Pilot in the Wild flipping preview by Jacana Media

ISBN 978-1-4314-0871-9 www.jacana.co.za

IN THE

WILD

Flights of conservation and survival

JOHN BASSI

9 781431 408719

WILD

Starting his adult life during the Rhodesian conflict and discovering how wildlife pays for wars, John went on to fly microlights and later, helicopters. Combining aviation with conservation, he carved out an unexpected and deeply satisfying career. He has logged over 16 000 hours of bush flying throughout southern Africa. John continues to fly, offering services in all areas of conservation, as well as pursuing his fascination in bronze wildlife sculpture.

IN THE

John has serious concerns about many of our once pristine wilderness areas that are being destroyed through politics and land claims. He speaks out about how commercial exploitation has been hidden under the guise of conservation and how he has witnessed the devastating results of rhino poaching.

PILOT

A deep love for the wilderness and wildlife conservation, as well as a passion for flying, have been John Bassiâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s focus for most of his life. He is one of the most respected aerial conservationists in South Africa and was at the forefront of the early translocation industry, as well as most major wildlife relocation and research projects. Meeting his French veterinarian partner Charlotte along the way, he has been involved in all aspects of wildlife management and has experienced the evolution of the game industry.

PILOT

JOHN BASSI

Pilot in the Wild

Pilot in the sky.indd 1

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the sky.indd 2

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

Flights of conservation and survival

By John Bassi

Pilot in the sky.indd 3

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Some names have been changed in this book to protect the privacy of the individuals.

First published by Jacana Media (Pty) Ltd 2013 10 Orange Street Sunnyside Auckland Park 2092 South Africa +2711 628 3200 www.jacana.co.za ÂŠ John Bassi, 2013 www.bassair.co.za facebook: Bassair Aviation All rights reserved. ISBN 978-1-4314-0871-9 Set in Sabon 10.5/15pt Job No. 002066 Printed and bound by Ultra Litho (Pty) Ltd Johannesburg See a complete list of Jacana titles at www.jacana.co.za

Pilot in the sky.indd 4

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Dedicated to all the animals living and surviving in the wild.

Pilot in the sky.indd 5

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years. Abraham Lincoln (1809–1865)

Pilot in the sky.indd 6

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Contents

Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi 1 Casualties of War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23

Tsunami of Change . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 In Search of Peace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17 Finding My Wings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29 Taming the Beast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .44 Failure is Not an Option. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .52 Back Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .64 Tail Rotor Strike . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .77 Happy to Be on the Ground . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .95 Pushing the Limits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 Invisible Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 122 Looking for Perfection. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138 Natureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Way . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 152 Time to Move on. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 Back to Reality. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177 On a High . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193 Win Some, Lose Some . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206 Are We Really Helping? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 220 Facing Fear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 237 The Brink of Extinction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 243 High Alert . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 250 Feeling Helpless . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 265 Losing the Battle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275

Epilogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 298 Captions for photo section . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 302 vii

Pilot in the sky.indd 7

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the sky.indd 8

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Foreword

IT WAS A COLD MORNING AS, coffee in hand, we waited for the helicopter to arrive to commence the collaring of an elephant in the Pilanesberg National Park. Soon the familiar clatter of the rotor blades was heard. ‘Watch,’ I was told, ‘he will come in high, buzz low over us, do a wingover and land. Oh… and he is not usually very friendly.’ Challenge, I thought, as I was keen to try to attach a small video camera to the chopper and film the landscape for an insert in 50/50, a South African conservation and environmental television programme. I approached, believing that my request would be refused. In the middle of explaining I was told, ‘You have 20 minutes before take-off.’ The camera was duly fitted and there started a friendship that has provided me with incredible experiences and stories – as well as deep discussions around conservation over numerous cups of tea. I have had the privilege of meeting many researchers and conservationists over many years. Some, like John, have stood out head and shoulders above the rest. Wildlife pilots are a different breed, always flying in the danger zone and yet landing and melting into the background after darting a cheetah from the air or moving an elephant or rhino onto an exact spot for the ease of wildlife professionals or guests. Just as some of us drive 4x4s in our work, ride a horse or bike, so John, has as his primary mode of transport, a vehicle with a rotary wing. Many times I have called John asking for assistance for a conservation project, often without funding, and he has never refused. ‘Fly now, pay later’ has certainly not filled his bank. Sitting under trees, our discussions have ranged from poisoned

Pilot in the sky.indd 9

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

waterholes, which have caused the death of many rhino and vultures, to learning about the habits of wildlife – how an ostrich once hijacked a herd of wildebeest, and about the changes in landscapes and people brought about by wildlife policy, many of them to the detriment of our natural environment. As I write I look up and see a container of video tapes and recordings marked ‘John Bassi Wildlife’ and wonderful memories return. Once John was drinking yet another cup of tea on the back of the Landy while refuelling the aircraft and chatting to guests in a gamedrive vehicle, when the air was filled with snorts: obviously some large critter was blundering through the bush. The guide stretched for his rifle to protect his guests. ‘Relax,’ said John, sipping his tea, ‘it’s just the baby looking for Mom’ – at which point the young sub-adult calf burst out of the bush and blundered past us. Laying bare your life for others to read is never easy; words in print are a commitment for eternity. When I read this book I realised that there is an incredible amount that we don’t know about our friends and colleagues. Nevertheless, there is one thing we share, and that is a love and respect for our natural history and a passion for conservation. There is something very special too about the helicopter registration ‘ZS-HFD’. I will leave you to read the book and find out just why this may be one of the best combinations in the conservation world. When you read it, I trust that it ignites in you a love of the African wilderness and a better understanding of the important background work of the ‘wardens of our wilderness’. I hope too that it inspires you to live your passion and dream. Oh… and the ever-present cup of tea: weak Earl Grey with a liberal dollop of condensed milk! To John Bassi, pilot, artist, sculptor, storyteller and, above all, ‘warden of our wilderness’, fly safe and well! Tim Neary Naturalist, conservationist and broadcaster

Pilot in the sky.indd 10

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Acknowledgements

THERE ARE SO MANY PEOPLE I would like to thank; those I have missed, please forgive me. First of all, thanks to my family, my parents Guy and Mary Bassi and my sister Susan, for instilling in me the belief that I could become whatever I dreamed. To Charlotte, for finding your way to me and sharing a dream life. To Dave Rushworth of the old Rhodesian Parks and Wildlife Services, for opening my eyes to the beauty of nature. To the late Jane Goodall, Ronald Rankine and RH Smithers of the Rhodesia National Museums and Monuments; your mentoring sparked my journey into conservation. To my comrade-in-arms Gary Fraser, for always watching my back during the days of war. To Major Ian Scobie in Scotland, for providing me with a roof and work during a time of need. To Oom Rene and Tannie Hannie, for believing in me and providing me the opportunity to start Drome Z. To Nico Mansvelt, for standing by me over many years and trying patiently to help me understand how business works. To Jack Nell, Jean dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Assonville and all the intrepid, pioneering microlight pilots with whom I have shared the sky. To Trond Berg, for your friendship and for allowing me my first experience at the controls of a helicopter. To all my fellow aviator friends, especially those who are no longer with us: Garth Irving, Ollie Coltman, Gordon de Beer, Joe Roodt, Klaus Heinemann, Andy Searle, Gerry du Plessis, Arrie Neethling,

