MAMA and PAPA KALAHARI 2002

By A Nonnymouse

"I've got bad news my boy". The voice on the phone is that of the famous Captain Sandy Kirkpatrick. "The engine on the Stork is eating oil. I guess I won't be coming to the bundu bash this year." My heart sinks. Faced with the prospect of 750 kilometers on my own in a little single seater the trip is in jeopardy.

Fate lends a hand the next day. "Why don't you and Vladimer fly the demo Cheetah to the bundu bash?" asks Mike Blyth. "We've got a grumpy customer in Upington who is eager to fly his plane which won't be ready on time and it will present a great marketing opportunity."

The sky is dark as I drive to Springs. Vladimer is ready as I pull into his driveway at 5.30 am. A large bush hat adorns his freshly crew cut head. The Russian boertjie is eager to go. As we drive past the cemetery where Vladimer's wife Natasha rests we tell her we are on the way to a great adventure. We know she is with us.

Akardiy and Pravish are already at the hangar as we arrive at the airfield. They have slaved for half the night to ensure the doors are installed on the Cheetah. The wings are already stuffed with our tents and gear. Jenya's new luggage compartment bags are soon filled with our carry on baggage and we are ready to go. The sun has not yet emerged. "Let's have coffee", says Vladimer, a decision he will soon regret.

The new fuel tanks have been installed. "What's the C of G like?" I ask as we taxi out. "We're about to find out", answers Vladimer. "I did not have time to fly her last night." Just what I need to hear at first light.

The air is wonderfully clear and cold as we rotate off runway zero three. As we climb above the industrial buildings the sun peeps over the horizon. Perfect timing. Klip River is awake as we change to 135.5. "Where are you going?" asks Donovan as we pass overhead. "The Kalahari Bundu Bash". "Lucky buggers", he responds. Indeed we are.

Johannesburg is asleep as she passes on our right wingtip. The slight wind is not helping our speed but at least there is no turbulence. We sink into a comfortable silence as the kilometers roll by. The little Rotax 582 is buzzing happily away as the morning sun warms the world below. Carletonville slides past as we head west. Vladimer starts showing signs of discomfort and I wonder why he cannot sit still. Finally he can stand it no more. "We have to land", he announces. "I have to piss". Klerksdorp is 30 minutes away. "Can you hold out", I ask. "No way", he answers.

We search for a good spot. The farms are all well ploughed and nobody in this neck of the woods has a landing strip. Lady Luck takes pity on Vladimer. A good dirt road appears across our path. Judging his approach carefully to avoid the telephone wires alongside the road we make a beautiful landing. The plane is still rolling as Vladimer leaps out and irrigates the weeds. Overhead we spot a telephone line crossing our path. Yikes.

Vladimer saves his bladder on farm road.

We take off and head for Barberspan. The wind is starting to help a little as the water comes into sight. "Delareyville traffic, this is Charlie Sierra Bravo from Springs to yours. Will join overhead de Hoop in ten minutes". A voice comes over the air. It is Kallie le Roux. "Change to 130.35", he requests. "The wind is quite strong but straight down the runway", he tells us. "Coffee is waiting". Vladimer smiles at the news.

Vladimer, Elma, Yorkie and Kallie at de Hoop.

Elma is waiting with her bakkie loaded full of breakfast and petrol. Her little yorkie gives us a welcome bark as we roll to a stop. Our hosts are happy to see us as we swop war stories. "Where's Sandy?" they ask. "He promised to stay over this time". They are sad to hear he will not be coming. A happy hour is spent refueling both plane and crew. Vladimer shows Kallie his pride and joy. The freedom of the skies at a bargain price.

Soon we are back in the sky. We have a large packet of padkos and the good wishes of Kallie and Elma ringing in our ears. Climbing to 8500 feet we find smooth air. The GPS says 125 kilometers an hour ground speed. The sky gods are really being kind this morning.

The race is now on. Can we make Upington before we run out of fuel? The first 300 kilometers consumed 15 liters an hour. It should be a walk in the park but the winds may change. Kuruman will be the decision point.

Vladimer nods off in the still air. He has worked incredibly hard to complete the Cheetah's doors in the two weeks before we have left. He deserves a rest. The Kuruman hills come into view and we experience little change in the wind direction. Our fuel situation is good and it is green for go into the Kalahari desert.

Sishen passes below. We must have provided the world with a lot of iron ore judging from the enormous ugly red dumps and the big holes in the ground.

The GPS tells us we are 60 nautical miles from Upington. The TMA boundary. We call up the tower and to our enormous surprise he comes through loud and clear. The little Icom A5 and the external aerial are really performing. We tell him we are coming for the bundu bash and he responds with directions into the former airforce base. And tells us to descend to 4000 feet. Right into the bumps. The desert is beautiful closer up and slowly the last range of hills is passed. With the airfield in sight we know that our fuel planning is spot on. "Have you been here before?" asks the tower as we approach the taxiway to be used as a runway. "The gate to the airforce hangar taxiway is closed", he reminds us. A huge 4 engined Russian Ilyushin 76 cargo plane is standing in the parking area. What a blast.

The wind is twenty knots on the nose gusting to thirty as we descend over the gate. The little Cheetah takes the conditions in her stride as we round out and touch down alongside the missile shelters. We have arrived in style. Seven flying hours for nearly 800 kilometers. On 64 horses. Thank you Mr Rotax.

