Chapter 1. Christchurch to Benghazi
Never have I been so glad to hear our names called out!!!
It was the Airport Manager and Terminal Supervisor,
(From Jan’s letter home July 76).
I was lying on my back late at night, the desert sand cool to the touch looking up at a foreign sky. It was totally dark and totally silent, the air crystal clear, the sky brilliant. There were more stars than you could possibly imagine, the constellations unfamiliar. I could see hundreds of meteorites, too dim to see normally but tonight with night vision fully active, they were just visible.
A few kilometers away was Kufra oasis, a few hundred meters away was a VOR station. So, what was I a New Zealander doing here in the middle of a North African desert? That VOR station was the reason. I was here to make it work.
CHRISTCHURCH February 1956.
“I’m thinking of working for the W. T. U.” Pete said.
“ What do you mean ”?
“ I mean I think a job with them could be really interesting.”
“ Yeah you might be right.” I wondered what he was talking about.
This conversation took place after Pete and I had finished over exerting ourselves on the Burnside rugby club’s squash court and were now in the sports bar of the Russley pub. It was a Friday afternoon.
The Russley was the regular drinking spot for the technicians and some of the other Christchurch International Airport workers. Every Friday afternoon communications operators, air traffic controllers, met observers - in fact any airport worker - gathered to set the world to rights. The place began to fill up and the talk became more general.
However what Pete had said nagged at me all week and next Friday, as soon as I saw him, I asked him what he meant about taking a job with the W. T. whatever.
He explained that the W. T. U was an international organisation run in connection with the United Nations and that they often advertised for technical staff. He went on, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while but I haven’t done anything about it”.
Time drifted by and I forgot about this conversation, it probably would have remained forgotten, except that one day I was reading the ICAO (International Civil Aviation Organisation) magazine and I came across an advertisement which simply said “We require technicians, air traffic controllers, communicators, crash fireman - to work as UN experts in various parts of the world”.
There was a simple form to fill in, to be sent off to the ICAO headquarters in Montreal Canada. The term of the posting was for one year.
So, a new idea is born, and a new direction is taken. Just a chance conversation and the right advertisement at the right time set up a radical change in lifestyle for my unsuspecting family and me.
ICAO is an agency of the United Nations. It is concerned with setting the rules and regulations that ensure safe civil flying operations. An important part of this regulatory business concerns the siting and operation of navigational aids as used by air traffic. These aids have to reach and maintain particular standards. A technician, working for ICAO, ensured these standards were maintained.
It was late summer 1976, in Christchurch New Zealand. I was, at that the time working as an instructor at the Aviation College at Christchurch’s Harewood airport. This College was the main training establishment for the whole of the New Zealand civil aviation system. It was here that new entrants learned the skills necessary to become electronics technicians, air traffic controllers, communicators, rescue fire officers, and meteorological observers.
It was a good interesting job, but I had been a field technician for many years, working on interesting equipment and being part of the action around airports. Now, standing in front of class of young hopefuls had become, I have to admit it, boring.
So that evening after dinner, I casually said to my wife Jan “ How would you like to go overseas for a year?”
“Love to”, she said without hesitation.
Her ready acceptance made me think that she too probably felt like a change. She had been at home for the last five years looking after the children. Guy was five years old, Anna was three and a half. Anyway, we discussed it and decided to go ahead and apply.
I filled in the form and send it off to Montreal. About three weeks later things started to get interesting. First, a letter arrived in the very distinctive ICAO. envelope, an envelope with which I was to become very familiar over the next four years. Enclosed was another form to fill in.
This was the official application form and consisted of some ten pages requiring a very full description of myself and family. I duly completed this marathon and sent it off. Another letter arrived, this contained another form requiring a very full medical examination, including x-rays. Again, I completed these formalities and sent them off.
I had, of course mentioned to my chief at the College what I intended doing, and he was very supportive. I had also applied to Head Office in Wellington for the possibility of a year’s leave without pay, explaining my application to ICAO. New Zealand, as a signatory to the UN conventions had certain obligations to them and in fact, I had no trouble being granted the year’s leave.
