IRIS FLIES ACROSS SUDAN – Part 2
Laura McDermid continues her stories about Iris McCallum’s early years in East Africa and the Sudan. In art 1 of this story she recounts how she had to fly a bunch of Belgian Missionaries to Aweil, a city in northwestern South Sudan, from Wilson in Nairobi in her old mate ‘ARN’, the Piper Aztec 5Y-ARN.
It was long days flying as, in order to clear customs and refuel, we had to fly to Juba, the capital of South Sudan, a distance of 489 nm and then a further 343 nm to Aweil.
We departed Juba at 13h30 local time for Bor. The soft, superheated air rising from the runway offered so little body for the wings that we ascended reluctantly, seeming actually to sag when the wheels broke ground and sometimes barely surmounting the oncoming trees.
As expected, the flight was rough. I heard one of my passengers vomit noisily into an air-sick bag.
This part of the trip was still easy, I just followed the White Nile North for about 40 minutes to find Bor airstrip.
The Nile held an excitement and allure when viewed from the air. This river had so much history that, regardless of how many times I laid eyes on it, it was like seeing it for the first time.
I landed at Bor and offloaded the supplies that I’d bought with from Nairobi for the local mission, and topped ARN up with avgas.
We spent 40 minutes on the ground and got airborne at 16h00 for Aweil via Wau.
Thinking of my old instructor’s briefing for this flight I said out loud to nobody in particular, ‘Here we go Dicky Bird.’
My heading was NW and I climbed to FL105, high enough to have reasonable visibility and to cool off. My love of history paid off, as within no time at all, I was on the west bank of the Nile.
It was flat and there was nothing but elephant grass, which I knew from reading old hunting books, could be anything from 12 to 15 feet high and was sharp enough to slice though a person’s skin as if it were wet tissue paper.
This was the start of the dreaded Sudd. From my bird’s eye view it looked like a mosaic of floating islands, water lilies and tangled reeds occasionally interspersed with pools of water. No wonder it took explorers until the late 19th and early 20th centuries to navigate.
I estimated that I would reach the railway line in about 1 hour and 50 minutes with a further 15 minutes to Aweil based on the line Dicky Bird had drawn on the ONC map back in the board room.
This was the part of the route that I had been anxious about. The map on my knee pad read “Relief Data Incomplete” and was just white.
I found myself getting annoyed at my anxiety; I’m like a two year old clutching their blankie for comfort.
As the sun slid lower and lower to the horizon, my pulse rate rose higher and higher.
I looked around, my passengers were all soundly asleep, Mr Chunder still gripping his packet as though it were something of great value.
Wonderful, I shall have to be scared all on my own.
I looked ahead, something glinted. My hopes rose in anticipation of seeing a railway line. As I drew nearer I realised it was just another pool of water reflecting the last of the sun’s rays.
My heart sank and I tried to swallow, but the back of my throat was really dry. Both my hands were welded to the yoke, my knuckles white with the strain.
I’m sitting ram-rod straight in my seat, straining forward as though I could will the ground features into the cockpit. I look at my watch.
My time is up.
I had no idea what effect the wind had had, whether I was left or right of track, but I knew for sure that the railway line was up ahead…unless of course the wind had blown me so off course that I had passed to the north of Wau where there is no railway line.
Doubt was no longer creeping its way into my mind but clawing wildly – like a honey badger trapped in a box.
‘Keep the faith Iris’ I hear Dicky Bird’s voice echoing in my head.
I keep going for another ten minutes and it crosses my mind that if I don’t find the railway line before the sun sets, I may have to precautionary, but no doubt crash landing, in the swamp.
I didn’t fancy that at all.
I see another shining river ahead… it’s not water, this time it IS the railway line.
Relief floods through my body. I feel as though I have been holding my breath for hours. I turn right, following the railway line to Wau. I’ve descended to FL85 and soon overfly the small village.
I am back over the Sudd, but now I know where I am, and 15 minutes later I see a tendril of smoke curling in the sky and a village. This had to be Aweil.
As the sky changed from magenta, to purple and mauve, the last sliver of sun slipped below the horizon. I flew over the village looking for an area that would suffice as an airstrip.
I identified a clearing that would serve and flew overhead, ensuring the area was clear of obstacles.
I thought I’d test what Dicky Bird said about passengers not knowing where they are. I turned to Mr Chunder, who was by now awake but still clutching his spew, and asked if this village beneath us was Aweil.
He looked out the window squinting hard and turned back to me, his brow furrowed with confusion ‘I don’t know.’
I turned onto final approach and thanked the gods that I was in an Aztec, as I could slow ARN right down. I took the full 45 degrees of flap and landed with ease on the short field.
I taxied to a large mango tree, thinking it would make a good hangar for the evening. As is the case in these remote villages, people spilled out of every home, curious about the strange flying contraption.
A little girl peered at me shyly around her mother’s legs, her eyes wide with awe at the spectacle of this white woman with a mass of unruly hair.
The flight from Bor to Aweil had taken me 2.5 hours, a little longer than planned, so a head wind it was! I closed up ARN for the night, patting him affectionately and thanking him for delivering us safely.
I looked around, noticing for the first time that the airstrip was also used as a soccer field, as evidenced by a goal post at the far end of the ‘runway’.
A driver arrived in a clapped out Toyota to drive us to the mission station where we were given a very warm welcome. I was shown to an amazing room at the back of the building that opened onto a veranda, and then I was given a grand tour of the ablutions.
Forget WC, this was a throne room. I had to climb eight steps onto a stage on top of which sat an ornate ceremonial chair carved from indigenous mahogany. This was positioned over the toilet hole and was without a doubt, the most elaborate loo I’d ever had the pleasure of sitting on.
Following my arduous day in the cockpit, I had a comfortable night and a good rest, and even recall sharing a dumpy Tusker with Mr Chunder who, sans his bag, was quite a pleasant guy.
Following the passengers’ ordeal yesterday, we took off at 07h30 the following morning and this time no one was late.
Knowing what to expect, I headed off to Bor feeling a lot more relaxed. I still played it safe and routed back via Wau. This time we had a tailwind, and the flight was a bit quicker.
Pilots in the 1980s think fondly about Juba for one thing only. Duty free. When leaving, we would stock up on our favourite vices. It was one of the few places that actually sold duty free scotch in 5 litre glass bottles. Some even had wheels attached to the base of the bottle for ease of travel. Now that’s what I call civilized!
Another 3.5 hours flying to Wilson and soon I was home enjoying a cold frosty.
Looking back, having flown these trips by dead reckoning, without proper maps or any GPS aids, was hard work. Forever searching and searching and eventually finding what you were looking for played tricks on the mind and took guts.
All the East African pilots I knew at the time had strong personalities, but there was no place for pride or shame. We pioneered together, and most importantly helped one another. Paying attention to the advice which was so freely shared was invaluable, and had saved my bacon more than once and helped me thrive.
The shared experiences forged a wonderful camaraderie, one that remains indelibly etched on my heart.