(Laura McDermid – the remarkable exploits of Iris McCallum). UNICEF finally came to the realization that STOL aircraft such as the Twin Otter were better suited than the Cessna 402s when flying remote missions in East Africa, and as a result, they terminated their contract with SafariAir in 1989.
THIS MEANT THAT MY best friend Heather Stewart and I were back at Wilson Airport in Nairobi doing scheduled flights into the Serengeti. Initially, this was a welcome reprieve from the stress of flying assignments that we often risked our lives for, but it soon lost its allure.
Kenya had become a sought-after destination following the movies Out of Africa and White Mischief, the latter glorifying the hedonistic exploits of British expatriates living in Kenya in the 1940s. We were the romantic gateway to crystal decanters set on crisp white linen against a backdrop of misty emerald valleys teeming with game.
When we weren’t managing the ridiculous expectations of starry-eyed clients, we were flying great white hunters on missions to track down enormous ivory tusks that only existed in the realms of their fevered imaginations.
By that stage in my life, flying had become something of a routine. The wonder of my first exhilarating hours of flight had become lost in the many thousands of hours I had spent earning a living at the controls of a plane.
I suppose I could have walked away and not had to worry about the weather, the night flights, the difficult landings on bush strips, and the demanding passengers. I could go somewhere far from Africa and never look at an airport again. So why didn’t I?
The reality is that aviation ran in my veins as sure as my life blood did. I was addicted as much to the art of flying as I was to the soul of Africa. However, the time had come to move on to the next adventure.
CMC Aviation was the Piper aircraft agent in East Africa and they had an aircraft engineer called Himat Vaghela. He was one of those rare, easy-going people, who despite their extensive knowledge, remained friendly and humble. He treated me as an equal and his advice always proved invaluable.
He was my ‘favourite engineer’ and I was his ‘favourite pilot’ and it wasn’t long before he acquired his PPL. This gave him an edge over his competitors as he had more insight and empathy into pilots’ woes!
Himat struck out and formed his own company, Capital Air Lines. He started off by leasing a Piper Navajo 5Y-KDO, and two Piper Chieftain’s 5Y-ROH and 5Y-SMR. Once up and running he approached me to freelance for him and I accepted without a moment’s hesitation.
One of the biggest and most lucrative businesses in Kenya at the time was the transportation of miraa khat, a plant that flourishes on hills at high altitudes.
In the Horn of Africa, khat is a regular part of life, often consumed at social gatherings or in the morning before work and by those wishing to stay awake, such as students and long-haul truck drivers.
The leaves and buds are chewed like tobacco or are brewed as tea. It produces feelings of euphoria and alertness that can verge on mania and hyperactivity, depending on the variety and freshness of the plant.
Dozens of planes full of khat were flown to the north easternmost region of Kenya bordering Somalia each day, where the leaves were promptly sold before they lost their potency.
When khat leaves dry, the more potent chemical decomposes within 48 hours. Thus, the fresh leaves and stems are packed in plastic bags or wrapped in banana leaves to preserve their moisture.
‘What took you so long Cuddles?’
We all had our ‘own’ Somali trader. Ibrahim Sheik would meet me every day before dawn at Wilson Airport with a truck loaded with khat. The passenger seats from the Pipers were removed and every inch of the plane’s cavity would be stuffed with the herbaceous plant. Once full we would fly the three hours to Mandera, where Ibrahim would begin haggling with the prospective buyers. The first loads to arrive always got the best prices and as a result, we made sure to be there early.
“As-Salam Alaykum! Very fresh, very special leaves. You taste? You like?…how many dollar you pay”? Ibrahim would start the process until every last leaf was sold.
The khat was loaded back onto trucks; some were distributed locally to stallholders at the markets in Mandera, whereas others made the journey across the border into Somalia.
On the return trip the trucks were filled with bags of counterfeit blue jeans and T-shirts, which in turn were stuffed into the plane, and Ibrahim and I would fly back to Nairobi where the process was repeated.
Himat and I flew these trips on a rotational basis. I had just completed my stint and was at home when Maggie the PA phoned.
“Iris, we just got word from a pilot who saw Himat go down somewhere in the bush near Garba Tula. He gave a rough description of the location but we need you to find him as the local authorities are unable to assist”.