Even at this stage I had a feeling that nothing much would happen and the whole idea would simply fade away. It was something of a surprise when a letter arrived offering not just one, but two positions. One was in Libya, the other in South Yemen.
Now here was something think about. It suddenly came home to me just what it was I was doing, I was going to uplift myself my wife and two young children and depart to some very foreign land about which we knew very little.
I arrived home that evening and blithely announced,” Well, which would you like Libya or South Yemen.” We went through the pros and cons of what we were doing, but there was no doubt really that we were going to go. After all, the very worst that could happen was that the job or our situation became impossible to sustain, in which case ICAO would simply fly us home and the episode would be over.
So, which country to choose? Interesting choice, to say the least, but eventually we decided on Libya. All I knew of South Yemen was the port of Aden, which hadn’t impressed me when I visited it some years previously. Libya, on the other hand, had the reasonably large cities of Tripoli and Benghazi, and was close to Europe. It was also well known from the exploits of our soldiers during the war. So Libya it was.
The letter had also given a choice - regarding the Libyan job - of the location of the posting. I could apply for either Tripoli or Benghazi. I chose Tripoli, as it was the major city and capital of Libya. In the event the Tripoli posting went to a Norwegian fellow and I was allocated Benghazi. This was not a bad thing as it turned out, as Benghazi is some 1500 km from Tripoli on the other side of the country, and a long way from the head office environment, which suited me.
I sent the letter off accepting Libya and waited to see what would happen next. Another letter arrived a few days later, offering us Jordan. This was a complication and while I was still thinking about it, yet another letter arrived, offering us a post in Nigeria. It would seem that internal communication at ICAO headquarters was a little lax or they used the shotgun affect and fired out several offers hoping to get a hit!
Anyway, I ignored these and eventually a letter arrived accepting my Libyan choice and advising me that it was Benghazi I would be posted to. The letter gave dates and said that ticketing would be arranged and that Air New Zealand would advise me when they were ready.
Things were hotting up and my work commitments were rearranged. I had no direct kin in Christchurch to worry about but Jan’s family all lived here and they certainly worried! Her parents were not exactly happy to have their daughter and grandchildren taken off to this weird place, Libya.
What do you mean you are going to Libya. You Jan AND the children???
It seemed a letter a week was arriving from ICAO. There was a lot of instruction and advice on what I, as a United Nations expert was expected to be, and how I was supposed to behave.
There was information on Libya compiled by the United Nations. This was very informative, if slightly outdated. There was advice on my salary. This was very pleasing as the salary ICAO was paying was well above what I was receiving from the New Zealand government, and it was paid in U.S. dollars.
It consisted of a basic salary plus what seemed to be innumerable allowances, the main one being a location allowance. This was a payment commensurate with grading and was modified by a multiplier depending on the country in which you were located. The multiplier for Libya was quite high and in the few weeks that we waited before departing, it was increased twice.
About this time, a problem began to arise as a visa was required to enter Libya, but there was nowhere in New Zealand or Australia where one could be obtained. Cables flashed to and fro till in the end Montreal signalled that a visa would be available at the port of entry into Libya.
The date for departure approached, all the paperwork was done, the parties were over, our house was rented out, and I had picked up our tickets from Air New Zealand. Our flight was from Christchurch with Air New Zealand to Sydney, then by Qantas to Athens where we were to connect with a Libyan Air flight to Tripoli.
What of Pete Corner the man who had started all this off? He was still working as a field technician at Christchurch airport and had not pursued his original idea any further but had taken a great interest in what I was doing - as had many of the other techs.
The flight to Sydney was uneventful and gave the children the chance to experience flying in a large aircraft before we tackled the long haul with Qantas. After landing at Sydney, we had more then two hours to wait before boarding Qantas. Which gave as plenty of time to confirm bookings and so on.
