30 something, 100,000 miles.

The gentle hum of the Cessna's twin prop engines always brought me comfort. Something about the motion of its moving parts, orbital resonance, produces a steady rhyme and vibration that contrasts the turbulent nature of our lives.
I was never quite satisfied. Years of quiet contemplation and study created a restlessness in my spirit that I could not quell for a long time.
Delivering and administering aid to remote, underdeveloped regions of the world was an interesting job. Most of the people who want to do it are not qualified, and those who are qualified have better paying jobs, homes and families. Do not label me a martyr, please. Happiness comes from profundity and meaning, not money. There is plenty of time to be a tool, a slave for the man when I'm an old, jaded coot. At least when I die, I'll have the luxury of knowing I helped people live.
Small bush planes like the Cessna fascinated me. The cold aluminum can did little to mask the constant ripping noise emanating at every protrusion on the fuselage, from wing to rivet. Unyielding seats, aging design, and a generally high level of discomfort made the place seem unworthy of the millions in medicine, expertise and equipment that lined its hull. A keen observer would not be too quick to judgment. The old design is proved reliable and the beautiful sound produced by its engines could only be produced by the most well maintained engines.
I do what I do for the people. I believe every human only has one life to live, and to discard or dis-value a human life is the greatest travesty. The great part about working with "the poor" is they understand my evaluation. "Civilized" rich people attempt to hide their baseness and elevate themselves to positions they believe are great. They never escape their demons. In poor people their baseness and flaws are honest and simple. Hunger makes thieves, aristocracy makes genocidal dictators.
Here I am, in the lonely airspace at the interface between the rich and the poor. I am a release valve, used by privileged people to release the burdens on their souls. Filthy rich people sometimes like to help those with nothing, to remind us they were once human and still have something human in them. I am just part of their machine. I sometimes wonder about the people who fund the people who sign my checks. Scruples are rare in business, perhaps I am a way for people to buy them back.