona extra, Borden’s powdered milk, real butter, grape and blackberry jam and sliced bread (not sweetened). I came out a few minutes later and we continued to the airstrip. I told the driver to go through the gate and drive up along side the plane. He was reluctant, at first and asked me if that were really my plane. I assured him that it was OK and that I was indeed the pilot of that-there aircraft and would he please drive very slowly. The look on his face was priceless. I don’t think he had actually ever driven into the airport, much less talked with a real-live pilot. Of course, I tipped him generously. He helped me unload my gear next to the plane and left.

During my preflight inspection I noticed that someone had moved the propeller and apparently had opened the oil dipstick access door. I suspect that someone had been poking around the aircraft, uninvited. I could not find anything else amiss so I hopped in and started up the plane, taxied to the top of the hill on the south-east end of the runway and turned the airplane around. Taking off, I found that I could get airborne before the bottom of the hill, just like the old days, and climbed quickly over the trees around the perimeter and out over the town to make a big sweeping turn, climbing high enough to pass over the mountains to the west of the airstrip. The clouds had started to build up predictably around the 6,000’ ridges, so and I simply flew around them to the north on my way home. The flight home was quite pleasant, with the sun setting into the west behind the larger Cuchumatanes mountain range.

Since the HF radio didn’t seem to be functioning very well, I decided to try the unthinkable, that is to make an airborne cell phone call to Jennifer and let her know I was on my way. You might be thinking this was unthinkable because of the rules and regulation in the US regarding use if cell phones on aircraft, but I can tell you that nobody cares a hoot about those rules here in Guatemala. I was simply amazed that I could actually get a signal at all! I was quite surprised to find two or three bars on the signal strength. I speed dialed Jennifer and was pleased to reach her voice mail on the first attemp. I reported my position, over Las Margaritas, a village with one analog cell phone that usually does not work, and hung up. A short time later I called again and was amazed to actually speak with Jennifer and know that she could hear me over the noise of the aircraft. Just Amazing! Jennifer said she would send one of the neighbor kids up to the airstrip to help my carry groceries back to the house.

After I landed and tied down the aircraft, I walked home and felt strangely tired. I couldn’t explain it, by any measure I had not accomplished very much and certainly not all of the items on my to-do list. We had a fine dinner of melted cheese on bread, pasta with Jennifer’s fabulous village sauce and a tall glass of mediocre wine from a box. Just a note, the Termidore Vino Tinto from Agentina lacks any real body. It is wine in name only and could as easily be Welche’s grape juice with a shot of grain alcohol. Two thumbs down for the wine. The company, on the other hand, (my family) was of the utmost quality and more than made up for any failings of the day!