Pilot in the sky.indd 11

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

Dean Pedro, Chris du Plessis, Peter Breuchan, Delville Botha, Solo van Rooyen, Bakkies Botha, Kottie Breedt, Boeta Austin, Louis Nel. To John Blythe-Wood for taking a chance and letting me loose in his helicopter. To all the wildlife veterinarians with whom Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve had the pleasure of working, the game farmers and conservationists for supporting me over the years, and the game capture teams with whom Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve worked. To all the staff and veterinary members employed by SANParks during my brief stay, in particular Ian Whyte, Dewalt Keet, Roy Bengis, Douw Grobler, JJ van Altena, Mike Rochet, Petri Viljoen and the late Piet Otto. To Charles Thompson, Grant Knight, Paul Lombard, Jaco Mol and other hardworking friends who followed me loyally as ground support while you were learning to fly. To Rusty Hustler, Steve Dell, Mike Crowther, Charlotte Marais, Piet Nel, Johnson Maoka, Pieter Leitner and all the North West Parks staff, who have given so much of yourselves to the cause of defending nature. To my friend Jon Davidson, for your photographic genius. To Erika Schulze, for years of dedicated support and hundreds of hours beside me in a helicopter during game census work. To Annelize Steyn and Johan Eksteen of the Mpumalanga Parks team, for your team spirit and cameraderie during census work. To Elise Daffue, for your unwavering loyalty and support with Bassair Aviation, and your dedication to protecting rhino. To Frans Grobbelaar and your team at Trio Aviation, for all your hours and effort spent keeping me flying safely. To Dominique le Roux, for your inspiration, advice and encouragement. To JJ van Altena, for the strength to pull through and survive our helicopter crash. To the late and dearly missed Shaun Rambert, for all the laughter, friendship and joy we shared while working together. To Tim Neary, for promoting and supporting me and introducing me to Jacana Media.

xii

Pilot in the sky.indd 12

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Acknowledgements

To Carol Broomhall of Jacana, who reworked a half-baked book idea about helicopters into something people might actually want to read. To my editor Gwen Hewett, for understanding sometimes better than I did what I had in mind, and helping to steer an often wayward narrative back onto its proper path.

xiii

Pilot in the sky.indd 13

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

xiv

Pilot in the sky.indd 14

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Casualties of War

CHAPTER 1

Casualties of War 1979, Sabie River Valley, Rhodesia

I DROPPED TO MY HAUNCHES, caressing the trigger of my FN rifle. ‘Look,’ I whispered to Gary, ‘he’s close.’ I pointed at the fresh, three-toed spoor in the soft sand: a passing black rhino. We smiled at each other, even though we were now on high alert for the snorting grunts of a charging beast. Permanently in a bad mood, black rhino have a nasty habit of launching their pointed horns at intruders, backed by a ton and a half of body mass. We’d had more than one narrow escape from their tantrums, thanks only to our agility of climbing thorn trees. We were tracking a distinctive three-bar shoe print, typical of communist issue, when we encountered a well-used pile of dung and mixed earth – the territorial marking midden of black rhino bulls. Every nerve in my body was alert to the slightest movement in the surrounding bush, ready to react to the alarm calls – snorting impala or the shrieking cackle of disturbed francolins, warning the world of our intrusion. All my senses were focused, listening subconsciously for the smallest deviation from the normal rhythm of the bush. But the sounds continued in peaceful harmony. The bush was alive with the constant shrilling of the cicadas; they would be the first to fall silent if disturbed. We blended into the shrubs like a pair of ghosts, hoping not to alert the rhino or the terrorists. Gary and I had done our military training together through the Selous Scouts, an elite group within the Rhodesian army; now he was my partner and a very competent soldier. We were operating as trackers with the Rhodesian Light Infantry during the last months of the infamous Rhodesian bush war. Gary was tall and muscular with dark wavy hair, and despite some

Pilot in the sky.indd 1

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

scarring from youthful acne, he was handsome in a strange, pointy way. Whenever he turned his pale blue gaze on me, I was struck by the hunter in his expression. The unspoken mutual trust we had developed allowed us to work as one. We climbed like chameleons through a rusty barbed-wire cattle fence, our movements calculated, eyes and ears tuned to the slightest sign of enemy. ‘Here,’ I indicated, ‘they join up again.’ The human tracks followed a cattle path towards the thick riverine bush along the banks of the Sabie River. I wasn’t sure which would be scarier to bump into – the rhino or the armed bandits. Earlier that morning we’d been patrolling in the bush, searching for clues among small, remote mud-and-thatch villages. I’d been alerted to the presence of hostiles by the behaviour of a young herd boy, or mujiba, who had attempted to obliterate the terrorists’ tracks by driving his cattle over them. It was late summer, and the oppressive humid heat smothered like a blanket; sensible creatures would be lying down, sleeping under cover. The low afternoon sun accentuated the sheen on shrubbery disturbed by a passing boot, and the indentations from shoes cast small shadows in the soft sand. The depth, spread and clumsiness of the shoe prints and the way small twigs had been pressed deep into the sand told me that two of the three terrorists were heavily burdened by weight. No doubt they were carrying a small arsenal of weapons. Semi-crouched, I scanned a few metres ahead for signs: a bent blade of grass, a broken twig, a displaced stone. Hot on the trail, with Gary on my heels as our eyes and ears, I focused ahead, anticipating the spacing of scuffmarks, discovering the direction of the tracks. We paused for a moment as a warm, dry wind picked up, gusting chaotically. Leaves rustled above from the agitated branches of the marula trees as a small dust devil tugged at them. For a brief moment a rotting smell brushed our noses. Flaring our nostrils like hounds on a scent, we turned into the gentle breeze, curious about the source of the decay. Shiny green flies buzzed lazily in swarms around the carcass of a black rhino bull. It lay in a sleeping position, front legs folded in a

Pilot in the sky.indd 2

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Casualties of War

relaxed manner. Millions of maggots seethed like boiling rice grains through the gaping hole above its nose where the horns had been. The rhino had been dead for about two days, and was fast decomposing in the Lowveld heat. Shocked by our discovery, we almost missed the telltale tracks around the carcass – the same three-bar footprints we’d been tracking. An hour had passed since we’d crossed the fence, following the depression towards the river. The riverine bush, thick and lush with towering mahogany and fig trees, was an ideal hideout. Focused like predators, we gradually picked our way through the thick vegetation. Gary saw him first, clenching his fist to get my attention. We froze. Less than 100 metres from us, a man in a blue shirt was pacing back and forth with an AK-47 assault rifle slung over his shoulder. We crouched low like hunting leopards and backtracked slowly. Using the bushes as cover, we crawled between clusters of tall grass until we found sufficient camouflage to pause and gather ourselves. We waited, motionless, searching through the branches to assess the danger. Another man sat on a fallen tree with his back to us, his communist-issue SKS rifle resting on a log beside him. The third man was barely visible, hidden by thick bushes. They were relaxing on top of a flattened termite mound that gave them an elevated view, a wellchosen hideout with ample tree and bush cover all over it. ‘We must take them now,’ Gary whispered, ‘or we’ll never see them again.’ I nodded. ‘There may be more, but I doubt it,’ he continued. ‘If we take these two and it gets hot, we can escape that way,’ he motioned with a jerk of his head, ‘and meet at the rock pools.’ ‘You take Blueshirt,’ I replied. ‘I’ll take sitting Whiteshirt. Maybe we can both get the third. When you’re ready, let’s count to three.’ I snuggled into a comfortable, steady, lying position, supporting my weapon firmly on my elbows. I paced my breathing and calmed my adrenalin, aligning my rifle’s forward sight solidly in the centre circle of the rear sight. I lined up the target, aiming between the shoulder blades of my oblivious quarry.

