Rosa Rio
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 4
The mess hall was already noisy and teeming when we pushed through the heavy double doors. The clatter of trays, the scrape of boots against concrete, the low roar of dozens of conversations all layered into a wall of sound. The air smelled of steam-table stew, overcooked vegetables, and sweat — an odd but strangely comforting mixture. It seemed like the whole compound had decided to eat at once.
The long rows of trestle tables were alive with uniforms of every cut and colour, a patchwork of nationalities and alliances. I caught sight of a group of Kenyans, their desert-tan fatigues unmistakable. I nudged Nisreen with my elbow and tilted my chin in their direction.
“So, you’re not the only one here on a special diet,” I teased, keeping my voice low. Most of the Kenyan contingent were Muslim, and I figured she’d pick up the hint.
Her eyes followed mine and softened with relief. “Well, that makes me feel better,” she said. “I thought the chef went out of his way to cater just for me.”
“Come on, let’s load up before there’s nothing left,” I suggested, steering her into the snaking queue that led to the food line.
The metal rails clinked under trays of hungry members. I grabbed a stack of compartmented stainless-steel trays, dented and dull from years of use, and passed one to her.
“Here, grab a varkpan,” I said without thinking.
Her brow furrowed, lips forming the alien syllable. “A ... what?”
“Varkpan,” I repeated, the guttural Afrikaans word rolling out before I could stop it. To me it was the only word — it had no neat English twin. It was the name I’d learned in the air force, also it was echoed in the SAPS mess halls, and once learned, it never left you.
She cocked her head, sceptical. “And that means...?”
I hesitated. “Ah, Nissie, you don’t want to know.”
“Yes, I do.” She insisted.
Her stare locked on me, expectant, the way she had when she smelled blood in a debate.
I sighed. “Direct translation? It means ... pig pan.” The words came out soft, guilty, and I found myself staring down at my boots like a schoolboy caught swearing in church.
Her reaction was priceless. A flicker of horror passed across her face, chased immediately by disgust, and then — finally — by a smile that broke against her will. Her dark eyes shone with that reluctant amusement.
And there it was: the collision of two worlds. Mine, where you ate out of something with a name like “pig pan” without ever thinking twice, and hers, where the mere mention clashed against deeply ingrained halaal principles.
“Sorry, Nissie,” I muttered. “That’s just the world I come from.”
“I suppose if I ask those SANDF guys,” she said, jerking her chin at a group of South Africans further down the line, “they’ll call it the same thing?”
“Yes. They would.”
“Pig pan.” She muttered and shook her head, lips twitching. “Let’s get food before I lose my appetite.”
I followed her down the line, still kicking myself. How could I hand her a tray and call it that? But when we finally found a six-seater table standing empty and sat down, she looked at her mess kit again and giggled.
“What now?” I asked.
“Pig pan, indeed,” she said, and this time her smile was wide, playful. Then, deliberately mangling the word, she added, “ffrraaake-pan sounds better.” Her accent twisted the Afrikaans until it was unrecognisable, and we both laughed.
“So, we’re good?” I asked, half-serious.
Instead of answering straight away, she reached across the table, her slim fingers settling over mine. The gesture caught me completely off guard.
“Yes, Dolf,” she said softly. “We are good.”
Before I could say more, Andy appeared, balancing his own overloaded varkpan. He plunked down across from us, giving me a quick once-over and then flicking a glance at Nisreen before settling his eyes back on me.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, already digging in. “But I need to run something past you two.”
Nisreen leaned back, letting her hand slip from mine. “No, you’re not interrupting. We were just ... saying grace for the food.”
Andy paused mid-bite, blinked, then shrugged. “Oh.” He shovelled in a forkful of stew.
“What’s up, Doc?” I asked, grinning.
Andy’s eyes narrowed. “Are you now thinking you’re Bugs Bunny?”
“Nope, just me.”
Nisreen giggled, nearly spraying her maize meal across the table. She knew Bugs Bunny too; apparently Looney Tunes had made it to Qatar, dubbed into Arabic of course.
Andy rolled his eyes. “Anyway. You two up for an adventure?”
I exchanged a glance with Nisreen. “What type of adventure?”
“There’s a consignment of medical equipment — blood packs, bandages, odds and ends — needs to go out to Walikale. Packed in those old ‘Mermite cans.’ Too heavy for the Porter. You’ll have to take the Schoolbus.” (The M1941 Mermite cans are insulated canisters with a rubber gasket at the top which contain 3 inserts with lids. They were used for storing and transporting food or blood.)
“The Twitter?” I asked, meaning the Twin Otter parked next to the Pilatus in the hangar.
“That’s the one. Both of you are certified on her, so it makes sense. Only problem is, Walikale doesn’t really have an airstrip. More like a dirt road running straight through the village. Closest you’ll get to the hospital, though.”
“When?” Nisreen asked, calm as ever.
“This afternoon. Flight’s about forty minutes. You can be back before sundown.”
