Flying weekend, 1999

The aluminium is cold and wet with dew as I lay over the wing of the little Cessna to check the fuel, and the sun is barely above the horizon. The airfield is peaceful and the only flight in the circuit is the resident heron. I look with admiration as he turns onto final approach, lowers his legs to reduce speed, then strokes twice with his wings, and struts to a standstill, looking over his shoulder at me as if to say:" Easy, isn't it?"

My instructor, Jeremy, egged on by my wife, had decided on a long cross country navigation exercise, and we decided to leave early to be able to carry fuel for the distance. Cool air gives more lift, and more power to the engine, just as cool climates or a cold shower gets more out of you. As we line up for the runway, I see the heron, hunting frogs some distance up the runway, in a ditch at the side. When we roar past, he half-spreads his wings, and hops aside, to honour the threat.

In the cool morning air the engine has an extra kick, and the wings bite into the denser air, lifting us into ground effect, where I hold her as we accelerate to a safe speed. Then up into the circuit (if we have an engine failure now, engine switches off, fuel off, full flaps, and we will land slowly in the marsh) and left turn to gain height (Now we would go into the lake, and now... we can make it back to the runway) Then we can talk to Entebbe Tower, since we will be flying through the control area.

Entebbe tower is not busy, and has time for a nice good morning, but then they start talking to an incoming Speedbird, as British Airlines like to call themselves, and we are dismissed to climb up to flight level 065, on course for Kisoro.

It is hazy up here, which matches the sleepiness still in my head. Smoke from countless cooking fires seem to dawdle into the sky, until it spreads out in a smear on the inversion layer. Some of the bigger columns of smoke seem to grow, through the inversion layer, into small clouds, almost as if the night's dreams rise into the sky to become clouds, that will come back to earth, somewhere, to influence reality.

At 65 nautical miles from Entebbe I report in and the tower, now busy talking to Kenya Airways, tells me to switch onto 118.2 megahertz, the general traffic frequency. We drone on over grassland, green hills, and roads lined by the tin roofs of houses, like some artistic collage.

It is peaceful up here, one has difficulty in understanding how such a peaceful activity as flying could inspire people to think of bombing and killing. Should the first pilots to see the world from above not have vowed to extend this tranquility to the world below, rather than take the hate and killing into the limpid, cool air above?

As the ground rises under us we can see into the fields, the villages, and as I begin to climb to flight level 085 to avoid the mountains that begin to rise under us, we can see houses nestling into the flanks and nooks of the range, sheltering against the cold winds. Children at a school wave at us, a cowherd looks on from a neighbouring hillside, as I get busy with the navigation. Kisoro should be in the next valley, there should be two volcano's, a lake, and an airstrip. Through the notch in the hills we go, and there is the lake, a little to the left the airstrip, but where are the volcanos? Jeremy tells me to look UP, and there they are, magnificent, blue in their cloud cover, topping at 14 500 feet. I turn over Kisoro airstrip, and turn quickly, otherwise we would turn into Congo.

Now our course takes us down the valley towards the plains of the Queen Elizabeth National Park, but first there is another ridge to cross, covered by the Bwindi Impenetrable forest. And it does indeed look impenetrable from up here, dark, green, mysterious. We try to look for the gorillas, but they are not to be seen, and anyway I am far too interested in finding possible emergency landing sites, of which I find only one, a pale green swampy pond surrounded by tall mahogany trees. Then the farmland begins again to my relief, but I do feel something tugging me back to the dark, green, of the forest. Can it be true that somewhere in our mind the far distant memories of our origins in the forests of millennia ago still call to us?

The flat savanna stretches below us now, broken by a few roads, and then the Kazinga channel cuts a clear green stroke through the tawny plains, giving a good checkpoint. Ahead of us the town of Kasese with its cement factory pinpoints our position even from flight level 095, and then I begin a slow descent towards Fort Portal.

All flying things, from Jumbo jets to flies, obey the wind. This morning we had had practically no wind, but now it has sprung up, and is caressing with its mighty hand the ridges and mountains, ruffling the crops and trees, currying the grass on the endless plains, seeking out the houses cuddled against the hills, shredding the smoke from their chimneys, and carrying us along on our track. Beyond Fort Portal the tawny plains show a break, and Jeremy points out that Semliki, our destination, is down there, at the turn of the river in the rift valley. The plains down there seem a different colour, dim, and not quite in focus.