Pilot in the sky.indd 3

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

I glanced sideways. Gary was taut and ready, steadying his aim in the forked branch of a buffalo-thorn. He nodded. We counted to three in a whisper. We opened fire, double-tapping two quick, successive shots, each on target, the simultaneous ‘doh-doh’ shattering the tranquillity of the Sabie River. I remained motionless, ears ringing, allowing the world around us to stabilise and return to normality. Nothing moved. Gradually the sounds of the bush resumed, the sad hooting of a green-spotted dove, then the high-pitched buzz of an impatient cicada. We waited a few minutes to make sure we were safe. Blueshirt lay dead still beside the fallen tree. Then Gary and I moved away from our ambush position, walking in a wide arc towards the termite mound, every sinew in our bodies alert and ready to react. Satisfied that we were alone, with weapons ready, we approached the clearing. Whiteshirt lay sprawled, face down behind the tree, his comrade a few metres away, also dead. The third person had departed in such haste that he’d left his weapon and clothing behind. We took our time emptying their pockets and examining their various belongings and documents. They were Mugabe’s terrorists all right: various possessions of communist origin included the little red book, Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-Tung, and documents revealing that they were awaiting new recruits from Mozambique. Next, we turned to the contents of the three hessian sacks, certain of finding more weapons. We were completely unprepared for what was inside. Ten rhino horns! Little did I imagine it then, but this was the beginning of the end for the rhino population in Rhodesia. It is very concerning that many large areas that were extremely rich in wildlife are now devoid of all animal life. ‘If I ever get out of this hell-hole,’ I swore to Gary, ‘I’m going to dedicate the rest of my days to protecting wildlife. It’s the most urgent task on Earth.’

Pilot in the sky.indd 4

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Tsunami of Change

CHAPTER 2

Tsunami of Change 1978, Bulawayo

I WAS IN MY FINAL YEAR Of school when my call up papers arrived, along with those of my schoolmates. We were ordered to present ourselves to the Commanding Officer at Llewellyn Barracks, Bulawayo at 8 am on 10 January 1978. I knew nothing about politics, Ian Smith and his party, or the Rhodesian Front. All I knew was that our country was being attacked and civilians murdered by communist terrorists from outside the country. We all had to do our time. The Rhodesian bush war had been steadily progressing since December 1967. This ‘armed struggle’ had resulted when the African Nationalists adopted the Marxist doctrine that ultimate power could only be achieved through war, not politics. The African Nationalists were split into two factions: ZAPU led by Joshua Nkomo, and ZANU led first by Reverend Sithole and later by Robert Mugabe. South Africa’s ANC also got involved around 1968, providing an excuse for direct South African involvement in the Rhodesian War. After the 1964 coup in Portugal removed the Portuguese colonialists from Mozambique, Rhodesia lost an ally, and its long eastern border became porous to infiltration by ZANU’s armed wing, ZANLA. In Maoist style, ZANLA divided Rhodesia into provinces and sectors and politicised the rural people through terror. They established local committees, security procedures and infiltration routes, recruited contact men, feeders and porters, co-opted local spirit mediums and cached arms and ammunition. Then they landmined roads and began attacking farms, vehicles and soft targets. The armed wing of ZAPU,

Pilot in the sky.indd 5

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

meanwhile, made forays from Zambia and Botswana, sabotaging the railways and also striking at soft targets. By the time I was called up in 1978, a full-scale guerrilla bush war was in progress. My parents duly saw me off at the railway platform in Salisbury, along with hundreds of other 18-year-old white schoolboys, clutching homely belongings and jostling for seats on the overnight train. The air was thick with nerves, forced laughter and testosterone. At Llewellyn Barracks, I was soon wondering how on earth I would ever learn the army jargon, recognise an officer, remember which colour beret meant what, and avoid ending up in detention barracks. Once all the procedures had been completed, we were told, a day would be set aside for interviews with representatives from all the other units of the Rhodesian Army. If you passed their interviews, they would take you away to their own base and train you to their standards and requirements. This sounded like my escape. To endure two years of enforced compliance, I decided, I had to be with the best. Aviation had been my obsession throughout childhood, and I was determined to become a pilot. Thoughts of flying had filled my childhood days, and at night in my dreams I would launch myself off a roof or a tree and ‘swim’ in the sky. I had never actually flown, but I could effortlessly move around in three-dimensional space, look down on the country below and see it exactly as it looked from above. Sadly, however, although my parents had always assured me I could become anything I wanted, my lack of interest in school meant that I now failed to meet the Air Force entry requirements. My schooling, apart from art class, natural history and biology, had been a complete waste of time for me, as most of my teachers agreed. The best part of school had been the field trips, where we were exposed to nature in such a way that it became entwined in my heart. My poor, long-suffering mother somehow endured the dead birds I stacked in our kitchen fridge, delicately packed in paper cones, which I would later skin and preserve, filling them with wood-wool, string and wire. Once the taxidermy was complete, I labelled and positioned them in as lifelike a way as possible in a recreated habitat in my specially built ‘museum’.

Pilot in the sky.indd 6

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Tsunami of Change

Salisbury’s National Museum had long been my playground and paradise. The large fountain that graced the museum entrance was the handiwork of my artistic Italian father. The main feature of the large fountain was a series of three-metre high sculptures in white terrazzo: a tortoise, a praying mantis, a chameleon, a snail and a scaly anteater, all modelled from reluctant living specimens. My connection with the museum broadened my awareness of natural history. It also gave me free reign to mix and mingle with fascinating, influential people and wonderful artefacts, introducing me to a wide world of key conservationists and instilling a passion for all things natural. By 12 years of age I was also roaming the farms and countryside. I regularly camped out with my best friend, Peter, a Mashona boy whose parents worked on our farm. The moment I got home from school, I’d run through the house like a tornado, dumping my shoes and satchel, gulping down a glass of fresh milk, slinging my rifle over my shoulder and filling my pockets with .22 calibre rounds. Peter would wait patiently for me outside. He and I had endless adventures in the bush, collecting specimens for the National Museum among the big granite koppies, stalking red-eyed doves and rock hyrax or ‘dassies’. At night we’d huddle peacefully by a fire, listening to the gentle sounds of passing elephants who cast their mysterious comfort over our camp. Now, unable to apply for the Air Force, I made up my mind to join the Selous Scouts, an elite and highly respected specialist guerrilla fighting force renowned for their tight-knit efficiency and their familiarity with the bush. With them, I knew I’d get the best training and support and be able to give of my best. But first I had to be selected. My application made me the butt of much amusement and mockery from the rugged, sporty school heroes who believed only they would make the grade. My lack of interest in team sports at school had left me a loner and an outcast. Over 150 of us had applied for the Selous Scouts and now we all waited with trepidation, eyeing one another to size up our own chances. We were soon called in alphabetical order to undergo a more thorough medical examination, after which we had to fill in a questionnaire and face an interview with an intimidating looking soldier. I was in awe of

