When did you last stir yourself from your comfortable urban existence? Cozy house, air-conditioned car, carpeted office, smooth hairstyle. Wake up, you’re half dead. I have discovered the perfect antidote to this urbanized anaesthesia.

Introducing Ansa & Eben Mocke. They live in Upington which is a long way from Joeys. Like 450 miles. They have a home on the Orange River which is where the adventure begins. In Ansa’s study. You send her R1100 and you change your life forever. Without resorting to formal religion and no further monthly payments.

Desperately searching my brain for an excuse to bale out of this lunacy I try one last lame question. "What if we have mechanical problems?" Sensing my weakening resolve Sandy closes in for the kill. "We fly as a two ship formation. If one of us has shit the other goes for help after taking GPS co-ordinates." And if we both have shit I think grimly to myself, the vultures will pick our bones clean before they find us.

"Do we file a flight plan with search and rescue?" I ask before capitulating. "Don’t be a woosie," says Sandy, "of course we don’t". "You live in the crime capital of the world where you stand a good chance of being bumped off every day and all you can think about is risk. Wake up man – it’s as safe as houses. There’s absolutely no chance of being hijacked on this safari." Good point. One last try. "Will Colleen let you go?" "As long as my life insurance is paid up she’d be glad to have me out of her hair for a few days." Hoping my faith in Mr Rotax’s finest isn’t misplaced I finally agree to go.

Wednesday morning, dark and too early even for the birds. Shivering on the apron at Krugersdorp airfield I await Sandy’s arrival from Petit. His top up fuel and a flask of coffee stand ready as the fresh breeze makes me wonder about my sanity. If I hide behind the hangar will he go without me? My Scottish instincts remind me that I have paid for this venture without hope of a refund. We are go from mission control whether I like it or not. Now I know how the astronauts feel.

The sound of a healthy 503 overhead brings me back to my senses. The little green S4 looks pretty as a picture as Sandy executes a textbook arrival. His hands are shaking from the cold as he takes his coffee. "Let’s get going, we have a long day ahead of us. Thank goodness for the tailwind".

With every available nook and cranny stuffed with survival gear the little S4 is heavy. But the cool air gives the wing and the engine a bite seldom enjoyed on the Highveld. Smoothly we rotate off the tar runway and away we climb effortlessly – this bird is eager for the journey. Heading west the sun is at our backs as the world slowly wakes up below. Lights twinkle in the rural farmhouses and the mining complex in Carletonville blows smoke and steam into the morning air to show they are serious about getting gold out of the ground today. Pity the poor devils who make a living thousands of meters below ground while we are so privileged to fly above. Thank you Lord for allowing me to have wings and to see the world as You created it.

Two and a half hours later the outlines of Barberspan creep out of the haze. Delareyville looks promising but the GPS says keep heading west. "Delareyville traffic, what is your position?" asks a strange voice on 124.8. Our friendly de Hoop farmer can hear us but does not yet have us visual. Sandy’s eagle eye spots the freshly mowed strip. "Check the windmill for the wind direction", instructs our unofficial tower. "Land just after the little red flag to avoid the bumps." "And watch out for the power lines across the threshold". Adrenaline pumping we land and taxi back line astern. The Toyota bakkie is loaded with fuel and friendly hands to offload it. "My name’s Callie and this is my wife Elma", our new host introduces himself. "We have sandwiches and coffee waiting for you." Sandy and I first head for the mielies to relieve aching bladders. Now we can be sociable. We learn that our new friend has sold his Kitfox and yearns to be back in the sky. He gazes enviously at the little single seaters. "Wat kos so ‘n ding", he asks. The financial pressures of a son’s university education prevent Santa from placing one of these under his Christmas tree. So we discover there are benefits to growing old after all!

An hour later we head once more into the sky. With pilots and planes fully fuelled the day begins to warm up. The terrain begins to change to thornbush and scrub. The national road to Kuruman stretches straight ahead as the first bumps begin to be felt. The radio crackles into life: "I’ve got a problem", announces Sandy calmly, "the engine’s vibrating badly. I’d better land. Is the road behind me clear of traffic?"