The time came to board and here the first minor incident concerning the children occurred. Guy went ahead of us through the metal detector while we waited for our baggage to go through. Suddenly everything stopped working and there was a minor panic among the officials. However, soon the machine started up again. It seems that Guy had managed to extract the plug from the wall feeding the metal detector machine. Strained smiles all round.
The aircraft was full - some 340 people according to the steward, all of them either Greek or Italian returning home for holidays. He assured us that as we were the only “dinkum Australian” family on board, he would look after us. I didn’t tell him we were New Zealanders and we had great service all the way.
The children were very good - the cabin crew looked after them well - almost too well, as at one stage I wondered where Guy was, as he wasn’t anywhere in sight. I looked for him but could not find him anywhere. I went up and down the main cabins, checked the toilets, even went upstairs to the first-class lounge, but no sign of him.
I asked members of the cabin crew if they had seen him, but no one had. Finally our friendly steward beckoned me over, opened a small door and took me down a spiral staircase. This led to the main galley and there was Guy happily helping anyone who would let him
Both Guy and Anna had bright red hair and were quite outgoing. They made friends easily, which was useful during the frequent long waits in airport terminals. Once while we were all walking down a street in Athens, Jan and Guy were walking in front with Anna and I just behind.
One moment Anna was trotting along beside me then the next moment she had disappeared. While I was looking around for her someone called me into a shop. There was Anna, surrounded by admirers, being offered a sugar coated bun.
It seems the Greeks are greatly taken with red hair, they were always patting Guy or Anna on the head.
The long flight from Sydney to Athens was over, twenty five hours in the air with two stops along the way. That night seemed to go on forever. We were one hot, tired, disheveled family, by the time we cleared Customs found our bags and organised a taxi to take us to the Diomia hotel.
ATHENS
The Diomia was a fairly ordinary hotel. We had one room with four beds, but there was air conditioning, and we had our own bathroom. Although it was only nine a.m. we simply crashed. We were awake at 6 p.m., ordered a meal, ate it, and went back to bed. Next morning we were awake bright and early, and were looking forward to seeing something of Athens before returning to the airport to connect with Libyan airlines for the flight to Tripoli.
Our flight was due to leave at 3 p.m, but on arriving at the airport we found it was delayed for several hours. This was not what we wanted but worse was to come.
I must admit I made full use of the delay by going up to the observation deck and watching the continuous flow of aircraft arriving and departing. This was something of a revelation; as I saw aircraft and airlines that I had never heard of before.
These aircraft came from every part of the world, taxiing, parking, taking off, landing and with all the rushing around of ground vehicles it was one seriously busy airport. I couldn’t help thinking of Christchurch International, restful by comparison.
Jan was less pleased with the delay, her main occupation being to keep track of the two children, not easy as Guy and Anna seemed undaunted by the hubbub surrounding them and wanted to investigate everything.
I located the Libyan Arab check in counter, and had my first experience of the Arab form of queuing. Each and every Arab whole-heartedly believes he is the equal of anyone else, regardless of that person’s status - or position in a queue - An Arab will not stand behind anyone in an orderly line but will push to the front. Consequently when there are twenty or fifty or a hundred Arabs all trying to get the front position you have a situation rather similar to a rugby scrum. Everyone yelling, waving tickets, and trying to get attention. This was the situation at the check in counter, where I entered into the fray clutching passports, tickets, and briefcase.
Queing Arab style.
It took quite a while but eventually I reached the check in attendant and presented him with my tickets and passport, he looked in the passport, then looked at me and said. Visa?
.
"No boarding pass. You must have visa ."
I could feel the panic starting to rise, I started to argue trying to explain, but he just looked at me. Then I remembered the cable from ICAO and hoping that I had put it in with the rest of the papers, I looked in my briefcase and sure enough it was there. He took it, read it, shook the passport and said "Must have visa!"
At this point an angel in the guise of an Arab woman arrived. She was probably with the Libyan secret police and had come to see what the fuss was about. Again I told the story and gave her the cable. She read it, said "wait!" and disappeared. I was by now fairly unpopular with the rest of the scrum, so stood aside, but not too far, as I didn’t want to lose my place.
