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Bob Griffin |
When the rickety bus screeched to a stop behind the
hangar, I didn't even look up. My early morning attention was totally caught up
in a careful preflight inspection of the Helio Courier before starting the day's
flying. It promised to be a busy day.
The crunch of shoes on gravel and a cheery greeting broke my concentration.
"Hola, don Roberto, would it be possible for you to carry us to Arapicos?"
I glanced up, irritated with the interruption, them smiled a welcome. Miguel was
a friend I had flown before. "So you want a ride to Arapicos?" I
responded.
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Illustration by Dempster Evans
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I needn't have asked. Arapicos was only 12 minutes away, and I'd been there
so many times I'd almost worn a groove in the sky.
Two years earlier Miguel and his friends, along with their families, had
moved across the Andes to carve farms from the isolation of eastern Ecuador's
jungle. Several months earlier they had come to me begging for help. The knew my
missionary plane could whisk them in minutes over a mucky, muddy trail that on
foot that would normally cost them three days of agonizing slogging.
I was glad to help. That's why I was in Ecuador. I wanted to be a servant to
any and all in every way I could. But I never could have guessed what this
morning's offer to help would lead to. "We'll have to hurry," I urged.
Short minutes later, after a hasty weighing and loading up, we were off, and
soon bouncing down at Arapicos. Again I urged Miguel to hurry as we dragged
cargo to the side, out of the way. I couldn't afford to waste time on the
ground. Back in the cockpit, I jammed my seatbelt home and was just settling the
earphones on my head when I heard a shout. A boy had burst from the jungle at
the far end of the strip. Seeing me already in the cockpit, he started running
and shouting "Espere, espere, wait, wait!"
What was this all about? I waited while he sprinted the couple hundred yards
to the plane. "Can you carry out a load of meat?" he gasped.
"They're bringing it already."
That was a normal request, and no surprise. I had flown many loads of fresh
meat from Arapicos, but I did wonder how they had butchered it so quickly. I
didn't have long to wonder. They hadn't bothered. This meat was still on the
hoof. Waddling slowly my way was a big sow -- and I mean a big one --
about to become a passenger in my airplane. Why not, they reasoned. Live people
ride in the airplane, so why not a live pig?
Jumping down from the cockpit, I waggled my finger from side to side -- Latin
America's universal sign for no, absolutely, positively no. I was prepared to be
a servant, even a happy servant, but only up to a point. " I can't carry a
live pig," I explained. "Especially one that big." And she was
big. My farm-boy eye said this old sow weighed 300 pounds if she weighed an
ounce. "Then we'll kill it," they offered in chorus. Nope, no way. I
wasn't about to spend an hour pulling the floorboards and cleaning blood from
the belly of my bird.
Faces fell. What to do now? They couldn't carry the meat out; it would spoil.
Nor could that portly pig endure the rigors of the trail's knee-deep mud. Nope,
I knew if this pig was going to market, she had to fly. And guess who was going
to be the pilot on this adventure?
"OK," I agreed. "Get some vine from the jungle. Hurry, let's
tie her up tight and I'll fly her out alive." But that sow had a thing
about flying. Right up front, she let everyone know she didn't want to be a part
of such foolishness. Furthermore, she didn't want her legs tied and she told the
whole world about it.
But who cares what pigs do or don't like? The fellows bound her legs like
Houdini, grabbed all the handles available, ears, tail and legs, and
unceremoniously dumped her in where I tied her down as best I could. Then,
belted in again and earphones on, I could hardly hear the answer to my
"ready for takeoff" call. The whole airplane was reverberating with
that pig's squeals. Even the bellowing engine on takeoff couldn't drown her
protests.
But leveling off in cruise, I suddenly realized she must be overcome with the
joys of flight; no more squeals. Good, I thought. She's going to enjoy her first
and only airplane ride. Then, looking back to see how she was doing, I looked
her right in the eye. Feet loose and standing with legs splayed out for balance,
she was quietly oinking her contentment, the picture of a happy pig.
Lord, I breathed, don't let her try for the co-pilot's job. Just keep her
happy and quiet until I can get this airplane on the ground. He did. She did.
And I did. And, I'll tell you, this pilot was never happier to discharge a
passenger. It doesn't take much to make me a happy servant.
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