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.

Cross-Congo trip, July 2006

We are back home! After one year in the Congo we were ready to do some exploration, and after e few trips in the Cherokee, were ready for sterner stuff. Not that the Cherokee cannot do it, but Shahnaz is sorry for it, and there is a sense of, well, delicacy to it. The turbo has to be handled just so, the electronics are sensitive to dampness, and, well, we wanted tougher. So when we saw an Uri a year ago, I wanted. This was as close to the archetype of a 4X4 that I could imagine. You want aircon, CD, radio? Install it yourself, buddy. This is a mean, go-everywhere machine, not a means to massage your ego, pamper your senses, or indulge your vanity. A modernised, improved version of my Willis Jeep! It took a lot of research to find a left hand drive prototype, in Namibia, more time to finalise the sale, and, having paid in February, more time to have it finished, have a canopy put on, as it is a pickup model, then have it shipped. Eventually there was the waltz with the paperwork, and finally, in end July, we got the word. The Uri has landed.

In the meantime we had done some homework, and had identified some like-minded souls, who were also planning to drive up from the coast. Sounds easy, and on the map it is some 700 kilometers. In the time people did it for a weekend. But thirty years of neglect, as well as a war or two (depends on who is counting) and most of the main road is not passable for a man on foot, while the rest is frequented by Ninja rebels, who may be politically motivated, or may be inspired by the local variety of weed, to do some economic redistribution. You do not argue with a guy with two hand grenades, the pins missing, the language incoherent, but the intention clear: Hand over your valuables or things may get interesting. Or so some friends told us.

But, as always, there is another way. You could take the forest roads, then cross the Bateke plateau, to enter the northern road that connects the republic of Congo with the Gabon. “Everyone does it” we were told. Someone else said: “Sera’ un ballade.” We should have been warned.

So arrangements went ahead. Our camping gear is mostly in South Africa, we had no time to prepare, but still…. I took two days’ leave, and headed off to Pointe Noire with what should have been the morning flight on Thursday, but turned out to be the noon flight.

Got the Uri at customs, had some drama with the customs, discovered that the spare wheel had gone missing, and friends sourced another. Bought a sponge mattress, some water, some bully beef, a pot, coffee, a packet of sugar lumps and milk and we were ready! Then waited for Shahnaz who was to come on the afternoon flight, which became the evening flight.

First we had to fill, deliver a parcel to the UNDP office, and then check in with our friends, who were in full dismantling of bikes, poaching improbable amounts of stuff, and in general having a whale of a time.

Friday morning we left at oh dark thirty. More like 05h00. Our hosts were going to see us off with coffee, but slept through, so we crept out, forgetting some warm clothes and stuff. We hit the road north through the already growing traffic, a good road for some klicks, the off into gravel, later dust, later potholes as we proceeded into the Mayombe mountains. We were in a convoy with two scrambler bikes, a quad, a Nissan Patrol, with a high, heavy roof rack, and a Prado. We found that the road had, sometime back in history, been tarred so when you hit a piece of remaining tar you shake loose the fillings in your teeth! Really amazing mountains, some ruins of deep forest, bad erosion in places, but mostly bad granite gravel roads. At one place we stopped where a pipe comes out of the mountainside, clear cool water, with pieces of marble in the pool. Numerous road blocks, manned by police, soldiers, gendarmes, militia, you name it, but nothing that could not be handled with production of sheaves of official papers, and, most important, a packet of cigarettes.

Then eventually we took a shortcut and went through a number of villages. Dust like powder, sometimes 20 cm deep, and it hangs like smoke in the air. Chickens, pigs, a few dogs, goats, and people who come to stare at the convoy roaring through.

First sign of civilization beyond the mountains was Camp Foralac, where the police officer, after the obligatory packet of cigarettes, came to lament how he had been abandoned here in this desert. Life is tough!

Eventually we made it to Dolisie where Shahnaz had to drop off a couple of printer cartridges at the UNDP office, then on, on towards Sibiti. After some 30km of really bad, dusty road we see a town called Botadi. On the map Botadi is just short of the Angola border! What to do, we press on and find the group waiting for us at the next crossroads.. Turns out Botadi is the singular for Matadi, which means rocks! So any village with rocks is Botadi....

Then tar road, quite good, all the way to Sibiti. Met an inquisitive Policeman there, when I asked him "comment ca va ici chez vous?" he replied: "A l'air d'aller un peu."

We slept in a 1/4 star hotel, power from 6pm to 10 pm, two buckets of cold water in the shower, the wash basin not connected to incoming or outgoing, but what the hell, it has a basin, no? Marco prepared dinner from numerous cans, our two bully beef cans were quietly packed back into the box. By the way the sugar had jumped out of the carton it was in, and was coloured a delicate shade of pink from the dust. I picked most of it up and stashed it back into the carton.

We left the next morning towards Zanaga, but turned left about 15 km short at Ingoumina, a long road between villages, complete with kids, pigs, potholes. We saw a brothel, a couple of restaurants, and a village called America, "Here there is no terrorist.” Passed through Chicago too, believe me.