Who said flying is boring? This is getting interesting. The national road is busy with cars and trucks barreling along below us. Are they ready for an aerial invasion? "Hold on a mo, there’s a dirt road branching off just ahead." "I’ll try that." In double quick time the little plane is sitting on the ground. "The surface is good, come on down. My spinners disintegrated." Good news. The engine has not packed up.

Not a soul is in sight as the shiny new spinner is removed in the veld. Another few minutes in the sky and nasty things could have happened to the propellor and the windscreen. A lesson learned. When things are not right solve them on the ground. Pronto. The faulty part is proudly displayed on a convenient fence post as the squadron takes off once again.. No doubt it has since been annexed by a puzzled local who must think it came from outer space.

Forty minutes later the avgas attendant in Kuruman is roused from his noonday snooze. A 220 liter drum of avgas is purchased with the reassurance that the unused fuel will be waiting for us on our return. A smart hand pump and some elbow grease soon has the planes refueled. The remnants of Elma’s ,toebroodjies’ are washed down with coke and we are ready for the last leg. In our path lies the formidable Langberg mountain – guardian to the entrance of the Kalahari. Climbing at full power the little Rotaxes sing happily on their diet of avgas. Temps remain in the green throughout the hot climb to seven and a half thousand feet. With a strong wind blowing Captain Kirkpatrick is taking no chances over the ,berge’.

The stark scenery provides an excellent backdrop for some aerial photies. The little green S4 looks a natural part of the scenery as the terrain rolls past. 75 miles an hour ground speed – the sky gods are bringing us in in style.

"Grblle wolllie brble pbbef unnaffe tagggw" mumbles the Upington tower controller as Sandy asks for approach and landing instructions. As part of the New Seffrican downscaling of services they must have issued him with an old handheld radio. Upington International – the longest runway in Africa. "Roger’", says Sandy ingeniously. At closer range we discover that we are to land over the fence on the taxiway in the former Air Force base. All right!! This is where the Mirages and Imps used to play in the dark days of the Rooi Gevaar. What a gas to take in our tiny civilian squadron. At no cost to the taxpayers. Sleep well in your beds fellow Seffricans – the skies are well protected once again.

“Hi, I’m Eben Mocke”, says the sunburnt desert dweller in the smart bush hat. The former military hangar behind him is full of trikes and a lone Challenger. Outside are rows of trailers loaded with gear for the morning desert run. “Do you need fuel?” asks Eben, “We have plenty on the back of my bakkie”. The hospitality offered is immediate and overwhelming. “Ansa’s in the clubhouse with registration and your golf shirt”. “Briefing is at 6 o’ clock followed by supper”.

The little S4’s are soon refueled and tied down between the missile shelters. No fear of an aerial invasion tonight. And the bandits are 500 miles away in Gauteng. The stress of the big city washes out of our systems as the new flyers are introduced. All around ‘stewige boertjies’ are preparing for the dinner. Huge fires are lit as the sun sets. In the clubhouse Ansa holds court over the new arrivals.

Mama Kalahari has been found. Like a warm mother hen she makes short work of issuing route maps, golf shirts and fathers day biltong packs. Old timers are envied as they get hugs of welcome. “I’m Johan Froneman from Port Nolloth.”. “My fifth visit”. “Believe me Ansa’s the boss around here”.

In the hangar a trike wing is being assembled. Wearing slip slops and socks with short pants as the ultimate desert fashion statement the experienced Ian Williams introduces the Cape Town team. “The real fun starts in the morning” he advises. “ Get a good night’s sleep”. Eben casts an experienced eye at the weather outside. “Tomorrow we’ll battle against a headwind on the first leg” he forecasts. How right he proves to be.