Pilot in the sky.indd 7

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

these superhuman scouts with their thick beards, brown berets, osprey emblems and green stable belts. After each test our group grew smaller, until only 50 of us remained sitting in the shade of a tree, nervously awaiting the final roll call for immediate departure to Nkomo Barracks. ‘161234, Recruit Bassi!’ the sergeant called. Was I dreaming? I leapt to my feet. ‘Yes, Sergeant!’ I shouted, grabbing my kit and rushing proudly forward. Through the corner of my eye I caught the dumbfounded expressions of a few school rivals. My heart wanted to burst with pride, although I wondered what I was letting myself in for. The instant I climbed off the train at Salisbury Station, I rushed to a pay phone to tell my mother the incredible news. Sadly, she didn’t seem to understand, and I hung up the phone feeling decidedly deflated. Nevertheless, this small victory had a profound effect on my confidence and the future direction of my life. Only 35 recruits had been chosen for the initial three-week selection, and there I was, one of them! Training started the second we drove in through the security gates. The instructors had devised many ways to try to break us, and they put a lot of effort into rooting out the ‘non-stayers’ as quickly as possible. Within the first week our squad was down to 25, and although we never quite knew what would be thrown at us, life began to assume some semblance of order. Soon after I started my National Service, I learned that my childhood friend Peter had been tied up with barbed wire, beaten, and then burned to death, along with his mother, father and sisters, all locked inside their thatched hut. He was just 17. Robert Mugabe’s ZANU guerrillas had accused them of being sell-outs, and this punishment was to show others in the village what would happen if they continued to work for white farmers. As Selous Scouts we were mostly deployed by helicopter, and so I was finally introduced to the most beautiful helicopter in the world, the Alouette III Aerospatiale SA-316B. I knew then with absolute certainty that I would one day fly a helicopter. But for now I was just a lowly trooper, too afraid to even contemplate talking to the superior beings

Pilot in the sky.indd 8

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Tsunami of Change

who piloted these flying machines low over endless bush to drop us into contacts. I sat wide-eyed in awe, focused on our mean-looking, battlehardened Sergeant Matthews, nicknamed Amok, who fortunately wasn’t as wild and frenzied as his nickname suggested. ‘The helicopter’s wide speed range and high manoeuvrability at low speeds enables it to fly safely at low altitudes, using hills and trees for cover. In counterinsurgency warfare with no frontlines, it allows you to choose the most concealed line of approach to the enemy.’ I sat on the edge of my wooden chair, trying to visualise his every point. ‘The noise of the engines and blades will alert him, but the reflection of sound from a low-flying helicopter can deceive him as to its direction.’ Sergeant Matthews, who we simultaneously loved and hated, used a model helicopter to demonstrate, waving it around over his desk. ‘Erratic helicopter movements can confuse the enemy with “dummy” deployments of small groups of infantry.’ Those would be us, I realised. ‘We can achieve surprise by flying low along contour lines so they don’t hear us coming, and then shock the enemy with lethal fire, giving our Fire Forces the advantage. The Alouette has limited range and loadcarrying ability. This is solved by deploying fuel to forward fuel bases or support vehicles, known as the land-tail convoy of reinforcements for a deployed Fire Force.’ One day we would be that Fire Force, I thought. After our mid-morning tea break, which amounted to a 500-metre jog around the parade square, we returned to our benches and notepads. ‘Right,’ he yelled, ‘where were we, Recruit Bassi?’ ‘Uh, we were discussing the land-tail and resupply for the helicopters, Sergeant.’ ‘The land-tail is positioned within ten minutes’ flying time of the target. If, for any reason, vehicles can’t get close enough to support the helicopters, fuel will be para-dropped by Dakotas into temporary bases set up in remote areas.’ The helicopters were code-named spiders. Those that transported and deployed us into contacts were called general duty helicopters, G-cars or troop carriers, whereas command helicopters were known as

Pilot in the sky.indd 9

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

killing helicopters or K-cars because of the amazing firepower of their 20mm door-mounted cannons. After several days of lectures, we thought we knew all about Fire Force operations with helicopters. Wildlife was abundant in Rhodesia, and once operational, I discovered that it was impossible to walk in the bush without an encounter. Amok related many stories about troopers being dragged off by rhinos, the soldier’s webbing hooked on its horn. He briefed us on how to evade herds of elephant, buffalo and the notorious black rhino. Like all of us, Sergeant Matthews had a love of wildlife and shared many tips on how to live close to and track dangerous game. I was really looking forward to our bushcraft and tracking courses, living in harmony among the wildlife of Kariba. Within a few months we were operational. All we had learned in the safety of the cool little thatched hut became reality, and our actions soon became second nature. We faced each day programmed like machines. The days flowed into one another in a blur of exhaustion, fear and adrenalin. I never managed to get through the final selection course, and with the war so demanding on manpower and time, we were simply deployed wherever our superiors deemed necessary. The high-pitched trilling of an approaching helicopter became a symbol of survival, an escape from the hell on the ground to a hot meal and a safe, clean bed. In the morning we woke early in preparation for the inevitable callout, and at the wail of a siren we’d scramble to our designated aircraft. If time permitted we got a preliminary briefing before take off; if not, we were briefed in-flight.

It was 4 am when the sentry woke me. I arranged my kit and webbing and tidied my bunk in case I didn’t return, then went to the washroom with my rifle. After dropping my kit beside our designated helicopter, its panels all open for pre-flight inspection, I went to the mess. The moon was still up and the smell of dew on the grass blended with the aroma of coffee. The camp was alive, the cook pouring tea into our tin mess mugs

Pilot in the sky.indd 10

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Tsunami of Change

amid the low tones of relaxed banter and joking. Everyone knew his role, and no one seemed unduly worried, despite the anxiety in the air. At 5 am we were summoned to the operations tent for final orders: we were to attack a known terrorist camp in a rocky outcrop. Leaving the operations tent, I met up with my small group, called a stick, and gave them a quick briefing of what to expect. An exBritish soldier named Brad had just joined our army, and as this was his first operational contact, I gave him a more detailed picture. Brad was thin with curly fair hair; his pink, English face streaked with dull black cammo cream. He was fidgeting with his webbing as I approached. The eastern horizon was filled with a scarlet sunrise as we boarded our helicopters. Once we were seated, silently pondering our day, the compressors began to whine, followed by a deep growl as the fuel ignited and the blades gathered momentum. All five helicopters roared as they rolled slowly forward onto the tarmac. There was a feeling of peace. I glanced at the blank expressions of my stick – faraway eyes lost in thought and jumbled memories, a mixture of invincibility and fear, stomachs in knots as we waited vacantly for the K-car to pull up and drop the smoke. I thought of the gooks on the ground, oblivious of their fate. Would I still be alive tonight? Suddenly I was yanked back to reality by a banking left turn. Rocky outcrops and lush green bush flashed past below as we descended to treetop height. Our pilot, JR Blythe-Wood, indicated a clearing ahead and gave a sign: we were going in. I grinned as I thought back to the first few times I’d been deployed, more terrified then of doing something wrong than of facing a terrorist. All the drills we’d learned in training troop were now second nature, yet still I got knots in my stomach whenever I had to leap that metre or so from a hovering helicopter, out into the unknown. Often it wasn’t gooks we had to look out for but an angry black rhino or an old elephant bull waiting for revenge in the thick bush. Each time it happened, I’d remember Amok’s lectures fondly. As the lead tracker exiting the helicopter at an ambush scene, I once almost landed on a venomous puff adder; instead I crumpled in a

