Hydraulic Systems

In 2003, just before Christmas, my son Sean and I traveled to Accra, Ghana to join my daughter Amberely, who was just finishing up a semester study abroad program at the University of Ghana at Legon. We were on a KLM flight from Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport. About mid-way through the six hour flight, Sean noticed on the in-flight map that the plane was going in a circle. We look quizzically at each other. Then the announcement came. "This is the captain from the flight deck. We are now over Barcelona, and you may have noticed that we are turning in the direction we have come. We are returning to Amsterdam. We have detected a problem with one of our hydraulic systems, and we will have it serviced in Amsterdam. We will keep you informed."

What had been a quiet group of passengers, almost all Ghanians eager to be home for the Christmas holidays, but after the announcement, they erupted. Everyone had an opinion (except for Sean and I, who tried to shrink into our seats) on the necessity and morality of returning to Amsterdam instead of continuing on to Accra. People where up, walking up and down the aisles, engaging in heated discussions, waving their arms and shaking fingers for emphasis. For over an hour the arguments raged. Eventually, all settled down in exhaustion, no doubt wondering how they would cope with whatever time was necessary in Amsterdam. (In the event, the airline put us all up at a nearby hotel, fed us dinner, and collected us in the early morning hours. It was hectic, and all the waiting in lines (customs, security, check-in, dinner, all reversed in the morning) was annoying. And it was freezing cold.) I know Sean and I had only one thought. Hydraulic systems? Certainly that means something important. Like landing.

Wouldn't you know that six years later, hydraulic systems would cause another episode of anxiety? Sean was on his way, from Amsterdam on KLM, to Kilimanjaro International Airport. "Kili" is about an hour and a half driving time from the Moshono campus of St. Jude's, and I was on Mr. Emmanuel's "little red" bus, and we were on our way to meet Sean's plane. I had checked and the plane was due in thirty minutes ahead of schedule, but I figured that by the time he passed through customs and immigration, we would be just fine. I had a sign that said "St. Jude's Welcomes Sean" and I knew he would like that. There is great comfort in being met with a sign. It indicates that you are expected, and someone will take charge for a a bit. Mr. Emmanuel drives the morning bus, so it was good to have some conversation as we drove along.
About halfway to the airport, "little red" started sputtering, grinding and smoking, and we came to a rapid halt. Mr. Emmanuel coaxed the bus onto the shoulder, and we both hopped out. By the light of his cell phone, he popped up the passenger seat, and took a look at the engine. I offered him the small flashlight I carry in my purse. The smell of burning rubber was strong. Emmanuel assured me that this was a good place for a breakdown, because just alongside us was a security company. I resisted the urge to offer any advice. What was I going to offer that could be helpful? All I know to do is to call AAA. Instead, I fretted silently and looked at the stars, which were brilliant in the night sky. Emmanuel got out his tire iron (he called it a spanner), and jumped from under the car to the passenger seat engine and back and forth several times. A severed and still smoking rubber belt was tossed on the floor, followed by the spanner, the passenger seat put back down, and Emmanuel got behind the wheel and started up the engine, which just hummed. I jumped in, and off we went. "You are a genius! A hero!" I exclaimed. "What was wrong?" "Oh, Miss Suz, it was just hydraulics. No problem. We don't need them. When we drive, no need for hydraulics." I was not going to argue.

We got to the airport, and drove right up to the curb. I hopped out, waving the sign. Sean was waiting, and wasn't worried at all. Little did he know...