Having spent the last couple of years flying to a rota, I was thoroughly enjoying the freedom and randomness of flying charters at Sunbird Aviation.
Granted, the aeroplanes weren’t as modern, in fact the old Piper Aztec 5Y-ARN was the most cantankerous of any aircraft I’d ever flown; however I embraced the differences, knowing that mixing things up would help shape me into a better pilot.
Thanks to the invaluable tips and advice from fellow colleagues, I had recently flown my first solo cross country from Wilson Airport in Nairobi, to Uganda in ARN.
Due to the fact that ARN had a single 12-volt battery, starting him was always a challenge as often all the energy would be spent in starting the left engine.
I’d have to wait patiently for the battery to recharge before I was able to start the right engine, a process that would always have me on tenterhooks as I feared burning out the starter-motor.
Over the past month I’d worked out more or less how long to crank and how long to wait, and ARN and I had established a mutual understanding.
Captain Brian Nicholson was my supervisor and mentor, it was Brian who would divvy up the charters each week between the pilots.
‘Iris, how would you and ARN like to fly Patrick Walker to Somalia tomorrow?’
Patrick was the husband of my sister-in-law’s best friend and over the years I had met them at various family gatherings and had developed a great fondness for them both.
‘That sounds like fun, pencil me in.’
I pulled out my map of Somalia, smoothing out the crease lines with the palms of my hands. The country was situated on the Horn of Africa and had the longest coastline on Africa’s mainland. It was bordered by Ethiopia to the west, Djibouti to the northwest and Kenya to the southwest.
My well-thumbed whizz-wheel estimated the flying time over the distance of 348 NM at 175 mph to be 2.5 hours, provided of course that there was no significant head wind. The heading was almost due east from Nairobi.
I filed my flight plan from Wilson to Kismayo for takeoff at 06h00 local time.
The first blush of light had just kissed the eastern horizon when Patrick arrived at the airport. The dark blue suit and starched white shirt he had chosen to wear fitted his lean frame perfectly, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who was accustomed to getting what he wants.
The flight was uncomplicated, and we landed at Kismayo Airport at 08h30.
I gathered all the necessary paperwork to clear ARN at customs and met Patrick at the taxi.
Having never been to Somalia before, I was captivated by the lime-washed flat-roofed buildings that sprawled along the broad, palm-tree lined avenues. The gothic arched windows inlaid with fine lattice work, and carved intricate wooden doors, were all evidence of the mixture of Venetian and Islamic influences.
The taxi pulled up outside a hotel where I was to wait while Patrick had his first meeting. I enjoyed a breakfast of fresh papaya, granadilla and grapefruit, the juicy yellow flesh just sweet enough to temper the bitterness.
The taxi took us back to Kismayo airport once Patrick had concluded his meeting. Next we flew for thirty minutes inland to an unmanned airfield in Marere. The area was renowned for its export-quality citrus plantations which were funded by the World Bank.
I spotted the long muram strip which stood out like a black scar amongst the endless rows of dark green.
Once Patrick had been collected for his next meeting, I made myself comfortable in the shade of the orange trees and pored over my maps. The air was heady with the scent of citrus blossoms, and I found myself dozing off to the soothing buzzing of bees.
We were scheduled to leave Marere for a flight to Mogadishu at 15h00, however ARN had a different idea. The engine on the left started without a problem. I cranked the starter on the right, the prop turned and the engine coughed but the battery couldn’t summon up enough power to start.
Luckily the runway was next to a working farm, so I went in search of assistance which I found in the form of a blue tractor. We hooked the jumper leads from the tractor to the small 12V battery. I held my breath. After a couple of false starts, the right engine finally caught.
Once airborne, there was no VHF radio contact, thus following the route on my prepared map was critical. The flight took an hour and fourteen minutes.
Once on the ground, I refuelled ARN and put him to bed, ensuring that he was firmly tied down. Patrick had organised a Land Rover at the airport. He turned to me with a cheeky grin, ‘My turn to chauffeur you Iris.’
He pointed the car towards the coast and within twenty minutes turned the Land Rover down a palm-tree lined road to the entrance of a massive triple-story white hotel with crenelations, reminiscent of a caravanserai straight out of Arabian Nights.
A bellhop wearing a white kanzu and neatly cropped crimson jacket trimmed with gold braiding, sporting a matching kofia on his head, materialized out of thin air.