My favourite police lady returned and spoke to the check-in man who without a word handed me the boarding passes.
I struggled back to a highly relieved Jan, who had been waiting with the children. However we were not there yet, although by now our flight had been called, but so had about five others and the problem was that there was only the one narrow passage through into the boarding area.
Five plane loads of people all tried to get through that one door. We were starting to get into panic mode again, but eventually we found ourselves on a bus, which took us out to our Libyan Arab aircraft.
Incidentally, we had checked our heavy luggage right through from Christchurch to Tripoli. I was a bit worried about this, so it was with great relief that I saw our bags being loaded onto the aircraft.
We settled down for our flight to Tripoli, or so I thought. It was now dark, and not long into the flight, the usual announcements started. However these were in Arabic and totally incomprehensible. In one of the announcements I picked out the word “Benghazi” and gathered from the stirring of the people around us that we were about to land there.
I didn't expect this and thought we would just stay on the aircraft until it went on to Tripoli. Not so. After we landed, everyone got off the aircraft. This didn’t seem right and sure enough a steward came rushing in and asked us to get off the plane immediately. We woke up the children - who of course had fallen sound asleep - and trekked off to the terminal building.
What a shambles! The place seemed half built with sandy floors, and construction materials piled everywhere. People were milling about, doing their own thing. We just waited, feeling helpless. It didn't worry Anna who started to build a sand castle.
I was feeling like joining her, when much to our relief we heard our name being called. This came from an Arab gentleman whom I got to know very well eventually. His name was Abdulrahim and he was the Airport Manager. With him was the Terminal Manager and between these two the formalities were sorted out. I suppose I should have known that it is the first port of call in a country that does the immigration and passport formalities.
Back to the aircraft and on to Tripoli. By the time we landed it was nearly midnight. Here it was easy, because the two senior ICAO people in Tripoli were on hand to meet us. We were soon on the way to our hotel. We had arrived!
The hotel was of a good standard and everyone soon settled down. The next few days would tell us what the immediate future held, as according to my itinerary, we had a five day briefing at the Tripoli UNDP. (United Nations Development Program) headquarters before going on to, or should I say, back to Benghazi. The UNDP is the administrative body for all the agencies operating in a country.
In spite of our chaotic arrival at Benghazi I still got a buzz on landing in a new country. I have always enjoyed the feeling of first breathing foreign air, and this place was certainly foreign, even the characteristic smell of an airport couldn’t disguise the fact that I was in Africa.
TRIPOLI
Tripoli is the capital of Libya. Strictly speaking it is the capital of Tripolitania, which is one half of Libya, the other half being Cyrenaica which has Benghazi as its capital. Practically speaking, however, Tripoli governs the whole of Libya.
I spent the next few days at the UNDP offices obtaining all the documents I would need for an extended stay in Libya, meeting the UNDP staff with whom I would be dealing, such as man who would be forwarding our pay!! It was also necessary to sign up with the British consul, who was supposed to look after us in any emergency. I must admit they didn’t seem very interested and if the necessity arose, I think I would have gone to the Americans first.
The rest of the time was spent being briefed by Thorsten Anderssen who was the air traffic control expert and was also the senior ICAO person. Mainly his briefing consisted of asking me to go to Benghazi, settle in and then fix everything at the airport, as the place was a "real mess"
He also said that I should not bother to send reports, I should just get the job done. This surprised to me a little, but pleased me also, as it indicated that I could do the job whichever way I felt would be best.
Looking back it was fairly obvious that I was just another problem for Thorsten to cope with. Thorsten was a pleasant man and I enjoyed working with him and visiting him occasionally in Tripoli, but, after all, he was an air traffic controller, and the technical world was a little outside his ken. He did know of course, that if the equipment air traffic control relied on did not work, neither did air traffic control!
So, from his point of view, he wanted results, - results that would make the Benghazi air traffic control work smoothly. This, as I soon found out, would become my main focus. In other words, my job description changed from being overseer of ICAO standards and training of Libyan technicians to being the maintenance man, restoring failed equipment to service!
