My Love Affair With a B-26

One of the highlights of my life, was that I got to fly a B-26. 

I delivered a B-26, T-105, to the CAF (Confederate Air Force) in Lubbock Texas on May 31 1980. 

The B-26 was an attack/bomber used in WW2, Korea, Bay of Pigs, VietNam and Biafra. It was usually either fitted with 8 machine guns in the nose, and 4 in the wing, or it was a bomber with a plexiglass nose and a bombadiers place in the nose. It could be converted between the two types.

Some B-26s had been converted to air tankers (fire bombers) as had T-105.

After 3 years of co-piloting air tankers for Hawkins & Powers (PB4Y-2s and C-119s), I wanted to try something new. Flying a B-26 had always a dream of mine, so in early May 1980, I went to see Bill Dempsey in Maricopa Arizona. At that time he was only operating DC-4s, and had no B-26s in use. However, he did have a contract to deliver a B-26 that had been sitting for a few years. It needed a new engine, and lots of maintenance. I agreed to work on the aircraft in return for a VFR type rating in the B-26. 

On May 11 1980 I got checked out as co-pilot on a DC-4. We did the training in Tanker 146 at Maricopa.

On May 14 we flew a DC-4, Tanker 150, to Olathe Kansas with a spare engine for the B-26. 

Myself and another mechanic drove to Rantoul Kansas where the B-26 was located. 

The aircraft was a TB-26C and had the registration of N9682C. We always used the radio call “Tanker 105” instead of the registration number.

The T designation in TB-26C,  was for “Trainer”, because it had dual controls. Almost all B-26s had single controls. 

The “C” at the end, designated the bomber version versus a “B” for the gun version.

The tires were flat, and the one main gear strut was flat. We put in new batteries, changed the oils, and prelubed the engines. 

The left one started and ran, but the right engine had no oil pressure. It turned out that the diaphragm on the oil pressure sensor was bad. The right engine also had metal in the oil strainers.

It had on a pretty mangled gun nose, so we put on an available bombardier nose. Air Tankers operators prefered the gun nose, because it was much lighter than the bomber nose

After 2 weeks, we got it ready to ferry to Olathe from Rantoul.

Bill flew it to from Rantoul to Olathe, and there we removed the right engine, and replaced it with the engine that we had brought up from Maricopa.

The Dual controls were great for me learning to fly this machine.

I did my B-26 type rating on the ferry flight from Olathe Kansas to Enid Oklahoma on 31 May 1980.

The airspeed was measured in MPH and the red line was at 425.

On this leg we went low level and with a slight dive we got the indicated airspeed up to 400MPH.

We then celebrated a bit. :-)

While at Enid, we did a few more training flights with take offs and landings. This also gave us a

chance to do some last minute maintenance. Bill signed me off for the type rating.

I then delivered T-105 to the CAF at Lubbock, while Bill flew there in a Cessna-310.

I then flew the 310 to El Paso with Bill, and he continued on to Maricopa alone.

The CAF flew the B-26. This picture was from 2013. They have done some work on the nose.

They renamed T-105 to “Lady Liberty”.

The CAF has now put on a gun nose and redesignated it as an A-26B.

Today's Youth

                                                          By Dan Wise 

September 14 2004

The aviation company I work for in Sudan, bought all their pilots that are working in Khartoum, a free dinner at a very fancy restaurant. It was my first hot meal in a week. At my table were 3 other pilots, the oldest was 22 years old. I was almost as old as all 3 of them put together.

We talked about flying and what they expected from life and aviation. Their enthusiasm, their view of the world and of their future was very enlightening. Near the end of the evening I thought about how many times I have read how old people are jealous and envious of youth. In a very special moment, I realized: I don't want their future.

They may do some things I have done. They may get their hearts broken, and they may go to war.

They may watch economies crash, and they may regret lost loves.

They may watch friends die, and they may grow old alone.

But......They will probably not do some things I have done.

They will not experience Alaska in the winter time, or operating a Nuclear Reactor.

They will not sail 6 of the 7 seas, or have parachutes that malfunction.

They will not be attacked by a buffalo, or visit 48 countries.

They will not learn to navigate using the stars, or fight forest fires.

They will not see the birth of the computer, or fly the African Continent without satellites.

They will not watch black and white TV, or cry when their President gets shot.

They will not experience the thrill of the first moon landing, or live through the shock of Vietnam.

I can close my eyes and re-live the past.

Before they can re-live the good things of life, they must first live through the bad things of life.

Before they can re-live their dreams, they must first live some nightmares.

Before they can re-live the excitement of flying a damaged aircraft, they must first live through the terror of flying a damaged aircraft.

Before they can re-live the thrill of war, they must first know the horror of war.

I am not envious of them at all. I would not trade my experience for their youth. I would not trade my past, for their future.

(But I would gladly trade my old knees for their young knees.)

LumLum

                                                                                                By Dan Wise

September 10 2005

As told to me by LumLum's son. He was talking about the years he spent growing up in Eritrea and Sudan, as he remembers them.

