BAGHDAD ADVENTURE—DAY 2—HEADING TO BAGHDAD IN SERGEI’S HOUSE

I’m sitting in the bombardier’s window of a Russian built Ilyushin II-76 hanging under the belly of the nose of the plane—the view of a lifetime.

My feet are planted on strong metal frames on either side of the rectangular pane of thick glass, the center of the window looking for telltale signs of war as we glide 30,000 feet above a rusty tan sea of sand. So far I see only a few trails snaking calmly amidst the endless dunes which resemble, almost identically, waves on the ocean. Behind me is a handmade shelf made constructed of cheap Masonite stuffed with Jeppeson Guides to airports around the world. To my left and above in a swivel chair sits Sergei, a Ukranian about 50, the navigator, busy with his 100 or so dials and radios, sweating in his sleeveless undershirt, navigating the huge plane through Iraqi airspace.

Sergei speaks constantly to the captain who is seated, together with four other crew members, on the flight deck directly above us. As hot as it is in our cramped bomb bay, Sergei emits a brand of odor, which in my tired state of mind I expend far too much thought on. I conclude the smell is derived of potatoes in the natural state, Russian vodka in their distilled state, and I’m guessing various other vegetables including red beets and rhubarb, carrots and onions and, I’m guessing, others I am not familiar with. Also certain cuts of beef, various cheeses, including some smelly ones, apples, pears and lots of strong tea.

Undoubtedly, I’m exuding a similarly pungent odor as well—only of a more American nature, of course. But, since I am saved from smelling my own, I won’t bother to describe it. I’m sure it’s something you really don’t need to know!

Sergei is a nice guy, indeed, to put up with me intruding on his sacred space. (I must pause to say—I’m always pleased whenever I get to use that word "indeed" without it sounding too pompous. You might be able to tell that I’m writing this in quite an excited state, far from my normal place of deep calm and inner peace—joking! My wife says I’m nearly always some sort of excited state.) I am sure Sergei is the kind of guy with an enormous inner world to occupy him. He also seems to be one of those people just happy to be alive. His small navigation station takes up hardly more space than the circumference of his skinny body. Something about the way Sergei reaches for the radio dials and punches the keys on the primitive Russian keyboard to his right, makes me think how all of us eventually seem to end up in places like his. Don’t we all build material worlds around us, where everything is "just so" to make us feel safe and also more powerful? I have the feeling that this tiny little room—there is also a closer-sized space hidden in a dark corner behind the place he sits where he can sleep—is truly his home, much more so than even his small cottage in the Ukraine probably is.

I feel privileged to be welcomed to Sergei’s space for what for me is already an extraordinary journey—the first airlift of humanitarian aid to Baghdad. I could have been sitting in just another comfortable business class seat going somewhere I didn’t really care about; instead I’m travelling in "real class" without the need for any verbal communication with the man next to me, to a place rife with meaning for me and for the world at large.

The meaning will surface, in its own time, as it always seems to for me; for now I’ll continue only to describe the journey.