Pilot in the sky.indd 11

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

heap on my face to the great amusement of the pilot and the awaiting soldiers. Our helicopter, Spider 3, came into the hover, and we all acknowledged Blythe-Wood’s thumbs up and waited for the nod from the technician–gunner, who was leaning out precariously, observing the bushes near the tail rotor. Our stick of four spilled into the bushes below, simultaneously loading our weapons, darting for cover and taking defensive positions. Within seconds, Spider 3 was airborne, blasting us with a hurricane of dust and leaves on its way out. As soon as the noise had passed, we regrouped in a cluster of bush. Reassessing our situation, I immediately got the K-car commander on the radio as we moved down an embankment into the cover of a river line. ‘Stop 3 in position, standing by.’ Mopane flies swarmed in our faces, relentlessly seeking the moisture from our eyes and noses. The K-car descended towards some large granite boulders on a conical koppie a few hundred metres away, and all other sound was obliterated as the 20mm cannon opened up with a delayed double burst. Mini shockwaves reverberated as the high explosive heads detonated, reaching us a second before the booming thud of the rounds leaving the barrel. ‘Stop 3, take cover. Prepare for airstrike and stand by.’ Within moments the Lynx attack aircraft roared over our position at treetop level towards the koppie, like a prehistoric predator going for the kill. Two bombs tumbled earthwards and detonated in the koppie with a brilliant orange explosion. What would it feel like to be a gook in the middle of that, I wondered. ‘Stop 3,’ the radio came alive, ‘extended line, move 200 metres north along the river, stand by to sweep the koppie. Charlie Tangoes visual.’ This was the code name for the enemy, communist-supported terrorists. ‘Copied,’ I replied. ‘Stop 3 moving now. Out.’ We stood up and resumed our extended sweeping line through the dense bush towards the contact area. To the east, the deep ‘doh-doh’ from a friendly 7.62 FN was answered by the rapid clatter of an AK-47.

Pilot in the sky.indd 12

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Tsunami of Change

As we advanced, gelatinous embryo-like lumps of napalm were burning in patches everywhere. The smell of burning rock and soil filled the air. Stray bullets occasionally cracked above us through the tattered treetops, followed instantly by a whump as the rounds left their weapons towards us. I wondered which one would hit me and how it would feel. The acrid napalm was burning my eyes; we paused and knelt under some small mopane trees as we waited for Stop 2 to meet our sweep on the opposite riverbank. Brad tossed me a handful of jelly babies, and for a few moments I relished their sweetness. Somewhere ahead I heard scuffling and looked up. A terrorist was sprinting towards us with an RPG7 rocket launcher at the ready. Lifting my rifle, I centred my aim and squeezed off two quick shots. There was a blur of movement, then stillness. The ground was swarming with thousands of frenzied red Formica ants, attacking and stinging everything that bothered them, including us. In future, I decided, I’d wear long denims. While our group sat awaiting further orders, Gary crawled closer. ‘Did you hear the rumours about Amok?’ he whispered. ‘What rumours?’ ‘There’s talk that he stumbled across some big-time ivory poaching around Kariba. Remember how he always talked about exploring the bush for fun? Apparently out on the southern shores he found a few elephant carcasses.’ ‘Elephants? National Parks have stopped all culling. How many?’ ‘Don’t know. Talk later.’ Gary crept back into cover behind a fallen log. ‘Stop 3, move two hundred metres east, over,’ ordered the K-car commander. I gave the signal and the four of us moved. We covered less than 30 metres before the air around us began to whip and crackle with the angry brrrrr of an RPD communist machine gun from 100 metres away. As it ricocheted around us, I heard a dull thud a few metres to my left, and saw Brad crumple in a heap. Shocked, I prayed he wasn’t dead.

Pilot in the sky.indd 13

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

Too afraid to move, I lay motionless, waiting for the RPD to fall silent. Then, gulping down my jelly babies, I crawled over to my comrade. He was gone. I took his weapon and made a radio call. A helicopter would uplift him as soon as possible. My emotions would have to wait until later. Gary, carrying the machine gun to my right, returned fire furiously. A grenade exploded. It was impossible to know from who or where it had come. Someone from Stop 2 ahead shouted an order to move forward, so we got up and ran, sweeping from bush to bush firing ‘double taps’ towards the rocks and shrubs as we spread out again into an extended line. The atmosphere was glum. Within the first 20 minutes of Brad’s first contact action, he was dead. We continued cautiously sweeping the area, and discovered a small base camp with well-concealed hideouts. The RPD machine gun that had killed Brad lay on the ground, its splintered stock smeared with fresh blood. Personal belongings and communist webbing were tied to some tree branches. Smoked elephant meat hung like obscene black fruit in every available place, a reminder of the exploitation and abuse that our precious wildlife was suffering. We were approaching some big granite boulders in a sort of clearing when two more gooks suddenly dived for cover 15 metres in front of us and vanished into the bush at the base of tree. The four of us dashed into the clearing between the huge boulders, immediately searching for a way out. The noise of an orbiting helicopter above made it impossible to hear if we were about to be ambushed. We were cornered. With no way out, we all silently awaited the inevitable grenade to arrive at our feet. Time stood still. As I crawled like a lizard up the side of a huge rock in the hope of spying the gooks, Gary took the initiative once again. Turning to the medic, Lance, he grabbed his less cumbersome FN rifle, stepped into the open and fired three well-aimed shots from the hip before ducking back into the safety of our cave, while Lance simultaneously lobbed a white phosphorus grenade that set the bush on fire. This ‘smoke marker’ gave me a chance to call the K-car to inspect

Pilot in the sky.indd 14

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Tsunami of Change

our contact scene and tell us if it was safe to exit our rocky hideout. Gary’s fast thinking had accounted for two weapons and one more kill. As suddenly as it had started, everything was over. All our stops had swept the scene and cleaned up, tallying nine dead and two wounded terrorists captured, but with the tragic loss of Brad, whose body had been uplifted soon after I radioed the sad news. Only two of the casualties from another stop group had survived. It was always a relief and an anticlimax to wind up a contact, after which exhaustion immediately set in. We positioned in our defensive circle next to a grassy clearing, standing by for our turn to be uplifted. Once we’d cleared the landing zone of all obstructions and marked the opening with a green smoke grenade for the incoming Spider 3, we sat around and relaxed. I went over to Gary and Lance. ‘What’s this about Amok and the elephant carcasses?’ ‘On the last tracking course in Kariba,’ Lance said, ‘someone said Matthews discovered a few elephant carcasses and got suspicious. Then apparently he found some ivory somewhere and started asking questions.’ ‘Well, it’s being kept seriously quiet,’ I frowned. ‘If it were true, wouldn’t we hear more?’ ‘I heard they pulled Matthews in,’ Gary said, rearranging his webbing, ‘and cooked up something to get rid of him. He’s being courtmartialled this week on some weird charges, but no one knows for what.’ I stared at them. ‘C’mon guys, there must be more to it! Amok would never get involved in crime.’ ‘That’s just it. What if he uncovered something and has to be kept quiet?’ A moment later, the calm of the bush was displaced by the familiar trilling, clapping sound. The menacing-looking machine in drab oliveand-brown paint appeared above the trees, its two Browning machine guns poking cheekily from its side. It settled down on the ground and waited for us, then lifted us effortlessly out of reality, like a magiccarpet ride.