(When I was 6 years old)
My mother was called LumLum by my father because her skin was lighter than most peoples.. LumLum is our local language for “brown brown”,  My father was a car repairman. He worked in a garage out side of our village that was about 60 kilometers south of Asmara. You probably don’t know where that is, and think I live in a weird place, and speak a weird language, just because you don’t know where Asmara is, or how to speak Amharic.

 My older sister was 7 and my baby sister was only 6 weeks old. My fathers dream was to put together some broken cars, and make a good one for us to drive around in. My mother said her dream was of us kids growing up healthy.

 My mother taught us to hide in secret spots when ever we saw men with guns. It was very hard to tell Ethiopian raiders, from Eritrean rebels, from the Police. All of them carried gun, and hate people like us, because they can never tell which side we supported. My parents didn’t support any side. They had their own dreams.

One morning my sister gave the soldier warning, and I hide under where the chickens sleep. I could hear my father talking to the soldiers. Then I heard my father grunting loud, and my mother scream, and start making pig sounds. I didn’t move, because we had played a game like this before. My sisters and I would hide, and my parents would make all sorts of noises and tell us to come out. But we had to stay still till they actually pulled us out of our hiding places. I fell asleep, and when I woke up it was very hot. I was thirsty and wanted to get up. It was very quiet.

  Then I heard my big sister crying. We were supposed to be quiet. She never did what she was told. Her hiding place was in a special sack in the garbage pit. I now heard soldiers talking and going through the garbage. My sister screamed, and the soldiers laughed. My mother made the same sound she makes at funerals. Then the soldier truck started up and they drove off.

Soon my mother came and dragged me out of the chicken house. Her clothes were all torn, and she was covered in blood, like she had just killed a goat. She stank, and hugged me so tight I couldn’t breath. She picked me up and ran to the toilet by the back fence. I saw our two goats were tied up by the gate. She put me down, and went into the toilet and started pulling a rope. My baby sister was tied to the rope. Mother had hid her inside the toilet, under the place where you sit.

My mother carried us both to the well where she washed us off, then took a big piece of wood from our roof, and slowly walked to the goats. One goat broke his rope and ran. She swung the stick and broke the other goats legs, she kept hitting it. Then she went and got the knife from the kitchen and started cutting the goat. She took meat off the legs.  I could hear the soldiers shooting their guns at our neighbors house. Mother said the soldiers would come back to our house for the chickens and goats.

 She then took the mosquito net off our bed, and wrapped the meat in it. She wrapped some clothes, and food in a blanket that she put over her shoulders. She picked us both up, and started walking.

My mother was walking fast for many hours, it was now almost dark. We hid in some bushes near a big tree. I didn’t want to hide because I wanted my father to find us. My mother said to be very quiet and try to sleep. Later in the dark, I heard soldiers talking and walking close to us. If they can find us then maybe so can my father. My mother told me to be very quiet. My baby sister started to cry. My mother put her hand hard on my sister’s mouth so she couldn’t cry. I was very quiet while the soldiers talked standing close to the bush. I thought it was raining because there was water dripping on me, but it was mothers tears as she cried softly. Soon the soldiers walked away. We didn’t move for a long time then my mother quickly got up and started kissing and blowing into my sisters mouth. She said my sister had stopped breathing. Soon my baby sister cried, and so did my mother. Mother later told me that if my sister had made a noise, all three of us would be dead. It was better for only one to die.

We walked at night, and during the day we would try to sleep in pipes under the road. My mother was afraid to talk or be seen by any other people. She said they may call the soldiers. We ate all the goat meat that Mother had dried out inside the mosquito net. We had a big Coke bottle to keep water in. Once a large swarm of locusts landed near us. We ate locusts till we were full. Some times mother would borrow a chicken from a house we went past, and once a woman came near us with a basket. The woman was talking out loud to herself about where the soldiers were. She left the basket when she walked away. It was full of bread and some cheese.

We arrived at a big place with a big mountain all by itself. It was named Kasala. There were so many people living in tents there. Most were speaking Ahmaric, but many spoke Arabic. Mother told a man in charge of the camp that we had been walking and hiding for 2 months, and that my father and big sister were dead. My mother was happy when we got “Official Refugee Status”.

There was a lot of food to eat, but it wasn’t very good, and was different from what mother used to make. Some of the people feeding us and giving medicine were French speaking, and some wore light blue hats, and some wore a big Red Cross.

(At 9 years old)
For a few years we stayed there in Kasala. Sister learned to walk and talk, and I had been going to school. I learned some math and different languages, and also lots about how to stay healthy.

Mother decided we should leave the camp, and so did some other mothers. A group of us left the camp in a big truck. We went to Khartoum. There were more cars there than I had ever seen. There were shops with more food than I could eat in a life time. Mother kept saying she needed a job. She said you don’t grow food here, you buy it with money. A job gives you money to trade for food.

Most of the houses had the toilet inside the house. That seems very bad to me. Our toilets were always far from the house. Not in the middle of it.

