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When Ex-pats quietly muse. Of tales, unspeakable.  (Part 3)

Job taken by African

I banked the helicopter gently onto final approach into Cabinda Airport, Angola.
Listening to the often-emotional African Air Traffic controller. Who never seemed very relaxed, and was often seemingly in a state of near-panic.  Somewhere behind me, I had no idea how far away, an ancient old Boeing 727, battered and streaked, was laboriously clattering & whining its tortuous way down from the troubled skies.  Since those (Angolan)  pilots insisted in communicating almost exclusively in their own native language, we ex-Pats had little clue as to what the hell was going on. They were ‘somewhere out there’, and all you could do was plan on getting out-of-their-way (in a greased hurry) if the need arose. The concept of ‘go-around’ seemed quite alien to them. They were coming in, regardless. Maybe (literally) screaming in fright, but they were ah-coming on in. (yes, another story)
I banked a little harder, and quite casually glanced down into the harbor below.
My eyes opened wide.
(“Oh!  Shhhhhhttttttt….”)
Not good.
Not good at all.

At night, our evening meals at the camp were social and cultural education sessions. Being a noisy, gregarious, get-on-your-nerves Irishman, I chatted with everybody who was willing, any race, culture, orientation, uniform or hairstyle. Bone-through-your-nose, if you’re friendly, I’ll chat with you. I want to hear YOUR story. If you’re a young lady, bare-breasted, walking down the street in Wewak, Papua New Guinea? Casually breast-feeding a small piglet (yes, seriously), much as I’d LIKE to know your story… I might… find it difficult.
(“Would you mind, um, putting the piglet down for a second, love?”)
On a regular basis, we’d have a farewell party. Ex-pats leaving for the last time, and not coming back. Services no longer required.

Reason?  Job taken by African.

That was a regular thing. No matter what occupation you were in, electrician, plumber, engineer, mechanic, cook or brain surgeon, you were assigned an African helper. Who helped you. While watching. How you did your job. I don’t mean that unkindly. Just a statement-of-fact.  Luckily, that was impossible in my (single-pilot) helicopter, so mine was one of the few professions were you did not have helper-sitting-beside-you. We had African chopper pilots, more all the time, but (for me) not on board. Not so the 2-crew choppers, like Bell 214, or the Bell 412, of course.
Well, sooner or later, as an ex-Pat, you knew there was the risk that your helper would go to his Angolan boss, and say the dreaded words:

“I can do that!”

If delighted Angolan boss agreed, it would get kicked up to the Angolan Ministry, and, likely enough, some desk-bound, faceless Angolan clerk would rubber stamp documents and approvals, and Bill and Stan from Po-dunk, Nevada, would get their “Thank you, goodbye” notices.
And Umbimba from the local village would get a huge promotion. (but still WAY cheaper than the White Devil)
Now he’d be an electrician, not an electrician’s mate. Or a tugboat captain, not the mate. A mobile crane operator, not the helper, etc.
Everybody happy in Angola. Bill and Stan unhappy in Po-dunk. Looking for a job.

Now at issue was whether or not Umbimba really knew what he was doing. He might think he knew. But did he? Again, I don’t mean that unkindly, just as a statement-of-fact. And here I tread, as I seem to often do, most unwisely, down a path, so famous for its snakes. Poisonous ones.
Where wise men don’t wander.
But then again, silence is easy. And cowardly.

I sigh. I get it. National Pride. Local labor is much cheaper anyway than those ex-pats.
You cannot (ever) escape the (massive) problem of in-group preference.
Every race and tribe and culture (not to mention football team supporters), I submit, has a preference FOR ITS OWN PEOPLE.
Except us White People.
(even the weird ones with a green-ish tinge)

We are not allowed. That’s….
(you know, the word)
(the WORD!)
(What…??) (are you DUMB?)
okay, then:
WAYCIST++++

Which brings me back to banking, on final approach into Cabinda Airport, and looking down.
(“Oh! Shhhhhhttttttt….”)
For there? Lying upside down? Crane jib in the water? Clear evidence of catastrophe?
It was (or had been) a beautiful, state-of-the-art, mobile crane. Big old thing. Expensive. Bells and whistles. Gleaming. Always driving about, all over the place, lifting stuff.
I got very friendly with the expats, who were very proud of their baby.

But then they got laid off.

A mere six weeks before. We had said our sad goodbyes, and one of them, big old fellow from Dallas, if I recall, very genial, had said, sadly:

“It won’t end well….”

And here I was… eyes wide, staring down at carnage. Boy, that sure didn’t last long. Chalk up another one. I mentally pictured other catastrophes of the past. The dead Angolan linesman, hanging from the high tension wires. Somebody told me there were no less than FIVE safety steps? That were ALL supposed to be activated? And if only ONE was activated, such a tragedy was impossible?
There were lots of such stories.
Score another one.

I landed, disembarked my passengers, shut down, and walked in for a coffee. Seeing the Airport Manager, a very affable Angolan, with whom I got along real well, I passed a remark about the state-of-the-art, high-tec mobile crane, taking a drink from the sea.
“Yes”, he said, sadly. “And that is not the worst part.”
“Oh?”
“The crane driver is still lying underneath. They are still trying to get him out.
No other mobile crane available. That was our only one.”
“OH!”
“Yes, he tried to jump out. He was my cousin.”

I sigh. The Moggy detractor will cite what I have written as proof of my way-cism.
The FBI has a file on me, I’m betting the ADL does too, and seeing as I’ve been quoted in Academia, in un-flattering tones, I’ll bet there’s more that keep a close tab.

I’m hoping the more thoughtful reader?

1)  … will see & maybe realize see that in-group preference is common, all over the world. Perfectly natural. Except it’s forbidden to us way-cist Whites.
(even the green-tinged lower species)
Is that really going to work?

2)  … will see & maybe realize that ‘all cultures being equal’ and ‘all people are equal’ and ‘the only differences is the color-of-your-skin’…
Meh. Nonsense. You have VAST differences in culture, outlook, DNA, life style…
Ability.

3)  … will,see & maybe realize that ‘Open Borders’ for all non-Whites into White countries, while CLOSED Borders (as quickly as humanly possible) for Whites into everybody else’s country…

Double standards.

Just proves (or at least supports) the argument that all this ‘Open Borders’ malarkey?

IS just code for “anti-White”.

They want you a disenfranchised, powerless, serf minority. Because in their opinion?

“I can do that!”

Better than you.

And the organizers of this? The great, rabid, terminally greedy collectors of colored sea-shells? (genus monetary) Financially rich, emotionally challenged, compassion-poor, and spiritually, well? Dead?

The cruel blind? The self-appointed ‘elite’? (Ha! ‘Elite’, my hairy…elbow)

Simply put?

They hate you, White Man.
They use you, Black Man, Brown Man. They hold you (and us) in secret contempt.
Often thinly veiled. Big smile, ‘welcome refugees’, or not.

Who do they like?  Worship?

C’mon, you know the answer. Only one tribe of folk.

Themselves…

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Last edited by Francis Meyrick on April 20, 2021, 9:24 am