Guinea: Leaving (Or At Least Trying To) (cont.)

Finally one of the men appears, mouse-like underneath the right engine, holding a small flashlight above his head.  We wait.  Twenty minutes pass, a half hour—the captain is back with an update.

“Ladies and gentlemen the ground crew has carefully inspected the plane and everything seems to be OK.  Unfortunately, because of our abrupt stop, the brakes are very hot, and we will need to taxi back to the airport and wait until they cool off.  But as of right now, we do not see any reason why we will not be able to get you to Paris tonight.” 

The ground crew hops back into its truck and drives away.  The orange rotating light on the roof fades into the darkness.  Job done.  I hear some intense whispering, even panic, from the voices in the seats in front of me; and soon after, one of them flags down a flight attendant.  I cannot understand them, but I see the fear in their eyes, and they are pointing out the window, making explosion sounds and throwing their arms in the air.  “Yes!  I saw it too!  I did!” I said, interrupting.  “The engine was on fire.  FIRE!  BIG EXPLOSION— right when the plane jumped during take-off.”  The flight attendant looks at us, now equally concerned; and then she is gone, running up the aisle to alert the captain who evidently had no idea that this had happened either.

Twenty minutes later and we are back at the gate, awaiting news from the cockpit.  We are parked next to the airport, under lights.  A large number of men in orange jumpsuits appear with flashlights, looking things over, again.

The captain makes another announcement.  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are still waiting for the brakes to cool down.  It should not be that much longer.”  There are now a few trucks elevating men so that they can inspect the engines a little more closely.  Their faces are level with my window.  Over the next half hour, they slowly disappear. 

10PM.  No news from the cockpit, but the flight crew graciously turns off the cabin lights.

Two hours later.  “Ladies and gentleman, the good news is the brakes have cooled off.  And the ground crew has assured us that there is no problem with the engines.” 

‘Yes there is!’ I think.  

“It seems as though we hit an animal on the runway and that caused some complications during take off.  Unfortunately, we seem to have encountered another problem here on the flight deck.  The intense braking seemed to have triggered a technical malfunction in The plane’s computer system.  Currently, our fuel gauge shows that we have thee tons more fuel on one side of the plane than the other.  Which means that if we took off right now….”  His voice trails off. 
 
“The only way to recalibrate the computer is to turn the plane completely off and restart it.  Unfortunately, this means that we will need you to de-board the plane with all carry-on luggage and wait in the airport for further instructions.” 

A few minutes later, I walk down the aisle, eyes half open, armpits smelling, butt hurting.  I walk down the stairs back into the heat and start sweating, again.

We approach the airport, and the doors are locked.  The airport has evidently closed.  We wait for someone with a set of keys to arrive and let us in.  I sit near the door and watch the lights on the plane turn off.  If all goes well, I will be the first out the door, back on the plane and asleep before take off. 

An hour later the plane illuminates once again. Minutes later a call comes in from the plane to the gate.  The woman hangs up and slowly starts handing out small pieces of paper without explanation.  No one is moving.  Everyone is waiting for instructions. 

“Not tonight,” she says. 

“When?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she replies and rips off a small piece of white paper and hands it to me.  Novotel.  It is my coupon for the night.  I am spending the night in Conakry.  My clothes are soaked in sweat for the third time today and I have to go back into the city.  No bags, no instructions, no transportation, no Guinean Francs.  I look around and find a few other bewildered passengers and head for the door.  There is a taxi outside; so we get in.  Does anyone have any money?  The American guy in the front seat does.  Great.  Let’s get out of here.

I arrive in my room about an hour later and find a pile of potting soil on my bed.  I peel off my disgusting clothes, stumble to the bed, throw the blanket and the soil on the floor and drift into a deep sleep.

When I wake up in the morning, I am naked; I do not know where I am; and I cannot figure out why I have dirt all over my arms.  Not a good way to start the day.  I take a long shower, and my upper lip curls in disgust as I reluctantly step into my smelly pants.  After six hours of waiting downstairs in the hotel lobby with dozens of other bewildered travelers, a few of us catch up with the head of the flight crew. We ask him if he knows what is going on. 

“What did we really hit last night?” we ask, all of us with our elbows on the table leaning inward as if we were about to hear a scandalous secret.

“A dog.  We hit a dog.” 

A dog on the runway.   A dog on the loose, wandering around the airport in Conakry, that just happened to get in the way of a jet, on the one flight out of the country that day, in the pouring rain.  “But the right engine blew up!  I saw it.  I was sitting next to it.  I saw the fire.” I said.  “The engine, well, it ate the dog. The impact is what caused the explosion.” 

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