Mother had many jobs, but being an illegal immigrant and not Muslim made it hard. A few years later, she got a job working for some airplane pilots that came from South Africa. They flew airplanes for the UN and the Red Cross. Her job was to clean the big house and do the laundry, and sometimes to cook. We had to learn to speak English in the house, and Arabic outside the house.

(At 14 years old)
Mother raised us well. The money from the pilots was more than most people earned, and the pilots  didn’t care that we were Orthodox Christians instead of Muslim. The Pilots paid Mother in US Dollars which was a wonderful thing. Also many of the pilots when they finished their contracts would just leave all their Sudanese money behind for us.

 Mother was able to send us to good schools. I had American and Canadian kids in school with me.
I thought the American kids were rude until I got to know them. If you walk up to an American, he will grab your hand and tell you who he is, like it is the most important thing in the world. They do the same when they answer a telephone. The quickly tell you who they are. We were taught that the most important person of the two does the first introduction. Americans assume they are the most important. I gradually learned to like the Americans, but one thing I don’t like is their arrogance about English. A typical American insult is “Don’t you even understand English?” I am learning English, and can speak Ahmaric, Swahili, and Arabic, but that means nothing to an American.

The Sudanese men on the street some times spoke bad things about us as we walked by. They think we are taking jobs from the Sudanese people. My mother never did get a work permit, or a passport.

(At 27 years old)
I barely managed to finish Medical school at the University of Khartoum. Mother saved for years, and sent me to America for my Internship. I now live there, and will soon make Mother a Grandmother. I am saving to bring her and my sister here to see America and meet my wife. My sister is in the University of Khartoum studying to be a translator. She wants to work for the UN.

Yesterday I saw a child at the Mall. He was crying because his mothers wouldn’t buy him the latest version of some video game. There are children in Darfur and Kasala that will experience more misery and pain in a morning than most Americans will in their entire life. Most Americans have never been hungry. I once yearned for the grasshoppers I had eaten the day before. When Americans see the refugee camps on TV they say “There but for the grace of God, go I”.  I believe this is not the grace of God, but the Will of God. There is none of God’s grace in a starving child.

When Americans think about someone that is tough. Really tough. They think about Rambo, John Wayne, or the Marines. I think of a small Brown Brown Eritrean Mother.

Buying a New Scooter in Sudan

                                                                                                 By Dan Wise

March 12 2005

 My work has me living in Khartoum (in The Sudan) about 10 months of the year. I have walked all over Khartoum, Bahri, and Omdurman. It was now time for me to go farther than walking distance, but that required transport. Motorcycles are one of my passions, so I decided to buy a motorbike.

 The "BIG" bikes in Sudan are 250cc Suzuki's . But they cost about 6000USD. That is a bit too much for a Khartoum toy. Cheaper are the Suzuki 125cc. They cost about 3100USD. Still a bit much. I finally decided on a Bajaj Scooter. I had never heard of Bajaj, but they sell 1.3 million scooters a year. It looks just like a Vespa. It is only 1000USD. Cool, I could afford that. Since used bikes are very expensive and rare, selling it should be no problem if my Khartoum contract ends. But first I better ask around , and seek council of others.

 Everybody  said "Are you mad?","You'll be dead in a week!", "Being inside an SUV isn't even safe in Khartoum. Your crazy!!", "These are the worst drivers in the world, you'll be lucky to live.",etc... So that sealed it. Now I HAD to have a scooter.

 About 80% of the scooters and small motorbikes don't have license plates, and aren't registered. Cool! I can do the anarchy bit and be a bit of a rebel. There was a scooter shop nearby with lots of new Bajajes. (Or is that Bajai?) When I asked the shop owner  "How much?" the answer was "24". Now the Sudanese have a funny habit of putting little importance on trailing zeros. Their money devalued about 8 years ago and one zero was dropped. Then new money printed. This is a time honored African way of controlling inflation. Prices written on goods for sale still have an extra zero...sometimes. I asked him how much does registration and licensing cost. He said "7". At work the next day I ask one of our drivers how much a Scooter should cost. He said "2.4". I asked him cost of registration, and he said "70". So the prices seemed fairly constant. (Except for that silly zero thing.)

 The next day sees me at the Bajaj dealer buying a light green scooter. My friends told me to buy a red one so the blood won’t show. Other "friends" said I should buy a black one as it will be taking me to my grave. The dealer speaks no English and my Arabic is "shweshwe". I reconfirm the price at “24”. He hand languages the motions for "Give me the bucks." I hand over 240 Dinars. His hand twitches, so I give him 2400. Another twitch. 24000. Twitch. 240000. Big twitch. and finally 2,400,000 Dinars. He smiles and spends 20 minutes filling out papers. I'm looking through the Maintenance & Service logbook. He takes it from me, and rips out the last 10 pages. So much for the guarantee, warranty or service record.

It has zero fuel in it, and the oil is a preservative type, so I can't even ride it away.  But luckily, there was a “freelance maintenance professional” standing nearby with his small herd of goats, and he, for a not so small fee changed the oil, and filled the tank from a leaky milk carton.

