Laura McDermid continues her stories about Iris McDermott in East Africa.
On the 26 August 1980 I was asked to fly charter clients in the Aztec: 5Y-ARN. This aircraft had a 12-volt battery which often caused me to have serious heart flutters when trying to start the engines. All the energy in the battery was used up in starting the left engine and I’d have to wait for it to charge up again before I could start the right engine.
Anyhow, ‘ARN’ and I were teamed up together for many trips and over time I learnt to manage his idiosyncrasies.
We departed Wilson Airport in Nairobi at 04h15Z, our destination was Entebbe, on a peninsula in Lake Victoria, in Uganda. I was nervous as I’d never flown that far north on my own before. My fellow pilots at Sunbird were very supportive and the day before we departed, Dicky Bird sat me down with a rudimentary map, and circled all the critical landmarks. These were the days before detailed maps and charts, all we had to go on was local knowledge which was passed down from pilot to pilot.
‘Your timing when flying into Moroto is critical Iris; there are a LOT of pointy rocks on that route.’
For emphasis he drew a big red circle around the word ‘Wagagai’.
‘At 14,177ft this is the highest peak on that range. Fully laden and with a high-density altitude, ARN might battle.’
Mount Moroto is one of a chain of extinct volcanoes along Uganda’s border with Kenya that begins with Mount Elgon in the south. Geologists estimate that Mount Elgon is at least 24 million years old, making it the oldest extinct volcano in East Africa.
The flight went smoothly, and I landed without any problems at Entebbe. I did my post-flight checks, refuelling from a private supply of Avgas that the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) had organised.
The airport terminal building had been decimated; every conceivable fixture had been removed. Tentacles of wires stuck out from empty plug sockets. Basins and toilets had been ripped out of walls and floors. Even the window frames and panes had been stripped, leaving gaping holes in the walls.
Idi Amin, the third president of Uganda, had attempted to annex Tanzania’s Kagera Region in 1978. In response, the Tanzanian president, Julius Nyerere, ordered his troops to invade Uganda. In 1979, Kampala was successfully captured, and as a result one of the most brutal despots in modern history was ousted from power.
A massive famine ensued, and the ICRC were called in to assist.
My VIPs were the head of the ICRC, and his adjutant, Christopher, who were both ex-military from Switzerland. Their aim was to conduct a recce of Uganda to determine the extent of the damage and to assess what relief aid would need to be deployed.
An ICRC driver was waiting to collect us and take us to the temporary headquarters on the outskirts of town.
We drove through numerous roadblocks manned by Tanzanian soldiers who were easily recognized by their bad attitudes, dark aviator sunglasses and machine guns that were casually slung over their shoulders.
The HQ was based out of a house that doubled as accommodation and offices. It was a great big colonial double-story house nestled in a canopy of emerald green trees and rolling hills, with a wrap-around veranda that offered 360 degree views, a critical feature for safety reasons.
After freshening up, my pax were ushered into an all-day meeting and I was left to my own devices.
I always travelled with books, so I made myself comfortable on a sofa and had just immersed myself in a story when scraping sounds on the wooden floor above me interrupted my concentration. I put my book down and went to investigate. I was greeted by the sight of the staff moving furniture around. I singled out the Major-domo and asked him what was happening.
His face split into a huge grin, his bone white teeth standing out in stark relief against his blue-black skin. He explained that they had expected the pilot to be a male and as such had arranged for shared living quarters.
My arrival changed all of that, and the gallant member of staff voluntarily gave up his room for me and was in the process of moving in with another member of staff.
My newly acquired bedroom was beautifully appointed with incredible views of Kampala’s hills.
That evening a cocktail party was thrown in honour of the VIPs. An entourage of guests, all NGOs affiliated with the ICRC, began streaming in. I felt a bit like a fish out of water amongst all the relief workers, so I put my experience of organising safaris into action and made myself available as a bartender.
The evening was a great success, and thanks to my heavy hand, everyone was very relaxed.
We took off from Entebbe at 06h00Z, and an hour and forty minutes later landed at Moroto in the Karamojong area. This part of the country was surrounded by mountains, rocky outcrops, and unique vegetation. My notation in my logbook read ‘a beautiful day’.
A chauffeured Landcruiser was waiting for us. We were driven to the local hospital where my guests met with the staff to see what medical supplies were needed. The smell of rot hung in the air and a few sick and wounded patients were milling around listlessly. There were no mattresses on the beds. A woman with a sick child was sitting on the bare springs. Bloated green flies clustered around the mucous that spilled copiously from the child’s nostrils. The mother looked at me, her glazed eyes imploring me for help. I shrugged my shoulders in a helpless gesture, feeling more impotent than I’ve ever felt before.
It was an eye opener for all of us.
After the visit to the hospital, the driver took us to an abandoned lodge in the Matheniko Game Reserve which had escaped the looting.
It was managed by a caretaker from the Karamojong tribe, Jonas, who kept the place spotless and had arranged a few sprigs of wildflowers in an empty tin can in anticipation of our arrival. We had brought rice, tea, and basic supplies with us, but Jonas was adamant that he would treat his distinguished guests to a nice meal.
I’ll never forget the spectacle of Jonas running around the outside of the building, knobkerrie in hand, in hot pursuit of a few scrawny Crested Guinea Fowl. Much to my amazement, he managed to catch one. The Swiss were suspicious of the blue hued meat, and ate the meal of the boiled, tough fowl in silence.
Jonas hovered around the table, his slanty Nilotic eyes darting expectantly from person to person, the taught decorative scars on his face glowing in the soft light of the paraffin lamps, lending him an otherworldly look.
The Swiss were too polite to complain, appreciating the effort that Jonas had gone to, to put this meal on the table.
Content with their survey, my passengers were ready to return to Geneva to begin making plans. My job done; I contacted the folks back at Sunbird to let them know that I’d be departing the next day.
We were airborne out of Moroto at 11h30Z, arriving in Nairobi late afternoon just before the last shard of orange slipped below the horizon.
It was trips like these that I remember fondly, selfless people doing their best to help others in times of hardships. I know that I was just doing my job, but I’d like to think that I was also contributing to this noble cause in some small way.