The team photo is a noisy affair. At last the local photographer manages to squeeze everyone into the frame in spite of attempts to derail his efforts. With fifty odd high spirited people to capture for immortality he needs a border collie to keep control. Mama Kalahari, Ouma Fan and their team soon have supper ,aan die gang’. Lasagne and salads with all the trimmings are washed down with refreshments of choice. A taste of what is to come in the hospitality stakes, no matter how far from home.

Eben’s briefing is short and to the point. “Do not fly alone”. “Squadrons of five planes out of here at a time with one leader on the radio.” “The tower controller can’t handle so much traffic otherwise”. “If you have an emergency landing do so in the “streets” between the dunes.” “Stay with your plane until we get to you”. “The guys in the air get a GPS fix on your position and fly on.” “And watch out for the lions”.

The hire car into town has six captains and no navigator. Soon we are lost. The Solitude team wrestle for control but Eddie stays calm and finally finds the Protea.. Outside the Orange river flows past serenely. For the geography students it is actually a muddy brown. Whoever labeled it “orange” was smoking something illegal. With the last chance for a hot bath in 4 days everyone goes to bed smelling sweetly.

Daybreak at the airfield next morning finds streams of trikes taking to the morning air as Eben coordinates orderly departures on his handheld radio. With a 20 knot headwind they appear to hover overhead for a long time before moving out of sight. The sky is clear and the air cool.. Good to be alive weather. “Cleared for take-off”, says the controller to Squadron Leader Sandy Kirkpatrick. “Call again twelve miles out”. Little does he know that will be nearly half an hour later.

Sandy’s S4 at low level en route to Tillieriepan

The desert around here is only sandy on the tops of the dunes. The rest is scraggy scrub and grass with an occasional weather worn tree. Roads are few and far between and farmhouses very scant. If you don’t like neighbours this countryside is for you. The trikes up ahead have climbed to seven and a half thousand feet to find calm air. They are freezing for their efforts so Sandy decides to stay low to enjoy the scenery. At forty miles an hour ground speed there is plenty of time to do that. A couple of trikes appear ahead, battling the wind. Fuel is running low for them – will they make Tillieriepan?

Slowly a trio of pans appear ahead. The fires are lit and the bakkies pulled up in a row. There is even a portable toilet parked on the top of the dune for those who need a pit stop. The girls are grateful for the privacy too.

Kobus Muller is the owner of the farm on which Tillieriepan is situated. Judging from the preparations his wife Maryna and their team have been up all night preparing breakfast for us

Marietjie Muller, Sandy & Kobus with Mom Maryna busy in the kitchen. Note the toilet on the hill!

The dust puffs up from the wheels of the landing planes as they touch down on the smooth surface. Two hours for 70 miles! Soon the whole side of the pan is lined with aircraft and brunch is served. Fresh fruit, hamburgers, toast and coffee fill the cold trikers. Thanks to the headwind the fuel truck is kept busy as everyone takes more fuel than was ordered the night before. Kobus is a good natured man so does not get flustered by the exceptional demand. With his cute blonde daughter Marietjie assisting he gets everyone refueled without fuss.

S4 over desert dunes en route to Koppieskraalpan

The next leg is kinder. The wind is from the right as the course changes for Koppieskraalpan. The seventy miles is a pleasure compared with the first leg. This is where we will call home for the next four days. A series of huge pans beckons. “Hey Sandy, is this where we are we staying?” The GPS says straight ahead and two miles to go but all that can be seen is desert. “Are we lost?” Captain Kirkpatrick answers by putting his plane into a steep left turn as he descends alongside the middle pan. Aha, the camp jumps into view. With such huge vistas it is lost in the dunes alongside the pan. The windsock says we have light winds from the north so runway 10 is used. Which really means that a landing is made to the north on a pan several kilometers wide. Awesome for the unitiated. The surface is perfect and the wheels kiss the desert once again. Sandy chooses to park at the far end of the camp to avoid dust and the noise of neighbours snoring. He’s been here before.