Pilot in the sky.indd 15

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

The chopper gunner rested his forearm over his machine guns, staring with unfocused eyes. I gazed down at the harmless-looking contact area slipping away in shadows below, looking so peaceful, the wind cool in my face and the heavens on fire with a sunset that filled the entire sky. My head was a jumble of thoughts about war, poaching and dying. We were still alive. Somehow we had reached the end of another day.

Pilot in the sky.indd 16

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

In Search of Peace

CHAPTER 3

In Search of Peace 1980, UK

DEMORALISED AFTER TWO YEARS of believing endless political lies, and sick of the stench of cordite and death, I knew it was time to get out while I was still alive. My time was up, Rhodesia was done for and the UN Peacekeeping Forces were on their way to monitor the political handover. Like so many others, I felt shocked, confused and betrayed by the government’s sudden defeat. I no longer felt I could trust anything, having also seen wildlife exploited to fund the war. I certainly wasn’t prepared to stay on for another compulsory call up. Rhodesian morale was low, and almost every white family was making plans to abandon ship. The exodus had begun, and I soon followed, clutching a small bag with the few civilian clothes I possessed. My father drove me the 1 500 kilometres from Salisbury to Johannesburg where I boarded a flight to Heathrow. He stood bravely in the departure hall and bade me farewell with tears in his eyes. My journey to freedom had begun. Due to the sanctions, Rhodesian money was rubbish and foreign currency was unavailable, so I was totally dependent on finding work immediately – no easy task for an unqualified illegal immigrant. I was rescued from the chaos of Heathrow airport by distant relatives of my mother, Rick and Pat, and welcomed enthusiastically to their miniature home in Chichester. How tiny everything in England seemed after the endless space of Rhodesia. Rick and Pat were more than kind, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I needed to get out and fend for myself, deal with reality and find a new life. I felt like a trapped animal, desperate to move on, but with nowhere to go and no funds to get me there. So after a few

Pilot in the sky.indd 17

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

days in Chichester I left my temporary refuge and decided to call on a friend of one of my army mates, a girl I’d never actually met. Helen had promised that if I was ever passing I’d be welcome to stop over, stay awhile and see a little piece of Cornwall – as if Cornwall were on the way to anywhere. But who knows, I thought, maybe she’s a hottie. It was a blustery mid-winter afternoon as I plodded along a meandering tar lane in the Cornish countryside. Soft rain was whirling in confusion at the mercy of the wind, finding its way down my back, and I cowered from the wet blast as a truck passed. The damp grey landscape all but dissolved under the dark clouds and murky sky. Walking along the narrow lanes I felt slightly awed by my freedom – no need to get permission to be here, no buddies to keep formed up with, no ambush waiting around the next bend, no threat of sudden death. I thrust out my thumb in another attempt to hitch a lift. For the hundredth time, the car swept past like a muddy tornado. What a lonely, uncaring world. In a turmoil of uncertainty, I wondered how the hell I had ended up so alone in such a foreign place. Overwhelmed with homesickness, I could barely force one foot in front of the other. I longed to just forget the whole damn thing and go home. Except home as I knew it no longer existed. I just had to carry on, one day at a time. At least I was going forward, I hoped, towards a hot meal and a good sleep, where I would make new friends and save a few precious pounds. But I had to find work fast – the little money I had was strictly for emergencies. The night crept in almost unnoticed beneath the muffled veil of fog. Then finally, through the silent gloom, fuzzy halos of yellow light appeared from street lamps as I entered a small hamlet. I found my way to the old confectionery where Helen worked. The doorbell jingled as I walked hesitantly inside. The warm, sweet smells of freshly baked bread greeted me, bringing a feeling of comfort and safety. The locals went on chatting away, oblivious to the lonely, cold world outside. The television was on; it was news time. My heart pounded as I looked up to see electronic visions of home: sunshine, bush, soldiers in camouflage and jubilant guerrilla comrades waving AK-47s. Everyone in the bakery stopped their business to watch and listen to the latest

Pilot in the sky.indd 18

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

In Search of Peace

events from their ‘abandoned colony’, Rhodesia. Helen suddenly noticed me, standing wet and forlorn in the doorway, and I felt a rush of relief as she turned to introduce me to her family, who were all glued to the TV. They would surely be keen to meet someone who was right there just seven days ago, standing under the same sun, the same sky, wearing the same uniform. I wanted to drink in every moment from the television. I opened my mouth to greet everyone, but was cut short by a barrage of insults and hostility. ‘Get out you filthy white trash! How dare you come in here, you racist apartheid pig. Who the hell do you think you are?’ The hatred was venomous. I stood for a moment in shock, frozen in disbelief, my little world imploding. Then I turned and dragged myself back outside, into the freedom and solitude of the night. Helen was a bit of a swamp turtle anyway, I told myself. I so desperately wanted to go home, to be back in the familiar bush with my family, my fellow soldiers. Fine droplets of mist swirled about me as I walked. Eventually I encountered the flickering glow of a pink fluorescent B&B light, hidden in a narrow alley. It looked pokey, but promised a warm bed for the night. The scraggly silver-haired lady was hardly friendly, but she snatched my last couple of quid and led me up the narrow, creaky steps into a cold, mouldy cubicle with two single beds squeezed in. I ravaged the sugar-coated biscuits and tea and settled in, finally clean and out of the rain, content to have my own space for a few hours. I’d heard that the Scottish Highlands was remote and had no gooks, and it sounded like the ideal place to find the solitude I craved. So over the next three days I managed to hitchhike to Scotland. I arrived in Perth, Dundee and then Aberdeen, but found each city too overwhelming for my senses. I finally settled into a friendly youth hostel on the side of a long hill overlooking Aberdeen harbour, a cold, dirty grey city with soot-stained walls. I went to every oil rig agent I could find in a desperate bid to get work, but they all brushed me off like a fly. Weeks passed while I

Pilot in the sky.indd 19

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

foolishly waited for companies to get back to me. Finally my money ran out, along with my pride and courage. A group of backpacking Italian girls I’d befriended managed to lift my morale, and we decided to have a race and see who reached Inverness first. As usual I had bad luck hitchhiking that day, and had to walk most of the day, finally reaching a small town in the middle of nowhere after dark, fed up and hungry. I found a police station and in relief I entered the bright, dry warmth of the waiting hall, dumping my backpack on the polished floor. The smart officer in his crisp white shirt glared at me questioningly. In my politest manner I said, ‘Sir, I’ve been walking all day. I have nowhere to go and I can’t afford a hotel. Would it be possible for me to sleep in a cell or on the floor, please?’ His expression changed from curiosity to disbelief. ‘Git out, laddie, ye cannae jus’ think a copper shop is an ’otel!’ I donned the worn straps of my backpack and headed out again into a dark, hostile world, shuffling towards the park and a wooden bench I’d seen earlier. The next morning with an aching body I got a ride with ease, and my lucky lift drove right through Edinburgh and took me to the Inverness Youth Hostel. Longing to see the smiling faces of Maria and her two friends, I had butterflies at the prospect of friendly company at last. But alas, somewhere along the road I’d lost my new Italian friends. I struggled with my emotions, unable to cope with the hustle and bustle of the city, nor with the scruffy, long-haired delinquents who lurked around every corner, with their lack of respect, responsibility or the faintest understanding of the realities of life or death. I couldn’t bear to walk along a pavement with other people anywhere near me. I even panicked at the clatter of trains and the noise of the traffic. I was like an overwound spring about to snap. I desperately needed to get out into open country. I struck up a conversation with a fellow backpacker who shared her adventures with me from her travels up north. She advised me that hotels and pubs employed casual workers without asking for papers, and Gairloch was the place to be. This tiny, remote fishing village far