The mighty wind sweeps us along, over the ridge and down the side of the rift valley, and it is as if we pass through a veil, into another reality where towns and cities are a dim memory. For below unfolds a savanna, populated by herds of wild animals, that stretch through the heart of Africa, the western rift valley. The golden grass has a green and succulent shine to it, and the air is heavy with humidity. Deep green lines cut through the plains, the river gorges within which the chimpanzees live, an environment as different from the savanas as the savannas are from the highlands, where people live with their cattle herds.


We circle over the lodge until we see a Land Rover pull out to the airstrip, to fetch us, then we do a low level circuit. But there is traffic on the airstrip: a herd of gazelle that prefer the short grass, where they can see potential enemies, to the tall grass alongside. Several low passes do nothing to change the situation. All we can do is chase them up to the far end, then circle around quickly and do a short field landing. The Land Rover waits, to take us to a welcome relaxation, beer in hand, on the veranda overlooking a magnificent view of Africa in its primeval state.

The next morning the walkaround check reveals a problem: fuel is leaking out of the engine cowling. We cannot see anything wrong, and eventually some thumps meant to dislodge a sticking carburettor valve seems to do the thing. The Land Rover drives up the runway to chase the gazelle away while we start up. I taxi right to the very end of the strip, and then swing around and give full throttle, holding on the brakes until the engine has built up maximum revs. Then we accelerate with bumps and shocks over the rough ground until the wings begin to carry the weight. Faster and faster we go, now just touching the tussocks of grass, then I lift her up as soon as possible, accelerate to safe airspeed in ground effect, but not too low, the gazelle are still on the airstrip! Then we begin to climb up, up, up! to the edge of the plateau. Fearing that we will not make it, I make a slow s-turn, then we climb into a notch in the skyline, along a rivulet about to fling itself down into the rift and soon we are over verdant, spreading tea fields, as we climb to our cruising altitude. Behind us the enchanted plains seem to draw back behind the veil, already lost in that other dimension that makes it difficult to grasp.

Flying in Africa is made difficult by the lack of conventional landmarks. Rivers are long, and rapids change shape as the seasons change. The charts show "scattered huts" or "prominent church" and it is fun to point to some scattered huts and say: "We are dead on track, see!" But in reality you have to look out all the time for recognizable landmarks. However, here is a wide green riverbed, pointing straight to our next waypoint, Mubende. Is it not ever so, that if you know where to look, your way forward is pointed out to you?

After Mubende we head for Mityana, and lake Wamala is a good mark to aim at, except that it is not well marked on the chart, maybe it was dry when they surveyed the area? Now numerous fishermen ply the broad, shallow stretches of water. As we cross the lake we enter the controlled airspace, and I try to call Entebbe Centre, to report that we are at 65 Nautical miles. For some reason we can hear them, but they cannot hear us. Eventually we call Entebbe tower, who hears us clearly, and relays the information, then asks us to cross the centreline of runway 17 not higher than 5500 feet. We soon learn why, a DAS Air Cargo DC 10 is inbound from London. We will be far in front of him, but there is no reason not to keep well clear, after all, there are miles of clear airspace around.

I head for the greenhouses, exactly on the extended centreline of runway 17 and also 15 nautical miles from Entebbe. From here you can just see the small channel for the floatplane, leading to Kajjansi airstrip. In a break in the radio conversation, I call Entebbe: "Entebbe tower, this is 5X KAT calling at 15 DME, reporting crossing centreline of 17, and Kajjansi in sight." Entebbe, busy with other traffic, replies brusquely: "KAT, go 118.2, good day."

We descend slowly past the radio mast, and come overhead at 5000 feet to see that the wind, as usual, favours runway 14. Then into the circuit, there is no other traffic, except for a Marabou stork. These big birds, so ungainly and repulsive on the ground are masters in flight, and this one just looks over his shoulder, cups a wingtip, and turns inside us.

With all checks completed, we sink down to the touchdown point. For once I manage to flare at the right height, then hold her off with the stall warner beeping, wheels brushing in the short grass, until the wings stop flying, and we plop down.

I look around to tell the heron that it was easy, but he is not there, probably went looking for locusts elsewhere.