The "freelance maintenance professional" and the shop owner both say that a seat cover is needed as the Khartoum sun on the black vinyl seat is bad news. So a seat cover is installed by the "freelance maintenance professional". I opted for a dull gray instead of the offered Leopard skin or Zebra stripes.
Now for a helmet. All the helmets in the store were the same size. (Huge) It turns out that all helmets in Khartoum are the same size. (Huge) Most people in Khartoum on scooters don't use helmets, but the ones that do have to wear a balaclava underneath. The high temperature today was 41 Degrees Celsius (104 F), and many scooterists were wearing balaclavas. So I bought the very best helmet he had. 25USD. He had a medium priced helmet for 15USD and a cheapie for 10USD. My BMW motorcycle helmet in South Africa cost me 500USD.

 So with my new seat cover installed, and with my head safely (??) in a dull gray helmet (that keeps slipping over my eyes) it comes time to figure out how this thing works. It has no battery. So it must be kick started. And only a magneto, so the engine must be running to use the lights. I kick, and kick, and kick till I sweat, and sweat, and sweat, and am gasping and panting, THEN the "freelance maintenance professional" turns on the fuel, and my Bajaj comes to life. It has a funny gear sifter. The whole left handle bar twists to shift gears, and the clutch is on the left handle bar, so the clutch lever twists from up in first to almost straight down in forth. Real neutral is very evasive, but a false neutral exists between the other gears that is very, very, easy to find. So I drive off in a style the "freelance maintenance professional", and the goats, must have seen before. Kick..Rev..Grind..Lurch..Stop. Kick..Rev..Grind..Lurch..Stop....repeating this till I'm finally home. I have the gardener wash my new toy.

 I come from a culture of Big Bad Boys on Big Bad Bikes in the Big Bad City. After riding around Khartoum for a few hours, in some of the worst traffic in the world, I came to the conclusion that I needed an attitude adjustment. My aggressively cutting people off and passing on both sides, and braking late just wasn't polite. The Sudanese were always very polite drivers, as they accidentally pushed others off the road. They are extremely poor drivers, but not mean drivers. My aggressive Big Bike attitude from the city, was not applicable here. However, there are lots of UN, Red Cross and oil company ex-pats in Khartoum. A white face driving an SUV strikes terror into me. Ex-pats here have a driving chip on their shoulder. I prefer the local drivers to the foreigners.

 I kept getting stopped at road blocks for having a unregistered, and unlicensed vehicle. My "stupid white man" act (I hope it was only an act.) was necessary to keep me from paying a fine. After a few weeks, I decided it was now time to brave the immense Sudanese bureaucratic machine and register my scooter. About 10 Kilometers from my home is the "Jebra Vehicle Testing Grounds". It is hidden away, like they are ashamed of it. I couldn't find it, and finally had to ask a traffic cop. His name was Mohamed. He hopped on the back, and rode with me to the testing station. The inspectors said it would cost 700 ( ?? ) to register the scooter.

 I park in line with some very trashed looking taxis and buses. Me and my new unmangled scooter waiting our turn to get it inspected and registered. Time allowed me to sneak off and buy insurance. There were two types of vehicle insurance in Sudan. "Rakhis" and "Galee". I decide that Rakhis must mean "third party" and Galee must mean "fully comprehensive".  My choice is "third party" for 6000 Dinar. Only later did I learn that "rakhis" is Arabic for cheap, and "galee" is Arabic for expensive.

 Finally they test the lights, brakes, horn (called a hooter), and its time to pay the money, only to find out the guy wants 70,000 Dinars to register the scooter. That's almost 400USD. The whole scooter only cost 1000USD. So I say something rude and head for home. The nice traffic cop (Mohamed) stops me and motions for me to come look at something. He shows me a bunch of scooters that are parked nearby. He shows that all the old beat up ones have license plates, but none of the new ones do. Sudan has recently raised the cost of registering new vehicles. He also explained that a used bike with registration costs much more that a new one with out. We drank some cokes, then I went home to think.

 Two weeks later my decision was that resale of the scooter would be lots easier if it was legal. With tons of money in hand I go back to Jebra. The registration process was going well until the guy checking the serial numbers noticed that the scooter had been imported by a company in Omdurman, not Jebra. So he tells me "This is the wrong place, go to 'Omdurman Vehicle Testing Grounds'".

 It was a week later before my schedule allowed me to go to Omdurman. I took the scenic route, and rode along the canals that Pasha Gordon built to hold back the Mahdi's Dervishes in 1885. Then past the last remaining river gunboat that tried to relieve the Khartoum siege, then across the old bridge over the White Nile into Omdurman. Next stop was for a few pictures of the bunkers where the Mahdi's cannons were protected while shelling Khartoum. The bunkers are made of a dried clay that is almost like ceramics. Still there after 125 years. Then through the main gate into the walled city of Omdurman. Very little of the old wall still exists, only about 30 meters.