I turned to her. “Nisreen?”
“You say we go, then we go,” she replied, already spooning stew into her mouth like the decision had been made long ago.
I nodded. “We’ll preflight after lunch.”
“Good.” Andy stabbed at his green beans. “Eat your vegetables. They’re good for you.”
“Yes, mother,” I shot back. Nisreen almost choked laughing.
Nisreen and I pre-flighted the Otter under the punishing mid-day sun. The white paint of her fuselage already shimmered with heat, the air above the apron dancing like a mirage.
Ricky had already pulled the Otter out with his battered old tractor, leaving her to bake in the midday sun. Inside, she would’ve been an oven, and I wasn’t about to sit sweating through the checks. I had the idea to hook up the ground power unit — a diesel cart with thick cables that plug straight into the Otter’s electrical port. Normally it’s there to give the turbines a boost at start, but you can also power up the systems and run the air-conditioning without starting the engines. Nisreen jumped on the task, and soon the clatter of the GPU’s engine coughed to life, rattling across the apron, sending a flock of sparrows fluttering out of the hangar rafters. A hum spread through the cockpit as the displays lit up, fans kicked on, and the air began to move. It wasn’t cold yet, but it was already better than roasting in silence.
The loading crew took care of the payload under the watchful eye of Nisreen and after they closed and locked the cargo door, Nisreen joined me in the cockpit, and we went through the ritual of checklists, switches, gauges, and knobs. By the time the props spooled and caught, the turboprops settled into their throaty roar like a pair of contented beasts.
At 13:23 exactly, the nose lifted and the world tilted. Walikale lay ahead — FZWK glowing faintly on the GPS screen like a destination in a video game.
The ridge ahead reared up dark and uncompromising, so I pointed her nose higher, coaxing the climb at 139 knots indicated. The VSI needle rose steadily as the altimeter unwound its way toward 12,800 feet.
“Thirty-four minutes ETE,” Nisreen’s voice cut crisply into my headset, calm and measured as always.
“It’ll soon be less,” I said, glancing at the gauges. “Once she hits twelve-five, we’ll level off and push her. She’ll give us 175 indicated. True airspeed will be about 218, and with the tailwind, ground speed’s already nudging 173.”
“Three twenty-four kilometres an hour,” Nisreen said, translating without missing a beat. “Or 201 miles per hour, for your imperial brain.”
“Still, a wee bit faster than Yeti,” I quipped, thinking of the lumbering STOL workhorses that always seemed to crawl across the sky.
Nisreen leaned back, eyes sweeping the avionics, the clean lines of glass screens glowing against the cockpit’s shadows. She let out a sigh that carried more fondness than weariness. “I just love this cockpit.”
“Because it’s a full glass suite?” I teased.
“Reminds me of the A350,” she said softly. “Feels like home.”
I smiled, though my eyes rested instinctively on the standby altimeter — the last of the old-school round steam dials tucked into the panel like a stubborn relic.
“Hmm. Maybe. But don’t write off the old steam gauges. They had soul. Not so accurate, sure, but solid. I read somewhere Airbus is now working on an A900 with only two buttons in the cockpit. One marked ‘UP’ and one marked ‘DOWN’...”
Nisreen turned her head sharply, her dark eyes narrowing into mock suspicion.
“Yeah, yeah,” she shot back dryly. “And the wings will flap as well.”
I chuckled into my mic, the sound mixing with the steady growl of the engines and the whisper of air over the fuselage. Ahead, the ridge loomed closer, the sky beyond opening into a pale horizon that promised turbulence and adventure in equal measure.
About halfway to Walikale, a glint of metal caught my eye against the dull brown of a dirt track that cut through the green jungle like a scar. I eased the yoke slightly, craning my neck to get a better look. Five vehicles, strung out in a loose column about a kilometre south of us. Not ordinary trucks — technicals. My gut tightened instantly.
For those who’ve never had the misfortune, a technical is nothing more than a civilian pick-up with delusions of grandeur — or terror, depending which side of the barrel you’re on. Open-backed, usually a battered Toyota Hilux or Land Cruiser, with some heavy piece of hardware welded or lashed to the bed. Machine guns. Grenade launchers. Sometimes even an anti-aircraft cannon, if they can get their hands on one. A farm truck turned into a poor man’s tank. And in the Congo, they’re as common as potholes.
I recognised the ragtag convoy right away. The weapons stuck out like broken bones. The way the men rode, standing upright in the beds, rifles slung carelessly, told me the rest.
“Maï-Maï to the south,” I said, my voice steady but clipped as it went into Nisreen’s headset. “Heading straight toward Walikale. This could spell trouble.”
“Who are they?” she asked, frowning as she leaned over her shoulder to catch a glimpse.
“The Maï-Maï,” I explained, keeping half an eye on the GPS. “Community militias, in theory. In practice? Warlords, tribal elders, village heads, or just anyone with a grudge and enough firepower to call themselves an army. They were born resisting the Rwandan invasions, but over time the name just became a banner for whoever wanted to fight. Bandits, revolutionaries — take your pick.”