Up to now there is road, some good, some bad, some worse. Add bridges with planks, clay, dust, gravel, holes deep enough to swallow a wheel, as you wish. At one place we crossed a bridge with on one side a single log, planks on the other. Shahnaz managed to keep the car neatly on the centre of the log.

At one place we stopped at about 11h00 for coffee, in deep jungle, and found a swarm of Safari ants crossing. We crushed a lot, I regret to say. The sugar had jumped out again, I donated some to the ants, and packed the rest back in.

On again, and then left onto the sand of the Bateke plateau, eager to try the 4X4 capacity. After about 20 km we come to the conclusion that the transfer case does not work. We got stuck once, then backed out and made our own tracks next to the others, on the grass. The road less travelled by….

All this way we saw no sign of life. No cattle, no game, maybe three birds. Wide grassland, burnt in most places, but green despite the fact that the rains are still a few weeks away. After about 50 km of this we camped on the plateau, pitched a camp, and started cooking. We went to collect fire wood, the Patrol came back with some more. We roasted chicken, the others made pork and opened a lot of cans. It got quite cold, but we had thrown all out the back, and slept comfortably on a sponge mattress. In the night the humidity explained how the grass could be so green despite the dry season, the condensation was enough to rescue you from death by thirst! Twice Shahnaz had to go walkies, and it is rather a lonely feeling, standing there on the bare plateau at one in the morning, shining the little torch, looking for leopards, hyenas and what not.

Morning came, no room service, no wake up call, I asked my money back. First we had a duck bath with a water bottle and a thermos flask! Do not ask… Then we found that the Safari ants had called their cousins in to take revenge, the camp site was crawling with them! One of the bikers also had to go walkies in the night, and when he got back into the tent discovered he was covered with ants! We got a graphic demonstration of how to shake ants out of your underpants.....

Eventually packed, trash burnt, refuelled, and we were back on the road. Again we trailed, had some heavy going in places. With four tracks next to each other one gets onto the side slope, and with the sand and tracks throwing you around, we once nearly overturned the car. We hit one or two bad patches, once when we were coming down from the high plateau. There is deep black soil, in the rain it must be a nightmare. Now we were catching up with the Prado, and, slowing down, got stuck, we had to back nearly 200 meters before we could get out of the tracks. Once onto the side of the road we made good speed, and again caught up. On the last few kilometres of the plateau the road gets onto a narrow ridgeline, and eventually the capacity to make your own road gets limited by thick bush, and the narrow ridge. Here I had to slow down for the Prado and got stuck with no joy going forward or back. We tried packing stuff under the wheels, but no still no luck, until the Patrol came back, and towed us out. A heavy climb, the tow rope went taut twice, and we were up onto the real road! By now the tracks between villages looked tame, after 100km we could get out of low range, and even get up to third gear!

Now that we had to make speed, a puncture for one of the bikes lost us a lot of time in one of the villages. The villagers will tell the story of that repair for months to come. Of course the one officious guy wanted to know who gave us permission, and so on, but for the rest they just stared. Shahnaz had some of the ladies peering through her window discussing what sort of person she was. No Mondele, but also no Congolese, what is this?

Then back on the road, now tar, until we got to Jambala. This was about 15h00, and the guy who pointed out the right direction said that we would easily make Ngo by 18h00. I thought he was crazy, it is only 123 km! He knew better. This is the main road to this Provincial Capital, but the holes were in places as deep as the wheel of the Uri. As we went on the road got worse, eventually there were signs that repairs were being planned, because there would be ditches dug across the road, about 10cm deep and about two meters wide. I really hope they will make more that 10 cm of foundation, there is clay beneath, and a foundation of less than 50cm will not last more than a season.

Eventually, tired and shaken to the bone we got to Ngo, and met up with our friends who were loading the quad and the bikes on a trailer, around 17h30. We just said hi and bye, as I was worried about the distance and the travelling in the dark. We now had 241 km to go, not too much fuel, and I wanted to get home. Fortunately the road is really nice, and even has lines in the middle.

We stopped once to pour in the last jerry can, for the rest we hammered it for home, all the time expecting the others to overtake. They had misjudged their fuel, and on a Sunday afternoon the stations were closed. Eventually we got to Brazzaville at 21h00, and the first group turned up about 30 minutes later, only to find us drinking their beer! We got invited to dinner, but decided to rather head for home, as we thought it might be a better idea to have a shower, just for a change.

Our impression was really of a country with enormous potential, but no development, all we saw was decay, villages going back to the bush. We drove for hours and hours through the ruins of the forest, saw trucks hauling big, and not so big trees out, little agriculture, and almost no cattle. No development, apart for numerous police posts and officious road blocks.

The Uri did us proud, now we have to find out how to get it into four wheel drive!

Finding the crack in the Universe

Why? Because that's where the light gets in. At least, that was what Leonard Cohen sang!

Is that not what we all are doing?

This blog will be about my searches. I hope you will enjoy it.