By Neville Cole

It was a very subdued crew who climbed aboard the “big fuckin’ Russian helicopter” that morning at the Oasis. We hadn’t heard from John, Jean or the girls in nearly three days and none of us was confident that they would meet us in Entebbe by 1pm as planned. I was especially concerned as John was my ride back to Nairobi.

Wolfgang came down to see us off. He was grinning like a demented hyena as if delighted to have an empty hotel again. After several weeks at near capacity he was probably looking forward to a much needed break and an opportunity for some serious drinking. Just as the engine exploded to life and the MI-8’s enormous rotor blade began to turn, the lean silhouette of Christo appeared on the horizon loping toward us. Michel saw him immediately and gestured to the pilot to wait. Justin jumped down to the tarmac and ran out greet him. I’ve got to hand it to the guy he knows how to make a dramatic entrance. Typical Christo performance. None of us had seen or heard from him since we returned from Koobi Fora; then, just as we are leaving he comes strolling back from beyond looking for a free ride. Still, as much as I didn’t want to like this guy I couldn’t help but admire him. He carried no bags and wore only a simple traditional Turkana wrap and an old pair of sandals. The only adornment I could see hung around his neck: a small gold medallion in the shape of a sun inlaid with various gemstones. For someone with an apparent Messiah complex he played the part very well. He climbed aboard the helicopter without a sideways glance and quietly took up the space against the wall next to Justin.

One note here for any of you considering a trip in an Mi-8 helicopter. They are loud buggers. Bloody loud. I do not suggest a trip of over 3 hours in one. Ever. The only advantage they have over small planes is they don’t make me want to puke up my last two meals.

Landing at Entebbe airport is a surreal experience on the best of days. Doing so in a helicopter designed for war by the old terminal building is even more eerie. We managed to get a bird’s eye view of the far end of the main runway on the way down. Yes, that same runway where, still rotting in the tropical heat, we could clearly see the hijacked Air France airliner, that once held 300 hostages until their rescue on July 4, 1976.

I also happened to notice that the closer we got to landing the more agitated Christo became. He actually appeared to be fidgeting. After touching down, we all stood to get off the plane. All of us but Christo and Justin, that is. They lingered at the back of the pack talking intently in anxious but hushed tones. The rest of us filed off the plane and were escorted by armed guards to the customs area for processing. I only had to glance around briefly to confirm that Christo was not part of the group.

“There is a message from Jean and John,” Justin said as the group gathered in the terminal a half and hour later. “They say they will all meet us at the Black Pearl in three days.”

“What?” Michel said with a jolt? “We are supposed to shoot at Lake Edward tomorrow. Jean knows this? What is going on?”

“You think maybe they are having too much fucking fun in the Seychelles for their own good?” I suggested, stating, as usual, the plainly obvious.

Our papers in order, we all marched back to the Mi-8. Several machine gun carrying soldiers were only now stepping back to the tarmac. They appeared to have made a thorough check of our cargo and equipment. Wherever Christo was hiding he apparently had not been discovered. I had to wonder if it was a simple lack of documentation that forced him to take this action or if something more sinister was going on. My curiosity was well and truly piqued; I needed to get to the bottom of this Christo conundrum once and for all.