Himat had been scheduled to fly to Mandera that morning but both our Chieftain’s were at CMC Aviation for various reasons. They offered us another Chieftain, 5Y-BGO, which was also in the process of being serviced, but they promised to have it ready for his flight.
I raced to Wilson where I found the Navajo 5Y-KDO, ready at the refuelling bay. It had been at least three hours since he had taken off. I packed the first aid kit as well as a flask of water and his favourite sweet, milky chai tea.
“What is the exact time you received the emergency call from Himat?” I asked Maggie.
I laid my 1/2,000,000 map on the table and based on his takeoff time and the time he made the radio call, as well as the info from the other pilot, I circled an area.
‘Goodman had the sense to turn his jacket inside out’
The semi-desert in northern Kenya is a vast and featureless grassland interspersed with shrubs and thickets of dry forest. Once I reached the designated spot on my map, I descended as low as was practical and began to fly a grid.
My hungry eyes soon picked out wisps of oily black smoke. A flash of reflected sunlight revealed the wreck of the Chieftain partially hidden by a thicket of trees and I recognized the luminous orange of Himat’s bomber jacket.
Good man had the sense to turn his jacket inside out! I waggled my wings and flew low over the wreck, indicating that I’d seen him. I circled the area, making mental notes of the features, and the shapes of the hills and trees, and headed to the Garba Tula airstrip.
‘Convinced that the police had come’
Maggie had organised ground support, and three armed policemen and three Samburu trackers were waiting for me in a 7-ton truck. Admittedly not the ideal bush vehicle, but it would have to do!
I sat up front next to Sergeant Maclear Ngombo, the others in the back clutching the first aid kit, the refreshments, and the rifles. We headed off in the direction of the wreck, bumping along goat paths and dry river beds. Every now and then a shifta (bandit) would break from his hiding place and run like hell in the opposite direction to our travel; convinced that the police had come for him!
We drove until the bush became impenetrable after which we proceeded on foot.
“Himat; Himaaat; Himaaaat”. we shouted, punctuating our shouts with occasional gunfire.
The midday heat was so stifling that even the incessant buzzing of cicadas had stopped. We had been walking for an hour when we heard the faint cries.
“Help me……hellllpppp”.
We followed the sound and found an exhausted but relieved Himat slumped in the shade of a tree.
“What took you so long Cuddles?” He tried to smile but the ashy tone of his skin betrayed the pain he was in. He accepted the proffered flask gratefully and gulped down the sweet chai tea.
Bolstered by the shot of sugar, the story slowly unfolded.
The Chieftain’s left engine began running rough above no-man’s land before it finally quit. Despite full power, the right engine couldn’t maintain the plane’s altitude. Himat knew he’d have to land but there was approximately 1000L of fuel on board and the Piper would likely explode if it came down hard. He chose the only open area and deliberately stalled the aircraft in an attempt to prevent flying into the surrounding trees.
Despite the gentle landing, smoke was coming out of the left wing.
‘Smoke was coming out of the left wing’
Fearing being burnt alive, Himat scrambled out of the plane, an excruciating exercise due to a damaged right ankle and severe whiplash. He narrowly managed to escape before the first blast.
I examined his leg. He had the sense to keep his boots on, the area above the shoe on his right leg was badly swollen, the skin stretched taut and shiny like that of an over-ripe plum. I gave him something for the pain and with a person on either side of him, Himat was man-handled back to the truck.
It took us twice as long to get back, stopping often to swop men and to catch our breath.
During a break, Sergeant Maclear appeared in front of me clutching a small bunch of wildflowers he had picked to show his gratitude for finding Himat. A big black man holding a delicate bunch of flowers in one hand and a rifle in the other was so incongruous that it would have been comical had the situation not been so dire.
We finally took off for Wilson Airport at 17h30, a full 12 hours after Himat’s departure earlier on that day.
Back in Nairobi, an ambulance was waiting to take him to the hospital. He had suffered extensive damage to the ankle and was wheeled into theatre that evening to have it operated on.
Himat credits me for saving his life, but I don’t see it that way.
We all needed each other in different ways. Himat saved me from a life of tedium and provided me with a different opportunity. In Africa, people learn to serve each other. They live on credit balances of little favours that they give and may, someday, ask to have returned.