‘Welcome to the Al-Uruba Hotel, allow me Memsahib.’ He bowed slightly and flashed me a broad smile.
His bone-white teeth looked as though they were hewn from the same material as the luminous white walls. He placed my dusty duffel bag on the luggage trolley with the same care as if it were a Fabergè egg.
‘Iris, go grab a beer, I’ll see you this evening at dinner. Ali will take care of you.’
‘It will be my honour Ali’, I addressed him in Swahili.
Ali squirmed with delight at hearing his native tongue, his eyes disappeared into the leathery folds of his skin as his wizened face split into a grin.
If I thought the outside of the hotel was impressive, the inside was like stepping into a fine hotel in Venice.
The first thing that greeted me as I walked into the lobby was the musky-sweet scent of fresh flowers.
Shards of coloured light from the crystal chandeliers shimmered and danced over the white marble walls and floor. Replicas of the great Italian renaissance masters hung on the walls, and ornaments ranging from delicately carved clocks to marble busts of Venus, were strategically arranged to delight the eye at every turn.
Ali led me to the dining area, which opened onto a wide veranda overlooking the lighthouse and old town with the vast turquoise ocean beyond. I was ushered to a table and within seconds a waiter, with a white cloth draped over his arm, poured a beer into a frosted glass.
The delicate tinkle of piano keys drifted on the soft breeze that ruffled the fronds of the palm trees. I watched a skipper clad only in a loincloth skilfully negotiate his dhow around the jutting rocks, his sinewy walnut-brown body glistening with the effort.
Once I had finished my beer, Ali miraculously reappeared at my side.
‘Let me show you to your room Memsahib.’
I followed him to a room upstairs and he flung open the brass-studded double doors with a flourish.
The floor was a geometric blaze of black and white tiles. In the centre of the large suite stood a king-sized four-poster bed draped with a mosquito net and at the far end stood an old fashioned ball and claw bath next to an arched window with unobstructed views of the ocean.
My limbs ached and I felt hot and sticky, so I succumbed to the temptation and opened the brass taps. I soaked my weary body for an hour before I pulled the plug, watching as the water swirled down the drain.
I stepped out of the bath and into water up to my ankles. Bewildered, I looked around to see where the water was coming from, realizing that it was rising out of the floor between the tiles. I pulled on some clothes and rushed down to the lobby.
When I explained the situation, the person on duty simply shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘Old pipes, we mop, don’t worry.’
I went to find Patrick in the dining room. He was seated at an immaculately set table adorned with crystal-cut glasses and silver candelabras. Ali appeared and pulled out a chair for me. He reached into a silver bucket filled with ice and beer and poured me an amber beverage.
Dinner was an array of freshly caught sea-food that continued arriving on platters until neither of us could face another crayfish.
‘Excuse me a moment Patrick, nature calls.’
I walked to the arch above which hung a sign that read ‘W.C’ and opened the door showing a picture of a female. The interior was dimly lit and it took my eyes a couple of seconds to adjust. When they did, I could not fully comprehend what I was seeing.
I closed my eyes, rubbing my fists into the sockets. It had been a long day and I was a few beers in. I cautiously opened them again. The sharp smell of urine stung my nostrils, making my eyes water.
Over the single basin. a fluorescent light bulb dangled from a black chord. The walls and floor was bare concrete.
Half a dozen ‘ladies’ wearing skimpy outfits were milling around, one of them was relieving herself on a toilet that had no cubicle door. When she flushed, water seeped up out of the floor, once more rising up my feet.
A lady painting her lips in front of a cracked mirror caught me looking at her and winked, her scarlet lips garish in the naked light.
My call of nature forgotten, I bolted back through the door, desperate to escape this scene.
Back on the other side, neatly dressed waiters continued carrying domed cloches, seemingly oblivious to this alternate reality mere meters away.
As I walked back to our table, Patrick pointed to my boot to which clung a wad of wet toilet paper.
I told him about my Alice in Wonderland experience and he laughed. ‘That’s Africa for you Cuddles. A paradox around every corner.’
What these trips taught me is to just ‘go with what’s next.’ It was pointless trying to fit Africa into a first world paradigm. She was wild, predictable in her unpredictability.
It was these contradictions that have shaped this continent into what it is today.
God bless Africa.