Laura McDermid continues her stories about Iris McCallum’s early years in East Africa and the Sudan.

The year was 1980 and, despite Kenya achieving independence in 1963, the British influence persisted. Fascination with the country was at an all-time high. Many Britons were familiar with the exotic wildlife and scenic landscapes through literature and nature documentaries.

The media exposure spurred a sense of adventure and a desire to experience safaris firsthand, which benefited the local aviation companies, including Sunbird Aviation, the company I’d been working for since April.

On 14 September 1980, I was asked to charter a film crew that were making a television series based on Elspeth Huxley’s book; ‘The Flame Trees of Thika: Memories of an African Childhood’. The memoir tells the story about Elspeth’s family’s ambitious move from Scotland to Thika, a remote area of Kenya, to establish a coffee plantation just before WWI.

Huxley captures the difficulties of transforming wilderness into a farm, the relationships formed with the local workers and the personal dramas amongst the settlers. The series went on to be nominated for three BAFTA television awards, including Ian Wilson for best cinematography.

A week earlier I had flown Belgian missionaries from Nairobi to Sudan, my first long distance flight which involved some nerve -wracking moments flying over unchartered territory. It’s disconcerting before a proposed flight to find that in many cases the bulk of the terrain over which you had to fly was bluntly marked ‘Relief Data Incomplete’ on the aviation chart. At those times, looking out the cockpit merely confirmed that you had no cooking clue where you were and that Mordor may be an actual place.

I flew a total distance of 1600 nm on that trip in the trusty Piper Aztec 5Y-ARN. Although I had only been flying ARN for a few months, he had grown on me and I’d come to view his shortcomings as tolerable quirks, in the same way a parent views the behaviour of a delinquent child in a mildly amusing light. 

This day I loaded my film crew’s four passengers, together with their endless bags of fragile camera equipment, and we took off from Wilson at 08h30 local.

My heading would have been direct north-east had Mount Kenya not been in the middle of the flight path.

At over 17,000 ft at its highest point, Mount Kenya is Africa’s second highest mountain and has claimed many unsuspecting aeroplanes over the years, including four WWII SAAF airmen who crashed their Bristol Blenheim MkIV in 1942 during a training flight.

With its snow capped peaks, it is without doubt an amazing spectacle, and always elicits gasps of awe from my passengers.

Many mountaineers have attempted to climb this formidable mountain, but one of my favourite stories is of three Italians that were held in a British POW camp during WWII at the base of the mountain in Nanyuki.

They escaped the camp and managed to climb the third highest peak, Point Lenana, before ‘escaping’ back into camp 18 days later. The story is retold in the book ‘No Picnic on Mount Kenya’ written by their team leader Felize Benuzzi. Apparently an image of Mount Kenya on an Oxo tin of rations, provided the three escapees with information on the unseen south face of the mountain.

Stories like these serve as a reminder of the almost godlike achievement of our species which are perpetuated throughout history, often supported on the twin crutches of fable and human incredulity.

The filming was taking place at Lewa Downs, the home of the Craig family who, in order to protect the dwindling black rhino population, converted 62,000 acres into a wildlife conservancy in the early 1980s.

It was a quick flight and soon I was overhead the dark red strip. The place is home to over 70 species of mammals, and at that time of the year the zebras were starting their migration.

I buzzed the strip which had the effect of churning a bunch of wildebeest into a frenzied gallop, the clownish beasts ending back where they started. I came in lower the second time and watched them plunge in fright before the shadow of my wings, this time scattering into a thicket of acacias.

I glanced at my watch, it was 09h15, and I could already see the heat shimmering above the red sand airstrip, a portent of afternoon thunder showers.

As I opened ARN’s door, the passengers tumbled out in a tangle of limbs and camera equipment, eager to get started with the day’s filming.

Once my passengers were collected, I performed my post-flight checks and sought out a shady spot from where I could watch the filming.

My young friend Jacky Kenyon oversaw the oxen and ox wagon which played a crucial role in the series. He waved and gave me a wide toothy grin when he saw me, before returning his attention to the jet black zebu bull, which at its hump stood at least a foot taller than Jacky.

I watched David Robb and Hayley Mills in their roles of Robin and Tilly Grant face various hardships in their beautiful but hostile new Kenyan home with their eleven year old daughter Elspeth (played by Holly Aird).

The set was made up to resemble a picnic scene. A large white sheet has been draped between two large umbrella thorn trees and Elspeth and her mom are being served tea by headman Njombo out of fine bone china cups.

Suddenly a bunch of curious Maasai materialize out of the bush and stare at the spectacle of the two well dressed European women who couldn’t have looked more out of place if they tried. Njombo is incensed by the intrusion and shouts at the onlookers in Swahili to go away.

The Maasai are meant to look contrite after being admonished, but each time Njombo shouts at them, one of them begins to snort with mirth which triggers the rest into peals of laughter and the scene has to be shot again.

At midday clouds begin to coalesce, offering some respite from the relentless sun. By late afternoon a pall of  malaise descends over everything, even the noisy cicadas are quietened into submission.

The actresses must be sweltering in their Victorian dresses which are buttoned all the way up to their ears and I am grateful that society had evolved to allow women to wear pants and bare some skin.

By late afternoon the sky is grey, and I can hear the faint rumble of thunder in the distance.

Ian Wilson calls time out and the arduous process of lugging the camera equipment back to the plane begins. As the first fat plops of rain strike the dusty runway, the fizz of ozone fill my nostrils. Time to go.

When I lift off at 17h40, the southern horizon is the colour of a ripe aubergine and rain is falling in a solid sheet. As soon as I trim ARN for straight and level, I file an IFR flight plan which takes me over the November Victor VOR and clears me to the Tango Hotel Beacon for an ILS approach onto runway 07 at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport.

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