She looked at me, brow furrowed. “And how do they present a problem to us?”
“They’re heading toward Walikale. That’s M23 territory. If the two meet —” I broke off, shaking my head. “If there’s a clash, the village we’re flying to could be erased in the crossfire. Men like that don’t think twice about civilians.”
Nisreen’s lips pressed into a tight line. “So what do we do? Report it?”
“To who?” I shot her a quick glance. “The Congolese army? They’ll shrug. The UN? They’ll have peacekeepers here in three days, maybe. By then, Walikale might just be ash and blood.”
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “So you’ve got another plan.”
“I do.”
“What? What are you going to do?”
“Watch.”
I rolled the Otter into a slow, deliberate bank, pointing the nose south toward the dirt road.
“We can’t shoot at them!” she hissed. “We’re not armed!”
“No. But we can show them that they’ve been seen.”
The line of vehicles grew in the windscreen, larger and sharper as I pushed the nose down. I felt the Otter surge eagerly as I shoved the throttles forward to the stops, engines roaring. The ground rushed up — trees, dirt, the pale ribbon of the road.
At the very last moment, the half-asleep lookouts noticed us. I could see their heads snap up, one man fumbling for his weapon. Too late.
We screamed over them at one hundred feet, the slipstream tearing the air into a fury. Dust and grit blasted upward in a cloud, whipping their clothes and faces, coating everything in a fine brown powder. I saw one man dive flat into the ditch, another stagger back from his mounted gun, coughing in the haze.
I pulled hard into a climbing bank, rolled east, then swooped back in a wide arc to come at them from behind. Again, I dropped the nose, racing in at tree-top height until the jungle canopy blurred beneath us. Another pass, this time from their flank. The Otter roared over the convoy like an avenging hawk, the twin props howling, the fuselage throwing down a hurricane.
Twice more I came at them from different directions, fast and low, using the jungle as cover. Confusion was the point. Let them think we were armed. Let them wonder who was watching from the skies.
Finally, I pulled up and away, throttling back as we climbed, circling wide at a safe distance — just outside the reach of their heavy machine guns. I could see the convoy below, stopped dead. Men milled about, gesturing frantically, trying to make sense of what had just hit them. Then the line began to shift, turning slowly, angling away from Walikale.
“They’re pulling back,” Nisreen said, relief softening her voice.
I nodded, still watching the dust trails below. “They know they were spotted. They’ll assume we’ve reported their position. The ruse worked.”
But even as I said it, I knew it was only a reprieve. Out here, one small victory just meant you lived to worry about the next fight.
Forty-four minutes after leaving Goma, the altimeter was unwinding, and we were already descending through 5,000 feet MSL to what felt like tree-top height. The Otter was heavy with cargo but obedient, riding the humid air at just 40% power, and the airspeed needle steady at 65 knots indicated — just a whisker above her no-flap stall speed. She was in that fragile state between flight and falling, and I could feel every tremor of the jungle thermals through the stick.
Beside me, Nisreen was leaning forward, forehead almost to the windscreen, eyes sweeping the endless green canopy that spread below us like an ocean with no horizon. Walikale was out there somewhere — our GPS said so, quietly pulsing its guidance on the little display — but the jungle wasn’t about to give up her secrets easily.
The runway wouldn’t appear as a neat line of concrete or asphalt; here it was a trick of sight, a scar in the foliage, a smudge of civilisation camouflaged by the trees. We had to see it before we could commit.
Now and then, the foliage parted just enough to reveal the snaking brown ribbon of a road, winding through the wilderness like a restless snake. But a road wasn’t a runway. Not yet.
“There!” Nisreen’s voice cut through the drone of the Pratt & Whitney turboprops. Her hand shot out to the right. “Smoke — two o’clock. Cooking fires.”
I squinted, and sure enough, the faintest curl of blue-grey smoke drifted lazily skyward, fragile against the dark green backdrop. Her eyes were sharper than mine.
“Got it,” I said, easing the yoke over. “Let’s announce ourselves.”
I banked the Otter, the wings creaking in the turn, and we rolled toward the smoke. A few minutes later, the village slid beneath us — clusters of huts, scattering goats, and wide-eyed children running as our shadow swept across them. Faces tilted skyward, arms lifting. A few hands waved. They knew what we carried. To them, this big noisy bird was more than an airplane — it was the “Supermarket Food Trolley,” arriving with precious supplies.
I smiled to myself and thought: “Yeah, old people, women and children and goats. Isolated in the jungle.”
Circling back, I picked up the dirt strip. It was nothing more than a widened section of gravel road carved between the jungle trees, but to me it was a lifeline. The approach would be tight — very tight — but I’d seen worse.
“Turning in,” I said, guiding the nose around until the road lay square in the windscreen. I trimmed back for nose-up, the engines muttering at 25% power.
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