S4’s in the Kalahari Desert

Setting up camp is easy. Find a flat spot for your tent and pitch it. The stakes slide easily into the ground and the view is impressive. Where else can you sleep alongside your aeroplane? Water is provided in a twenty five liter container – the first reminder of how far we are from civilization.

Llwellyn & Mariaan Stadler and their large team are hard at work with the catering. With military precision big bathtubs are filled with ice and cold beer and soft drinks continually refilled. In the ‘dining room’ boma there is a table well stocked with tea and coffee as well as a big basket full of ,boere beskuit’ and biscuits covered by a tablecloth. Amazingly it never runs out the whole time we are here. The ,kombuis’ tent is always busy preparing for the next meal. The sight of a really big farmer with a huge knife cutting tiny strips of beef and chicken for the stir fry will live in my mind for a long time. What effort these folks put in to make our stay enjoyable is simply amazing.

The fuel drums are manned by the junior Mocke team of Yolande and Eben Jnr. Every day they pump gallons of fuel which are brought in by road. Without this support the fun and games will not be possible. Mama Kalahari keeps an eagle eye on the bookkeeping to ensure they avoid bankruptcy.

Taking money from the Capetonians: Eben Jnr on right with happy customers

Koppieskraalpan is situated on the farm of Oom Gert and Tannie Bets Fourie. They have a lovely pair of border collies that know how to work for a living unlike my pampered city pair. They have to, living on a farm of 22 000 hectares caring for thousands of sheep.

In the shade at camp: Tommy Whiting, Oom Gert Fourie and the famous S4 captain Sandy Kirkpatrick

Lunches are help yourself stir fry with a large selection of tasty ingredients. The fires are a communal gathering point as hungry fliers swop notes on the morning flights. “Did you see the camels?” “Nah, you’re dreaming, they were donkeys” “You’re wrong, the German’s left them in South West Africa when they left and they run wild now”. “How many springbok did you see?” “Isn’t Hakskeenpan amazing, I took an hour to fly around it.” “We parked next to the watering hole and chilled out”. All the aerial scouts have stories to tell. Boredom is definitely not a factor.

Dinners are special. The tables in the boma are covered with linen table cloths and lit by candles. Real cutlery and crockery. And a headwaiter called Dawid who wears a red serving jacket. I kid you not. But the best part is the cuisine. Llwellyn is a tall man. With a large carving knife in his hand he is not to be messed with. He speaks with a soft gravelly voice but never asks twice. He doesn’t have to because everything happens the first time. He is a master chef. Large pots of springbok stew with fruit (if you’ve never eaten this combination you haven’t lived), skaapvleis (we’re talking Kalahari lamb here boys and girls – forget the Karoo version), pap, all served with fresh salads. How they do it I will never know. This is FAR from civilization yet we want for nothing. ‘n Boer definitely 'maaks ‘n plan’ in this neck of the woods.

 “If you wish to visit Soutpan this afternoon please do not land in the middle’, requests Eben. “It’s been raining this season and the surface is soft”. Off we go in a squadron takeoff across the pan. Two Rans S4’s and two S6’s alongside each other as the dust streams out behind. What a sight. Don’t try this at home.

A short while later the shiny white pan comes into view. We descend and find that it has circular patterns on the surface. The sun is well down on the horizon and the shadows of the planes are long. Then comes some fun. Having visited the year before Sandy smoothly touches down. All is well until the plane slows to a stop. Then the right wheel sinks below the surface. ,Moeilikheid’. “I think I’m in the shit” radios Sandy. “Whatever you do don’t land”. As if we need a second warning. The remainder of the squadron circle the pan as Sandy examines his problem. Several miles off to the south the trikes are in a huddle on the hard surface at the side of the pan. Too far to walk in the time available. Sandy is on his own.