Pilot in the sky.indd 20

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

In Search of Peace

up the north-west coast of Scotland had ample pubs and hotels always in need of staff. Filled with new hope, I left Inverness dreaming of becoming a waiter in a small hotel that would provide me with security, free meals and a new start. But no one was picking up hitchhikers. I walked and walked for miles. By mid-afternoon I was starving and exhausted. My last shillings and pennies were just enough for one last meagre pub lunch. I found a small country pub nestled among big fir trees and gave in to a meal of ham, salad and French fries with a half pint of warm beer. This boosted my morale for the next leg of my journey. I accepted that this would be my last meal and my last little piece of comfort. I was officially destitute. After lunch there were still no lifts, and as ever, the fog retuned to keep me company, drifting in thick and silent to envelope everything. Just as I was preparing for another night in the woods, a small red Morris Minor panel van appeared through the gloom and pulled over ahead of me. The driver had surely felt my desperate pleading for him to stop. ‘Evening, sir, I’m heading for Gairloch,’ I said. An elderly grey-haired man with a kindly face and his uptight, rebellious-looking son were on their way to the Isle of Skye with a load of sweets. ‘Och aye, laddie, I cannae help ye then. We’re off to Ullapool to catch the Stromness ferry.’ I’d never heard of Ullapool, but without hesitation I agreed that Ullapool would be perfect. Oh, what heaven it was to sit inside the warm, dry panel van and watch the road slip past effortlessly. The turnoff to Gairloch faded away behind us; Ullapool was 60 miles further north. Finally I felt at peace. I had arrived where I needed to be, and as far away as possible from my past life. Ullapool too, was shrouded in fog, serene and mysterious with a thick salty smell. Standing outside the backpackers hostel watching the Morris dissolve into the whiteness, I suddenly realised I didn’t have the £1.50 to book in for a night. I immediately started a reconnaissance of each street, bar, pub and

Pilot in the sky.indd 21

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

hotel, but kept getting lost in the fog. Fortunately there were loads of pubs, small restaurants and a few hotels scattered along Shore and Argyle streets, and the summer season was starting, renewing my hopes of finding work. I just had to get employment as a waiter or a barman. I was desperate. The bars were all filled with lively young people and smelled of beer, smoke and perfume. Everyone seemed happy; they all seemed to belong and have a purpose. I hated them all. The dingy, damp backpacker joint let me spend the night when I promised to pay them as soon as I could. I was filled with hope and couldn’t wait to go exploring in the morning and find a job, security and a source of food. The following morning, I stepped out onto the cobbled pavement on Shore Street to the bluest sky, the warm sun reflecting off Loch Logan, while dappled shadows still hid the surrounding knolls and glens. A postcard-pretty harbour filled with little wooden fishing boats was dwarfed by the monstrous black and red Stromness ferry. Frenzied seagulls dived and swooped, squatting momentarily on the surface of the water before resuming their squabbles. I smiled at the world, certain that things were going to work out, and hurried down the street to the busy Frigate Café. I made my way self-consciously past the busy tables towards a preoccupied lady behind the counter. I’d never done this kind of work before; I’d never known anything other than farm life, school and war. How did one ask for work, I wondered. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, my name is John and I’m looking for work,’ I muttered apologetically. ‘Anything at all will be great.’ ‘Och aye, sorry laddie, we cannae take you. The Major only employs lassies.’ I nodded stupidly, turning away to process this new curved ball, and shuffled outside as fast as I could, trying to make myself look small. Outside, I breathed in the rank smells of kelp, sea, diesel and fish and found my way back into the sun and off to the next embarrassing let-down. By mid-morning I’d walked the entire village, approached

Pilot in the sky.indd 22

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

In Search of Peace

every possible establishment, trying to hold my head up and not sound too desperate. No one needed help. I was broken. My mind raced through my options, I knew no one, I couldn’t even pay for a telephone call and I had nowhere to go. But I sure as hell would never consider a reverse-charge call home for help. Lost and despondent, I followed the only road out of town, the Great North Road, plodding along aimlessly, fighting tears and fear while trying to think. After a few kilometres I decided to head for Gairloch. Just as I was about to turn back, I noticed a large hotel off a small road in the near distance. Ladbroke Mercury Motor Inn, said the big sign. My heart leapt with renewed hope and trepidation. It felt like my very last chance. I entered the lobby. Plush carpets disappeared off to partially hidden lounges, the air-conditioning hummed in a muffled way, carrying the scent of coffee and morning breakfast. The girl at the reception was smartly dressed. After listening to my well-rehearsed speech, to my disbelief, she handed me an application form. Sitting in a corner of the reception area, I self-consciously attempted to fill in the application, but soon realised that it was impossible. Unanswerable questions loomed out at me. How many years’ experience in catering did I have? Which hotel school had I attended? What was my unemployment insurance number? What was my address? Who were my references. It was depressing to realise that I wasn’t even qualified to be a waiter. I sat there for ages, feeling like it was the end of the world. Then finally, reluctantly, I walked back to the girl and told her it was no use; I couldn’t fill out the form. A deep, authoritative male voice emanated from an office behind the reception desk. The girl excused herself and asked me to wait a moment before disappearing into the room. I heard muffled voices. Then she reappeared and invited me into the office. I panicked, thinking I was in trouble for trying to get work illegally. Quaking, I stood to attention in front of a big polished wooden desk, trying hard to look in control.

Pilot in the sky.indd 23

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

I was greeted by an immaculately dressed man with a perfectly trimmed beard and grey streaks in his hair. He stood up to greet me, revealing a checked kilt in green, blue and black, secured by a massive leather belt and an engraved silver buckle. After introducing himself as the manager, Mr MacPhearson asked me to sit down. ‘Now then,’ he said, eyeing me with intrigue, ‘why don’t you tell me your story?’ He heard me out, and then delivered his verdict. ‘I will help you. You can stay here until you find your feet. Sally will show you your room. She’ll also take you to the kitchen where you can have some breakfast. You can work here for a while, but you cannot be placed on the books, so you’ll need to find an alternative.’ Tears of joy filled my eyes. I stood there feeling the weight of the whole world lifting off my shoulders. Then I ran all the way back to town, shouting and singing in joy and relief. I was saved.

I spent the next two years among the crags and knolls of the Highlands. I found odd jobs as an estate handyman, a part-time gamekeeper and a sheep farmer, while slowly repairing my broken mind and starting to fit all the pieces of my puzzle back together. Then I felt it was time to return to Africa. Suddenly all I could think of was the hot sun burning my face, the smell of the first rains on the dusty bush, the cries of the guinea fowl going in to roost… I needed to go home. By pure chance I had discovered that my parents had both suffered gunshots from an intruder in their home. It had happened months earlier, but they had decided to spare me this news. Startled by a noise one night, my mother had stumbled into an armed African worker in the dining room. A 9mm bullet passed right through her pelvis. The gunshot woke my father, who rushed in and took a shot through the stomach. They were both lucky to survive. Thankfully my sister had been away from home and my elderly grandmother remained in bed.