 After way to much time hunting for the vehicle testing grounds (They must be ashamed of it) I resorted to the "stop a cop" routine that works so well. A friendly cop (also named Mohamed) hopped on back and showed me the way to the "Omdurman Vehicle Testing Grounds". There he got to chat to all his mates about this weird ferenghi. (Arabic for foreigner) He introduced me to a guy named John. John is a Christian living in a Muslim world. John spoke passable English and soon had me on the right track. The scooter passed all the light, hooter, and brake tests, and the serial numbers matched, BUT all the initial registration papers were from Jebra, so I wasn't "inside" the Omdurman computer. Also my insurance was from Khartoum not Omdurman. So John and I sit and drink tea with all the other guys and talk about nothing important for about 6 hours while they try to sort things out.

While we were waiting with some of the vehicle inspectors and policemen for my license plates to be issued, a bus drives up towing a car. The car was coming for its road worthy inspection. The Chief Inspector (also named Mohamed) jokes, "Its flunked the test, and its not even inside the gate yet." John laughs as he translates the humor. There are two very bucolic Islamic guys in the bus and car. One inspector jokes that the guys should be at the camel market down the street, not here. As the bus tows the car through the gate, the tow chain snaps. Now the stopped car is blocking the gate. The inspectors yell at the guys to move the car. The bucolic guys look all around for something to fix the chain with and finally find an old shoe lace. They start repairing the chain with the piece of string. The Chief Inspector goes over to the guys and asks them how they can possibly expect the string to hold when the steel chain wouldn't hold.
 They said "If Allah (Peace be upon him) wants the chain to break it will break. If Allah (Peace be upon him) wants the string to hold, it will hold."
The inspector replied "Allah (Peace be upon him) made this world so that if the Mass of the car times the Acceleration of the car is greater than the tensile strength of the string, then it will break. Now move that car!"
 I had never before considered a basic physics text book to be the work of God.

 After 6 hours they had "finished my problem", and I was now "inside" the computer. With my new license plates in my hand, John and I were walking to the scooter to put them on. Then we heard the Chief Policeman call us. He was yelling at all the inspectors and other cops. They were all laughing, and showing the universal sign language of handcuffs. They were all miming that I was going to jail in handcuffs. Soon John was laughing hard also. There was some humor passing me by. It turns out that one man's job is to check all vehicles that come into the testing grounds on the computer to see if there are any outstanding tickets, fines or arrests due. My new 5 minute old license plates had lots of outstanding fines against them, and the driver was to be apprehended on sight.  Everybody thought that was real funny except me. I had just waited 6 hours for those plates! Apparently someone had been using my unused plates illegally. After lots of laughter they said for me to go home, and come by next week to collect the plates. I  explained that driving around with out plates on my bike, might get me arrested. The Chief cop just laughed and said  "Within a few hours every policeman in Khartoum will know the story about you, so don't worry. If they stop you it will just be to chat." He gave me a letter just in case.

About a year later, after 600 kilometers on the scooter (without a scratch on it). I was leaving Khartoum and decided to advertise it for sale. My total cost was 1400USD and I was asking only 1000USD. A very good deal for a legal and registered scooter. Soon a guy shows up. I am standing there with the helmet, the cover for the scooter, and all the registration and insurance papers. He asks if that is the scooter for sale. I say “Yes”. He reaches in his pocket, and hands me 1000USD. The bills look good. Before I can even hand him the papers and helmet he starts it up and rides away. I thought he just went for a test ride or something. So like a fool I stand in the road for 10 minutes holding all the papers and helmet and cover, then slowly, I went inside. I never saw or heard from him again.

Does anybody want to buy a cheap, Huge helmet?           

Potholes and a Pig

                                                                                                By Dan Wise

April 20 1999

 I am a tour guide, on a motorcycle tour in Northern Zambia. My wife and I were herding 10 American and German clients, on eight BMW motorcycles through central Africa.  It was raining heavily, and getting dark. We were all tired, and hungry. Two bikes were laying on their sides in the mud. We were 350 miles from the hotel. I desperately needed to “Make a Plan”.

 This day from hell had started in Mbeya Tanzania. The hotel there had had no running water or electricity. Our clients were not happy people. Just to make things worse, about 6 miles out of Mbeya we came across an accident - a bus had hit an elephant. The bus and the elephant were both damaged severely. The driver had used an ax to kill the injured elephant. Now there was a traffic jam of stopped cars. They were butchering the elephant right there on the road and loading the meat into their cars. We rode slowly past broken glass, a bus grill, and huge piles of elephant parts.

 We were delayed at the border post out of Tanzania, and into Zambia by a Bucolic Bureaucrat who insisted that our import permit for the spare motorcycle parts we had brought with us into Tanzania, was only for import, and we could not take them back out of the country with out an export certificate. We were very behind schedule, and we still had almost 500 miles to go to the hotel in Lusaka Zambia.

  My wife was driving the back up truck towing a trailer with all the client's baggage, tools and spare parts. She said that it looked like rain ahead, and suggested that I should go now leading the clients. She would “Make a Plan” with the customs guys, and catch up to us.

