Trump tariffs or not, the flow of cargo between China and Europe is at an all-time high, keeping international shipping companies, freight airlines, and cargo pilots like myself busier than ever.

Two round trips from Liège to Zhengzhou last week alone: just over 50 flight hours in eight days, covering more than 40,000 km along the aerial equivalent of the ancient Silk Road. The same routes by day and night, under sunsets and full moons. Or simply gazing into the abyss of stars during the darkest hours, far from home.

By now, I’m getting familiar with the radio frequencies—and even more so with the voices of the air traffic controllers. I wonder if the ever-friendly voices in Aktobe and Shymkent recognise my Dutch accent in return.
A small world, in some sense.

Crossing the northern Himalayas again—as if it’s just another day.
Nameless peaks and valleys dwarf nearly every other mountain range on Earth. I silently wonder if any human being has ever stood on those ridge lines, as I chew my tuna sandwich and sip on a freshly brewed espresso.

There’s not a single trace of human activity in sight.
We lose radar contact in these remote stretches, and at times there’s no radio contact either—our transmissions blocked by towering walls of granite and ice. Escape routes are briefed, fuel status checked, and trust placed firmly in the machine bestowed to me.

It’s been nearly four years since I earned my command on the Boeing 747, and every time I settle into the left seat, I still feel the privilege of that responsibility.

And somewhere between the Netherlands and the Himalayas, routine becomes reverence. Between radio calls and fuel checks, I remember why I fly: not just to cross the world, but to witness it.