Over on the ridge overlooking the pan a bakkie is parked. The locals have their deck chairs out and are enjoying sundowners and watching the fun but make no effort to help. Maybe they do not wish to turn into pillars of salt. As I circle overhead they wave a red flag at me. Is this a friendly gesture? In the meantime Sandy has put in some serious PT and pushed his plane about half a kilometer to harder ground. The sight of him walking the take-off path to check the surface is etched in my memory. The white salt looks like snow and the scene utterly desolate with just a tiny aeroplane and the pilot out ahead. “Time to head home”, radios Sandy as he crosses his fingers and gives the little Rotax the whip. Thankfully the take-off is uneventful and the squadron scoots for camp as the sun sets. Another hellish day in Africa.

 
Base camp Koppieskraalpan: South wing. Where miracles occurred daily

Saturday is a day to remember. Eben is a game counter among his many accomplishments so he knows the area well. He dishes out co-ordinates for a game farm east of the camp. “Please avoid  low flying over the animals.” “The farmer’s my friend and we don’t want to spook his game”. At first light the sky is full of trikes and fixed wingers once again. Andre’ van Vuuren from Klerksdorp in his Challenger flies with the S4’s for the first half of the flight as we catch up with the trikes. Eben provides an aerial commentary as we circle the huge farm. Blou wildebeest, rooi hartbees, gemsbok, ostrich, springbok, kudu and even a group of giraffe are sighted in numbers. Amazing stuff. The flying is adrenaline pumping as eyes have to be everywhere to spot game, other aircraft and to make sure that the airspeed stays clear of the stall. Not your average around the pea patch sortie.

 
Organiser Eben Mocke at Koppieskraalpan

On the way back to camp a pit stop is made in the middle of Kooppan. Here is where Eben pitches camp for his game counts. Bladders are happy to be relieved. Poor Carol Venables cannot share the pleasure husband Tony enjoys as he pees away from the breeze in the middle of nowhere. Game throughout the expedition she does not complain. Girls like this are hard to find. Standing in the middle of such stark beauty the local trikers fill us in on the developments in the territory in the New Seffrica.  Many indigenous people have been allocated large tracts of land thanks to foreign aid but are abusing the privilege by shooting everything in sight. I suppose what you get for free has no value.

After a late 'brekfis’ back at camp the spot landing contest begins.

Power on approaches are a piece of tackie. Then comes power off. Even at this low altitude the microlights display the glide ratios of a well polished manhole cover. Excellent practice with nobody criticizing because everyone has something to learn. Dropping clothes pegs into a circle also proves more difficult than it looks. Paul van As from Cape Town impresses the local ,poppies’ with his flying skills – taking home first prize. It is rumoured that he used his prize money to buy new undercarriage parts for his trike.

Steve, winner Paul & Ian (note the slops) from Kaapstad

After a full day in the desert the nights are short. Bedtime is generally a lot earlier than back home without the distractions of television and computers. Even cell phones do not work in camp. Marvellous. The stories around the campfire are better than anything on telly.  And without the ads.

 The night sky is a wonder to behold. More stars than ever seen before and a Milky Way that is simply awesome. The city slickers soon reveal their lack of knowledge of the heavens as several Southern Crosses are spotted by the circle around the evening camp fire. The locals have a good laugh at our expense. The quietness is demonstrated late at night by the loud snores emanating from the tents. Nobody cares because everyone’s soundly asleep.

Sunday morning finally dawns. The sky is still dark as the coffee is warmed for the last time. The morning is chilly as the early risers huddle around the smouldering campfire. Llwellyn is thanked for his amazing catering and everyone promises Eben they will be back next year. As the sun peeps over the horizon Captain Kirkpatrick leads his squadron in a last turn over the camp. “Farewell base camp Koppieskraal”. “Till next year”. Tears are in my eyes. A full days flying lies ahead but the effort is well worth the reward. The trailer trikers still have the fun of visiting Oom Braam and Riet van Niekerk at Groot Aar Pan before they finally make Upington  to start the Great Trike Trek home.

When they announce the Bundu Bash next year be sure to put your name down. Money cannot buy what you will experience. The story I have written is as seen through a tiny peephole -- a small fraction of the whole show. If you cannot fly there put your trike/plane on a trailer and drive to Upington. Mama Kalahari is waiting for you.