 I set a fast pace for a few hours. Then we ran into a section of road that was very potholed. I was standing on the foot pegs “dancing” the bike between the potholes. Soon there were more potholes than road. I would drop down into a pothole, and swerve between the mountains of tar road. Some times the potholes were hundreds of yards long. Then it started raining. Soon the water filled the potholes making them invisible. This was getting real dangerous.

  We had passed Kasama, maybe an hour ago. Mpika was still a long way ahead. I fell twice into potholes I couldn't see. It was raining very hard now. Two of the clients went down in potholes. My wife had caught up to us. I was impressed remembering that she must have hit twice as many potholes with the truck as we did on the bikes. We put one of the damaged bikes on the trailer, and got the other one up and running. I was hungry, wet and tired.

 My wife said she had been on the HF radio for an hour trying to find a place to safely stop for the night before Lusaka, but she had no luck. We didn't know exactly where we were, but guessed were about 350 miles from the hotel in Lusaka. It was going to be dark soon. It was raining heavy. Everyone was very tired. We decided that we had to stop someplace. This was not safe. It was time to “Make a Plan”.

 About 10 miles later I saw a small, wooden, shop off the side of the road. There was a large water filled parking lot. The shop had a large veranda. I pulled into the parking lot. All the bikes parked next to me, and my wife pulled the truck and trailer right in front of all the bikes to protect them.
 We all got off and stood on the shop veranda. We were out of the rain for the first time in many hours. I was exhausted.

 My wife and I went inside the shop. There was an old Chinese man with his wife, and a 10 year old girl. We chatted for a bit, and learned that he had owned the store for many years. We looked at the merchandise he had for sale. It was pathetic. We asked him how much he would charge for us to spend the night in his store. He said this was not a hotel, and he had to stay open for his customers.
 We thought for a bit, and my wife said, “What if we bought everything you have for sale? Then you have no need to stay open for any customers.” The Chinese lady pulled her husband aside and they talked a bit. He then said “OK”.
 I asked him what everything was worth. He pulled out an abacus and went to work calculating while the girl and lady  started putting all the stock in a one big box. Everything for sale in the store was worth 20 US$. I handed him a 20, and the lady started to cry. He says that this was more than they make in a two weeks.
 So we brought in all the baggage, and moved shelves around and made an ad hoc barracks. There was no electricity, only one outdoor long drop toilet and one water tap outside. We made a toilet schedule, and filled a bucket (that we had just bought) with water. We had also purchased a small box of candles. All melted together, but we “Made a Plan”, and soon had light. The tins of food were all swollen, or had no labels. Fortunately we always carry emergency food packets in the backup truck, so we all ate and then laid down on the floor exhausted, and slept. This was now two nights in a row with no running water or electricity.
 Next morning was a beautiful clear day. I was up early and repaired the one motorcycle, so it was roadworthy. The sunrise was a spectacular event as only Africa can provide. We quickly packed up everything. This day was supposed to be a short day of riding between Lusaka and Maszabuka Polo Club, where we would sleep for the night. But we were still a long way from Lusaka.
 We loaded up and as we were leaving, all the clients dug in their pockets and gave money to the Chinese couple. The lady was crying again, and the man had tears in his eyes. The clients gave him over 200US$ as a tip. He tried to give us all the stock from the store. We said he could keep all the stock, we didn't want it. So the lady started crying again.
 We all mounted up, and just as I was about to leave the young girl ran up to me carrying a pig. She said the pig had been for sale, so I had also bought it. She handed me the small pig. That brought a lot of laughter from the clients. They were busy taking pictures of me with a pig, sitting on a BMW. The clients said that by the way I hugged the pig, I looked all choked up with emotion. I was actually just concerned that the pigs feet would scratch my gas tank.
 I handed the pig back to the girl, and got off the bike. I explained to her that I couldn't carry the pig on the motorcycle. I asked if she would take care of my pig till I can come back and get it. I gave her 10 US$ to feed and take care of my pig, and that if I didn't come back in one year, she could keep the pig. She agreed.
 We all roared out of a place that had no name, but would have memories. I spent the next hour “dancing” between potholes that I could now see, and thinking about living in a world, where I could buy a family's whole livelihood.... with some pocket change.

Zanzibar Solutions

                                                                                                 By Dan Wise

August 12 1998

I was walking the streets of Stone Town in Zanzibar. I needed time to think.
I am a tour guide on a motorcycle tour. My wife and I were guiding a mixture of German, Americans, Australians and a Japanese. We were showing them the Africa we knew, as seen from the seat of a motorcycle.
 Two days earlier, we had arrived in Dar Es Salam, Tanzania. We left the 8 BMW Motorcycles at a Catholic Church, and caught an old Russian hydrofoil across to Zanzibar. We would spend 3 days and 2 nights here. Today my wife had taken the clients to the beach.