Again this did not upset me particularly, It was what I did best and what I liked doing best.
In the evening I would get back to the hotel, meet up with Jan and the children and wander around the city. It was all exciting and very different from formal old Christchurch. It was the middle of July, midsummer in North Africa, and very very hot. Here is a quote from one of Jan’s letters home.
Marion and Graham have a super little villa, in a mostly expatriate suburb, with a little garden with peach trees, grape vines, bougainvillea etc. and a wall right round it. We just take the children’s clothes off, turn the hose on and sit in the shade while they play. Or if there is no breeze,we sit inside with the fans on to keep cool.
As it turned out this was one of the hottest summers that Libya had experienced for many years. It was not really unbearable as the humidity was very low. Jan and I, and Anna, who never seemed to worry about anything, coped quite easily.
Guy who was slightly asthmatic, and as a consequence prone to allergies, suffered a little more. This was not a really a major problem and in fact over the next four years he remained very healthy as the Libyan climate seemed to suit him.
Tripoli really was only a staging point for us; as our real destination was Benghazi. However our stay there was valuable, as it was a reasonably easy introduction to the Libyan way of life and gave us the opportunity to meet those people who would be influential in regard to our well being in the years to come.
Eventually the time came for us to move on. Benghazi awaited us. Benghazi really was an outpost as we were the only ICAO people to be posted there. We were on our own!
One of the monetary allowances Montreal blessed us with, was one that was paid to cover the expense of settling in, in a new country. This was paid as an extra to our monthly salary for the first three months. The UN administrators in Tripoli however paid us the whole three months worth as a lump sum in cash, no doubt to simplify their accounting.
I came home that night and gave Jan a huge wad of cash. “Here, please take this care of this”. She took it without blinking an eye and ferreted it away somewhere. As it was the equivalent of 3,500 New Zealand dollars, - at the time a veritable fortune - I was glad to be rid of it.
BENGHAZI
So far, of course, we had been in transit, but very soon we would reach our destination. While traveling, we stayed at hotels, but what would happen when we reached Benghazi? This was the question I put to the Tripoli people. "It's up to you, they said. "You have the allowance, so stay in a hotel until you find yourself a villa". This was not a lot of help.
One thing they did do, was to give us the name of a Benghazi local who might be able to help us. His name was Suliman Luhishi and he was the manager of a construction company, which had done work for the UN at Benghazi airport.
Having that one contact made all the difference to our early days in Benghazi. Suliman became a very good friend and helped us in many ways during our stay there.
Once again we were on the move. By now in we were becoming quite used to crowded terminals and Arab style queuing, but I still had problems with the complete lack of the English language in the loudspeaker announcements and signs. Although we had boarding passes they were written in Arabic and it was really quite difficult to tell when our particular flight was boarding.
In these circumstances I would look for a European face. If I found one I would simply ask for help. This would not always work as he may be as confused as me, or would be from Latvia or somewhere and did not speak English. In this particular instance I found a Scotsman who was on the same flight, and knew his way about.
Arriving at Benghazi airport this time in daylight, we saw that the terminal was as big a shambles as before, in fact it looked worse.
A bigger sand pile had covered Anna's castle. Anna's eyes lit up at sight of it but there was no time for play as we were met once again by Abdulrahim, who had a car and driver waiting to take us to our hotel in Benghazi.
Jan and I were intensely interested in the view from the car as we drove in to town. This was where we were going to live for the next year. It was all quite overwhelming, as everything was different. The buildings looked different, the signs were all in Arabic script with not even any recognisable letters or numbers. People were dressed differently, many in Arabic style.
There was not a European face to be seen!! The cars drove on the right side of the road. At least they were supposed to. The Libyans drove as they queued, in one mad bunch.
We had arrived. Our first priority now was to find somewhere permanent to settle as a family. We had to find a villa.
Next Page. Chapter 2 Organising a villa