IRIS – HER EARLY YEARS.
PART 7
Air Kenya
Laura McDermid continues her stories about Iris McCallum in East Africa.
From my veranda window in Watamu the serene Indian ocean stretched out to meet the horizon in an endless embrace. Without the puffy white clouds that dotted the azure sky, their meeting point was almost imperceptible. The susurration of the breeze through the palm leaves and the soothing lapping of the waves cast a mesmerizing spell, lulling me into a peaceful trance.
“Iris… Iris, where are you?” I jolted awake, unintentionally spilling some of the precious amber liquid from the bottle I clutched in my hand.
Over the preceding days, I had made a few repairs to the cottage and had packed my scant belongings into my VW Beetle in preparation for my move to Nairobi.
The owner of the cottage, Jack Irwin, had come to fetch the keys from me. “I’m on the porch, Jack. Grab yourself a Tusker.”
Jack rounded the corner of the cottage, followed by Gigis, the trusty stray dog who had adopted me at Ocean Sports Resort.
Whenever I flew back to Malindi airport, I would play a little game with Gigis. I’d buzz the beach, and like clockwork, Gigis would emerge from the cottage, racing toward Ocean Sports as fast as his stocky legs could carry him. He’d arrive like a bat out of hell, his breath coming in jagged gasps, his tongue lolling from his cavernous jaws like a wet pink sea serpent.
Our game was simple – who would reach the destination first. Most of the time, Gigis greeted me before anyone else, his muscular body wiggling with delight as I praised him for being such a good boy.
Jack was a police commissioner and head of CID in Nairobi. The place I was staying was his holiday cottage in Watamu, a quaint coastal town just north of Mombasa.
I had the pleasure of meeting Jack and his family when I flew them from Malindi to Lamu on a day trip. Jack noticed my name badge and asked if I was related to Danny McCallum. It turned out that Jack had crossed paths with my brother a few years back when he took Danny’s statement while he was recovering in the hospital from a shrapnel wound.
Danny had taken some clients on a hunting expedition to Archer’s Post in Samburu County, where they were shot at by poachers.
Some of the bullets had struck the body of the Land Cruiser Danny was standing on, he returned fire, and the poachers fled. The ordeal left Danny with a knee full of shrapnel.
A bullet had passed clean through one of the client’s hands, whilst another had torn a hole through the fabric of her jersey on her left shoulder. She’d also caught some of the shrapnel in her face.
Her boyfriend who was standing next to her had a bullet hole through his right cheek. Surprisingly, there wasn’t much blood.
The flying doctors eventually arrived, airlifting the trio to the nearest hospital. Miraculously, the bullet that struck the client’s cheek lodged in his neck, just under the skin, causing minimal damage.
After the wounds were treated, the clients insisted on continuing with their safari. Danny, on the other hand, had to stay in the hospital until he was able to walk again following surgery.
Despite the harrowing experience, Danny’s calm recounting of the events left a lasting impression on Jack, and the two became friends.
I had spent the past two years flying for Air Kenya, previously known as Coastal Air. Jack’s small beachside cottage became my home away from home.
In June 1978, I started flying my first passenger trips in a Piper Cherokee 6 with the registration number 5Y-AKS. She would be my faithful companion for the next 600 hours, the minimum requirement set by the airline for flying single-engine aircraft, to gain familiarity with the varied landscapes and extreme weather conditions of East Africa.
Ian Gregory, the Chief Pilot, offered invaluable support and guidance. In those pre-GPS days, local knowledge was our lifeline, and we relied heavily on it.
My early flights involved structured day trips from Malindi Airport along the coast to Lamu, where I would land on Manda Island. A ferry would transport us to the mainland, allowing my passengers to enjoy lunch before our return journey.
Once I had grown comfortable with coastal flying, I ventured into more challenging routes. I began to navigate the mountainous terrain, particularly the journey to Tsavo National Park and the Maasai Mara. The route took us west from Malindi, across the Chyulu mountain range, to the base of Mount Kilimanjaro in Amboseli National Park.
The mountain’s peak was frequently concealed by clouds that often cascaded down to the base, making the approach tricky. Flying conditions in this area required a pilot to possess three essential items: a watch, a compass, and an unwavering reserve of courage.
Timing the descent through the clouds to avoid colliding with the large rocks was a matter of life and death. Many pilots had tragically lost their lives when venturing into the Chyulus or the Kilimanjaro region. These airstrips were unmanned and devoid of air traffic control. Our only means of communication was through radio broadcasts among pilots, sharing information about the current conditions.
The danger did not end there.
Termite mounds were constant hazards that would pop up overnight, as were animals, especially during the migratory season.
Of these, the wildebeest were the worst offenders. Upon hearing the plane, the herd would begin racing around in an erratic fashion, flinging themselves on the ground with the abandon of mad dervishes. I could never decide whether this chicken-little behaviour stemmed from genuine terror or if it was merely a shameless recourse to the melodramatic.
In the time it took to set myself up to land after buzzing the runway, the clownish beasts would inevitably regroup and would be milling around on the runway again.
After the morning game drives, my passengers would reboard the Cherokee, and I’d take off just before lunch, heading to the Maasai Mara by following the Rift Valley. To clear the mountains, the minimum VFR altitude was set at 12,500 feet, a crucial safety measure. When flying in the reciprocal direction, the minimum height was raised to 13,000 feet.
I had acclimated to flying at such altitudes after months of practice, but passengers who were unaccustomed to it often became lethargic and drowsy. I would always descend if someone complained of a headache or if I noticed a slight bluish tinge around their lips.
Flying at altitude soon became my secret weapon even when I didn’t need to be at that height as it afforded me some peace and quiet.
Another constant threat was posed by thunderstorms and vultures. Thunderstorms could be seen from a distance and avoided, but the unpredictable vultures presented a persistent hazard, especially when the plains game was abundant during migration. When a vulture encountered an aeroplane, nine times out of ten, it would tuck in its wings and dive.
There is something deeply disturbing about being close enough to see the confusion in their piercing yellow eyes. Vultures, like people, could be unpredictable and irrational. There were instances when evasive manoeuvres, including steep banking, were necessary to avert a head-on collision, eliciting terrified screams from the passengers.
Upon reaching the Maasai Mara Game Reserve, my passengers embarked on another game drive, and later, we would takeoff for a pit stop at Tsavo National Park for afternoon tea. This leg of the journey was the most challenging, marked by hot, turbulent conditions during takeoff and landing. It was an unpleasant experience for everyone on board. The pilots collectively requested this leg to be scrapped as the only one who benefitted from it was the travel agent.
The flying time of four hours was repeated every day, five days a week, come rain or shine. It was an effective way to accumulate hours in the logbook and hone flying skills.
To be continued…..