 One of the biggest challenges to running motorcycle tours in Africa was the bureaucracy of obtaining Visas for all the different countries we would visit. Add to that the fact that often the countries had different Visa requirements depending on what country the tourist was from. Tanzania was a particularly difficult country simply because it was so slow. It could take months to get a Tanzanian Visa. Many of our clients didn't book that far ahead of time, so we usually had problems. One of our German couples had been given a 3 day Visa. We would be in Tanzania for a total of 5 days. My task was to find a way to keep our clients, (and myself) from spending time in a Tanzanian jail.

 Yesterday we had gone to Prison Island. Sort of an African Alcatraz that was in use at the turn of the century. There we saw some really big tortoises, and what must be the most secure prison in the world. The prisoners were chained to a big iron ring set in the middle of the floor of their cell. They couldn't even touch the walls. The chains were welded on, and only came off when they died. Now that is a real deterrent to crime.

 As I strolled along I saw a house with a sign that said “Freddie Mercury lived here.”  I wandered down a windy, narrow street, and there was a small kiosk/shed. It was barely larger than a phone booth. In it was a husband and wife. Entrepreneurs, African style. She had two old telephones, and sold phone calls. I saw long pieces of household electric wires going up a telephone pole, and the wires were attached to the phone lines with alligator clips. She had a good, low overhead, business plan.
 Her husband made rubber stamps. I asked what stamps he makes, and he replied “Kitu chochote” (“Anything” in Swahili). I asked if he could do our company Logo, and showed him one of our business cards. He said to come back in an hour.
 I continued walking, and came across another house with a sign “Farouk Bulsara (Freddie Mercury) lived here.”  Further on I came across a “Slave House”. Zanzibar economy once thrived on Spices and Slaves. I wandered into a spice shop and the smell was so distinct and strong. Every spice I could think of competed with each other for my attention.

I went back to the rubber stamp guy and he had my stamp ready. It was made from a branch of a tree, and an old truck tire inner tube. He had  carved the Logo (backwards of course) into the inner tube with a razor blade. We tried it out. It was perfect. I was so impressed. He wanted one US$. I asked him what other stamps he can make. He replied “Kila Kitu” (“Everything” in Swahili). So I asked if he could do a Tanzanian Multiple Entry Visa stamp. He just smiled. I showed him one in my passport. He went to another Kiosk, started a generator, and made a copy of it. He told me to come back tomorrow.

The next morning my wife and I went to him and collected our stamp. The rubber was glued to the end of a tree branch that was about 3 inches across. We stamped it to test, and it was amazing. He wanted 5 US$. We paid him, and went back to the hotel.
On the way to the hotel, my wife told me how yesterday she took the clients to a house that said Freddie Mercury had lived there. I smiled.
At the Hotel my wife borrowed a stamp pad from reception, and we gave our German clients a Tanzanian Multiple Entry Visa that was valid for a week.
That stamp served us well for a couple of years until it wore out.
That is our way, of dealing with bureaucracy.

Yes Dear

                                                                                                By Dan Wise

June 22 1999

We spent the night in a hotel in Lilongwe, Malawi.
 My boss, my wife, and myself, were operating a motorcycle tour with clients consisting of rich Americans, and Germans. The 14 day tour had started in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. So far we had gone through Zimbabwe, Mozambique, and Malawi. Tomorrow the tour would continue on to Zambia, Victoria Falls, then back to Bulawayo. We owned 16 BMW motorcycles. This tour was one of many different motorcycle tours we did yearly throughout Africa.

My main job was as mechanic/tour guide, and I would usually ride the lead bike. My wife drove behind everyone in an SUV towing a trailer with all the baggage, spare parts, and a spare motorcycle. No client was allowed to pass the lead bike, and my wife never drove past any client. So they were theoretically always between the two of us. On this tour we had 14 clients. Normally one lead bike can handle about 10 clients, so for this tour my boss was also riding a motorcycle.

The day before us, was to be a long one. Almost 600 miles of riding, from Lilongwe, Malawi to Lusaka, Zambia on a very bad road. We had had problems before on previous tours with the border post that is located between Mchinji in Malawi and Chipata in Zambia. So we decided that I would leave the hotel very early in the morning with all the  motorcycle and car papers. I would try to be first in line at the border post and start the customs and immigration procedures. The tour would arrive at the border post much later, after a big, leisurely breakfast at the hotel. I should already have all the paperwork done by the time they arrive.

We spent lots of time trying to figure out how to break up this long riding day into to two shorter days. There is a run down “hotel” in a small town called Katchicola about halfway between Lusaka and Lilongwe. It rents rooms by the hour for truck drivers and must be one of the major spreaders of HIV/AIDs in Africa. We looked into buying the “hotel” and fixing it up with the main use being for our motorcycles tours to spend the night.
 It turned out we couldn't buy the hotel because it was supposed to become a Zambian National Monument or something like that. Apparently when Livingston was “discovering” Africa back in the 1860s, he had stayed at the Katchicola Hotel. The Portuguese had settled that area almost a hundred years before the English decided to discover it. This meant the number of people we would have to bribe to get this done would be much more than we had expected. I love Africa with it's bribery and corruption. If a man is dishonest or corrupt, I can always make a plan to get something done. The worst people to deal with are the honest, stupid ones.
So we ended up with a long day of riding, trying to get the tour to Lusaka before it got dark.