Pilot in the sky.indd 24

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

In Search of Peace

Given the state of political and financial affairs in the country, they had no option but to stay and hope things would improve. Back home at last, I was appalled and disorientated by the radical changes in the country. After a two-year walkabout in the civilised world, I thought I had regained perspective. I hadn’t. I was just a lost, misplaced 21-year-old, with nothing left of my roots. The country was now devoid of my generation and I had no clue where in the world my youthful buddies had dispersed to. Meanwhile, the ‘comrades’ were still on the rampage and tensions were running high. Armed with AK-47s, Robert Mugabe’s militia had set up roadblocks all over the country. Late one afternoon, just days after my arrival, I was stopped at one of these roadblocks while returning home from shopping in town. My older sister Susan was in the car with me, along with her eight-month-old daughter Emma. I was hauled unceremoniously out of the vehicle and pushed about with a gun at my chest, provoked almost to breaking point and then herded into the bush. Susan was interrogated with a gun at her head. Somehow I managed to keep cool and prevent the fanatical idiot with bloodshot eyes from blowing me away. Shaken and angry, we eventually drove away. Our groceries had been looted. I knew then that it was time for me to leave the broken remnants of home forever. Rhodesia, the farming way of life and everything that had once given meaning to my existence was gone. Just seven days after my return, I boarded a flight to Johannesburg with no intention of ever returning. I was off to look for work at Sabi Sands Game Reserve on the border of the Kruger National Park. I was determined to get back into the bush where I belonged. For just over a year I worked as a bush guide in the game reserves of the Mpumalanga Lowveld, mixing with an endless string of influential people who each, in small ways, helped to mould my future. I already knew about hardship, taking risks and working hard, and even a little about farming – I had learned about sheep management while working in Scotland. Whatever happened, I knew I had to work outdoors in the sun and I couldn’t afford to fly – not yet. I stumbled upon Forrelmont Farm by word of mouth. It was

Pilot in the sky.indd 25

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

1 200 acres of mountainside on the edge of the Lowveld escarpment southwest of Lydenburg. The farm was derelict and abandoned, and some said it was cursed. I managed to convince a wealthy businessman I’d met while working at Sabi Sands to stand surety for a loan. My goal was to recreate a piece of Scotland – a Dhone Merino sheep stud farm with emerald-green pastures and trout-filled weirs along a meandering, crystal-clear river. I had a great team of local workers. My right-hand man was a young Zulu called Willem, whose wife, Sarah, helped keep my little thatched cottage in order. Willem also had a loyal sidekick called Simon, and between us we managed another 20 workers and began to tame Forrelmont. With lots of borrowed money, I spent a few years tearing my youthful muscles apart as we transformed the wattle-choked valley into gloriously green, irrigated pastures. The Elandspruit River gradually succumbed to a series of stone weirs, each stocked with fat rainbow trout, and the surrounding hills became dotted with 1 200 woolly sheep. Farming on the escarpment was hard; encircled by 2 000 feet high cliffs, the weather was merciless. Winds blasted down the mountains, uprooting the massive eucalyptus trees and tossing them over buildings; rain converged in the valley causing floods, and hailstones the size of golf balls regularly destroyed everything. In the dry winters, runaway fires fanned by mountain winds burned whatever was in their path, and days of misty drizzle encouraged foot rot, bluetongue and maggot infestations in the sheep’s wool. This wasn’t the life I had dreamed of, and depression began to set in. It was also a time of social and political instability in South Africa. During the ten-year run up to Mandela’s release, public dissent and violence escalated, personal security was always under threat, and the country grew daily more like the Zimbabwe I’d left behind. Reluctantly, once again, I found myself sleeping with a shotgun next to me. One morning, I entered my house to find Sarah convulsing, twitching and gurgling on the lounge carpet. Her head kept thrashing, her eyes rolled back in their sockets. I shouted for Willem, who strolled up casually and peered in.

Pilot in the sky.indd 26

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

In Search of Peace

‘Don’t worry, she does that sometimes. It’ll soon go away.’ Over the next few days, the workers suddenly became unmanageable. They abandoned their farm accommodation and began sleeping outside under bushes. Above each door and window of every building, someone had drawn a black cross. It was freaky and unnerving, but no one would explain. One afternoon Willem came to me. ‘Sarah and the children must go away and live near Pretoria. Could you help with transport?” I was taken aback, but immediately planned the trip. When I returned to the farm after dropping Sarah off, a dead cat was dangling from the telephone line at the farm gate, suspended from a rope around its neck. I went to look for Willem at his home village where he’d been living with his family for many years. I found his homestead completely flattened, with no sign of Willem. That night I went to bed feeling uneasy and confused, but African people had strange ways. I was sure Willem would explain it all in the morning. By nine the next morning there was still no sign of Willem. It was the first time he’d ever been late. As someone approached I looked up from the pump I was repairing, thinking it was him. Instead it was Simon, looking distraught. ‘Baas John, you must come quick. It is Willem. He is dead.’ Willem had died in his sleep at a friend’s home in a nearby village. A few days later, I collected his body from the mortuary in Lydenburg. According to the post-mortem, he had been hit on the head by a blunt object, yet still managed to stagger to his friend’s village, where he died of a brain haemorrhage. I purchased a wooden coffin and loaded it into the back of my Land Cruiser, along with two sheep, then headed for his parents’ village, two or three kilometres from Forrelmont as the crow flies, but a two-hour drive by road to their valley at the top of the mountains. I dropped off the sheep with Willem’s father to help feed all the mourners, and then left them to their rituals. I was so unsettled that I decided to go and sit quietly in a favourite spot high above the farm to clear my head. During the short walk to

Pilot in the sky.indd 27

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

Pilot in the Wild

the edge of the cliffs I noticed a vigorous plume of smoke billowing vertically from somewhere in the valley below. After 20 minutes it suddenly dissipated, so I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t alarmed, certain that my workers had the fire under control. Returning in the late afternoon, I was surprised to see one of the farm workers, Jonathan, perched on a gate pillar as I drove in. He just sat there, staring, which seemed rather unusual. Fifty metres up the road I slowed down to see what was suspended from the telephone line. Another dead cat. I rounded the corner onto the long driveway towards my little cottage, but it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t there. It had been burnt to the ground. The heat had been so intense that the tractor 60 meters away was blistered. My loyal sheepdog, Jack Jack, lay incinerated in my bedroom. Everything I owned was gone. No one had seen the fire; no one on the farm had any comment. It was as if nothing had happened. I stood at the still-warm ruins in a pair of shorts and a thin shirt, realising that these clothes were now my only worldly belongings. Simon went into a depression, sitting motionless under a tree near the entrance to the farm. I left him alone, thinking that this was his way of mourning, but a week later, Jonathan came to tell me that Simon, too, was dead. Nothing in the world could persuade me to continue farming after that. Although I stayed on the property in another cottage for some time, I had made my decision to abandon Forrelmont. The bank took everything, including my car, but that was fine. Life was too precious to waste. I awoke one morning a few days later with the most astounding feeling of freedom and relief. It was time to find a new direction for my energy. I felt strong enough to face anything.

Pilot in the sky.indd 28

2013/09/25 1:41 PM

ISBN 978-1-4314-0871-9 www.jacana.co.za

IN THE

WILD

Flights of conservation and survival

JOHN BASSI

9 781431 408719

WILD

IN THE

PILOT

JOHN BASSI