A small dismal swamp

How long have we been waddling in this God-forsaken swamp? An hour? Two? Didn’t bring my watch. I don’t normally wear my watch when I jump from airplanes. I did wear a parachute. And a helmet…

*

The day had started well that Sunday morning. Meeting at 7:30AM. Clear African skies over the Gabonese Air Force military airport where the Para-Club has its “head office.” No hangover from last night at the Mounts of Crystal nightclub. We knew we’d be jumping early, so we only hit my bottle with caution. Coupla drinks was fine. Weather report said ground speed at the Drop Zone was close to nil. Good.

We geared up, main ‘chute on our back, emergency ‘chute in the front. Checked and rechecked our equipment and our vis-à-vis. Climbed into the Nord-Atlas twin propeller. Took off to the drop-zone. Peachy.

I was in the second stick. A stick is a group of jumpers who jump in quick succession. Usually three.

My jump was fine. It might have been my fifth of sixth jump. I’d graduated from round, standard issue paratrooper ‘chute (with which you can’t do sh… zip. Just jump and be careful where you land). The new ‘chute was a beauty, with a slit across half of the sail. You could turn left, right, speed forward, put the “brakes”. Pick up your landing spot. A Beaut’.

Uneventful jump for me. Didn’t lose my helmet up there. (Had happened once before.) Ground speed was indeed practically zero. Perfect, when you’re trying to avoid one of the many rocks on the drop zone. I landed a dozen yards away from the target plate. Not too bad.

As all sticks landed fine, all the equipment had been gathered, we were all enjoying a nice fresh beer. (The Ice-Box is one of the many wonders of Western civilisation.) All commenting on the jump. The veterans discretely giving feedback to the juniors. Peachy. Again. Until someone asked:

“Where’s Joël? Has he gone back to the city already?”

“I don’t think so…Maybe he went for a leak? To the trees there?”

All turned towards the trees at the edge of the swamp. No Joël.

“And what about Jean-Pierre and Jean-Claude?”

None of the three were in sight. Joko, our “unofficial” leader (400-500 jumps under his belt) said:

“They were in the last stick. They jumped after me. Joël wanted to jump from a higher altitude… Damn!”

A quick check-up was done with all, earlier jumpers, the “ground crew”. The ground crew was basically wives of the most senior and a few non-jumping friends… Somebody had to come in cars and pick us up, right? The drop zone was a few miles away from Libreville. Someone said:

“I think I saw three ‘flowers’ high, but to the East.’ Flowers was how we called the ‘chutes when they opened.

“Damn! Damn!” Joko said. “They must have dropped them too early, smack above the swamp.”

The drop zone was located south of the harbour of Owendo, between the sea to the West, and a swamp to the East. Dropping is not exactly a science. A minor difference in seconds, given the plane’s speed, and the wind, and you could end up in trees. Or in the sea. Happened after I left. All jumpers swam their way back to the shore, but we lost three good ‘chutes. Or you could end up way East in the swamp.

“They could be hurt,” Diego said. He was former French Legion. Took command. “We need to form search parties. Now! Volunteers?”

In five minutes, two search parties were set up. Diego would take three with him and enter the swamp from the North-West. I was in the second search party, headed by Joko, along with my good friend Claude, getting in from the South-West. The idea was to enter the swamp in parallel routes and turn south or north to meet at one point inside the swamp. And hopefully find Joël and the other members of his stick. Not too concerned about Joël. He was former Special Forces. He could manage. And get his team out of trouble. Unless he was hurt…

We had no flares. No radio… No cels of course then. No compass. Those former military turned back civilians were a bit low on equipment. ‘T was all right. Where would the fun be? Just before my group was about to enter the swamp, I turned around and asked Ginette, Diego’s wife:

“Ginette? Can we borrow your dog? If we get lost, I’m sure he’ll find his way back.”

“Sure, take him. He loves water and mud.”

And off we went into the “small dismal swamp.”

*

A swamp of that kind in Africa is called a “marigot”. Part mangrove, part small rivers. Lots, lots of mud. The kind of mud that’s called “poto-poto” in West Africa. A marigot would be the equivalent of a Bayou in Loo-Zee-Ana.

At first our progression was reasonably easy. Firm land for a while, then gradually, the earth turned into mud. Mud turned into mucky water. Strange things ran/swam away from our party. The dog was happy.

After a while, we were waddling knee-high in “troubled waters.” Then came the mangrove. A few trees here and there, aerial roots. Sometimes we had to climb on a maze of roots to move forward. Watching where you put your hands for support. Snakes you know…

To be continued…

Author’s note: This is a true story. From my days in Libreville, Gabon. My first job, in accounting and finance. It had to be in Africa, had it not?

*Part of the Mzungu chronicles. Mzungu, plural: wazungu. Mzungu is a Bantu (Swahili) word used throughout East Africa from Uganda to Kenya to Tanzania to Zambia and in the great lakes region, from Rwanda, Burundi, to Congo Kinshasa. It means “white man”, or woman. The origin of the name dates back to the 18th-19th century, when European explorers came to East Africa searching for the source of the Nile, the gold mines of Solomon, or the Mountains of the moon, what have you. It literally means traveller or wanderer. Africans then, could not understand why Europeans could not stay in place, why they had to move all the time.  They thought Europeans were a tad crazy. Mimi na mzungu!

(c) Martin-Onraët & Equinoxio