It was early morning, and still dark when I left the hotel, astride a BMW 1100GS headed for the border post. I arrived there just at day break, and was confronted with a long line of cars already waiting. I rode down the line of vehicles. Near the front was a cute lady sitting on the hood of her car.
 She said she had arrived yesterday morning, and had slept in her car.  The Malawian Immigration Officer would not clear anyone until they had cleared Customs, and the Customs guy had stamped their gate pass. But, there was no Malawian Customs Officer present. He had been missing for 2 days.

I went in to talk to the Immigration guy. He seemed to be enjoying the holiday with no people to check because of the lack of Customs Officer to stamp the gate passes. I asked him if there was any way I could make things happen quickly. He said “Yes. Find the Customs Officer”.

  When ever I have a problem in rural Africa, I look for a small child. They are often better educated, and speak English better than adults. The Immigration man’s 8 year old son was playing outside. I started talking to him and found out that he knew where the Customs guy lived. He started to explain it to me and I quickly got confused. I then asked the Immigration guy if I could borrow his son to show me where the Customs guy lived. The Immigration guy agreed.
 I put the kid on the BMW gas tank, and told him to direct me and hang on tight.

 We started off going down a small goat path toward some huts. I think we went that way just so he could show his friends he was on a motorcycle. Then we went down a steep hill and across a small river. Then up a hill, and through some gates. After about 5 kilometers of hills, rivers, and gates, I was totally lost. We eventually came to a small hut in the middle of nowhere, with a lady standing outside. This was the hut where the Customs Officer lived.
 The boy asked the lady where her husband was. She started yelling and ranting. The kid translated. The man hadn’t been home for 2 nights. She had no idea where he might be, but wanted to kill him, because he had been paid a few days earlier, and she had seen nothing of the money.
 Now I was out of ideas, but the kid smiled and pointed forward.

 We started off again, going through fields and streams, mostly following foot paths. I was thankful I was on an on/off road BMW. We cut through a herd of cows, and about 15 minutes later we stopped at a hut. Out comes a very old man. This man is the father of the Customs Officer. He talked to the kid for a bit. The kid says that the old man’s teenage daughter knows where the Customs Officer is right now. So the kid gets off the bike, and the girl gets on. She is to big to fit on the gas tank, so she sits behind me, and hangs on tight.

 We power through a rough corn field and then go bouncing along a foot path for about 10 minutes, then onto a goat path that by now felt like a freeway. Finally we come to a small hut with half a roof. She goes inside, and comes back out with a naked guy, and two partly dressed women. She says that this man is her brother, the Customs Officer.
The girl explains that I am trying to clear Customs so I can continue my journey. In English, he says “Hand me your gate pass, and I will sign it right here”. I told him there were many people waiting at the border post. He grumbled and tells me to tell them, that he will be there as soon as he can.
 I suggested that he ride with me as it will be faster. He says he was not wanting to leave the women, and not happy to ride on a motorcycle. He seemed nervous, and I felt he was making excuses. After much discussion, it turns out that his Official Customs rubber stamp and his Uniform are at his house with his wife, and he did not want to go there. He still had some money left over from his pay. We now had to figure out a way to get him and his rubber stamp to the Border post, to start clearing all those people.

We came up with a plan.
 He would give some money to his Sister. I would then drop her off at her Father's place, and pick up the kid. Then the kid and I would go to the Custom guy's wife and tell her that the money was at her Father in Law's house. While she was walking to her Father in Law's house to get the money, the kid and I would go back to the half roofless shack, and get the Customs guy. We would altogether ride back to his house, get his Official Rubber Stamp and his uniform. We would then go to the border post.
 That plan was a good one, and about an hour later I arrived at the border post with the kid on the gas tank and the Customs guy in his uniform behind me clutching his rubber stamp. Both were hanging on very tight.

The cute lady was there and suggested that since she and I were used to the Customs and Immigration forms, we should start doing them for all the people that had been waiting for so long.
We set up an assembly line, and as people came through the door, they would give me their Customs papers, and I would fill them out, and get the Customs guy to stamp them. They would them go to the cute lady and she would fill out the Immigration forms, and get them stamped by the Immigration Officer.  Then they would drive away across the border to do Zambian Custom and Immigration.
With writers cramp in my hand, we finally did the last person in the line, and the only car left was the cute lady’s. We did her papers, and as we started doing all of my motorcycle papers, the kid brought us some coffee. We walked outside and I started to sip my coffee.
  Then along came my boss and all the tour bikes, followed by my wife. They all park and my boss and my wife walk up to me. My wife asks if I am all done with the motorcycle papers. I tell her I haven’t started yet.
 They tell me how useless I am and how they have been busy with clients all morning, and here I sit drinking coffee with a cute lady, and haven’t even started the forms. The cute lady smiles, and walks away. My wife then picks up all the papers saying she will have to do everything herself because I can’t do anything right.
 I sigh, and like a good husband say “Yes Dear”.