The former Airforce hangar at Upington. Trike City

The huge hangar door is open as we taxi between the missile shelters. It is a day early but already there are trike wings being assembled inside. A smiling Neville Strauss comes walking out to greet us. We have already made one person happy.

Papa Kalahari is busy organizing the arrivals. With his ever present smile Eben Mocke hands over keys to his spare car. We are mobile!! Hospitality like this you rarely find in the cities. Vladimer immediately gets to work demonstrating the Cheetah to it's new owner. The wind is strong and the sky overcast but the little plane ignores it all as it flies out to its home for the night on the far side of the airfield. The trikes occupy the big hangar and more are on the way. No place for a fixed wing aerie.

The cellphone chirps and Mama Kalahari answers. "Your trike fell off where?" she asks with a worried look on her face. Dave Chapman's plane has torn its tiedowns and leapt off its trailer at 120 k's an hour. A brand new Cobra. Not to be deterred he will be in the Island caravan park by nightfall.

We arrive expecting to see lots of little aluminium pieces. Instead we find a miracle. One prop blade is broken and the side struts are bent. The fiberglass fairings are scraped but otherwise the plane is intact. Vladimer inspects the machine carefully and proclaims it easy to fix. Dave begins to smile for the first time that day.

The next day dawns but not bright and early. In fact the sky is leaden and the wind pumping. My heart sinks. Is all the hard work that has gone into organizing this event going to be wasted? Eben pulls a rabbit out of a hat and finds spare blades for Dave's prop. The struts are bent straight and soon there is a flying machine standing in the hangar in the company of thirty others. Die boere het 'n plan gemaak.

There is something you must know about Upington. The mayor hates tourists. So much so that the entire town is covered in parking meters. Even in the side streets. Then they zap you. They only accept parking cards. Cash not accepted. You will never know where to get a card if you are from out of town. If you do you will find they cost R40 each. What a complete and utter shucking fambles. It is a complete rip-off. When you don't pay they have a kombi load of meter men patrolling the streets to issue tickets. On incentive schemes. The more tickets they issue the more they earn. Don't even think of stopping here. And drive very slowly -- they have radar everywhere in the town. The Wild West is tame by comparison. Here the bandits wear the badges.

The heavens open as lunch time approaches. On average the annual rainfall is 7mm a year. They get several years worth in one afternoon. I am very glad we have come early. As we gaze out of the big hangar doors an amazing sight greets us. Charl Starke and the Cape Town team come taxying in out of the rain. They have run the gauntlet!! A very wet Willy jumps off the back of Charl's trike and hauls out a hip flask. "Is it OK if I have a dop now skipper?" he asks cheerfully. His sheepskin jacket and boots are soaked right through but his spirit is unbroken.

They arrive in the pouring rain: Charl & Willie from Cape Town

More planes are heard overhead. The Bush Babies from Petit have arrived. Captain Sandy Kirkpatrick and the merry men are not to be put off by a mere rainstorm. A glass slipper joins the circuit. Charles Wooler from Krugersdorp has also braved the wet in his Katana but has to land on the long runway. Soon the security guards are opening the big gate to let him in to the best flying party in Upington. Things are looking up.

The Airforce hangar needs a great deal of tidying up to get everyone inside. Trikes are dragged sideways and wings overlapped as the crowd grows. Soon it is a great colourful scene as everyone finds a space. It will be slow getting out in the morning but who's in a hurry?

"Where are you Peter?" I ask on the cellphone. "Fifty miles out", he answers. "Hows the weather?" "OK if you brought your raincoat". The Piper brigade from Krugersdorp are on the way in.

Mama Kalahari is now in full swing registering the new arrivals. "Did you order extra badges with your golf shirt? Will you need extra fuel at Groot Aar? Sign the indemnity form and take a map. It has the GPS coordinates for the pans" Hugs, smiles, genuine hospitality. The family is gathering. Mike sells braai packs for the hungry and the super size cooler boxes are never empty. "There's lasagne for supper and then the briefing".

Neville Strauss, Mama Kalahari and Mike in Upington clubhouse

As evening approaches it is clear that there is going to be a bumper turnout. These are real pilots who are here to fly. The ground support vehicles are parked all over. This event has grown up. Gran and Granpa, Moms and Kids are all here to enjoy the show. A great big rainbow appears as the storm heads off to the east. We are right at the end of it and there really is a pot of gold in our midst.

Even the kids have fun as the trikes are unpacked.

The side of a missile shelter is steep. A swarm of pilots and ground support crew cling to it in the darkness, desperately trying not to slide off. Willy tells a joke to his invisible audience as the photographer struggles to get everyone in the picture. At last we are blinded by the flash. History recorded, we head for supper.

The briefing is a noisy affair with such a large crowd. "The weather will improve and the tower controller can't handle so many planes," instructs Eben. "Fly in groups of five with one leader on the radio'. "We're taking a shorter route this year to make it easier". Papa Kalahari is tense. He cares greatly for the safety of his flock and the squadron is about to get airborne. Only when they are all at the pan in one piece will he finally relax.

Eben organizes early morning departure: the desert awaits.

The road support team form into a convoy. The trailers are loaded to the brim with all of the paraphernalia to make life comfortable in the desert. Eben's young team lead the way on the perfect tar road. It is early morning and the weather is magnificent.

Suddenly a plane buzzes overhead at treetop height, followed by several others. The Bushbaby team are airborne. Our aerial escort is in sight for a long time before they finally disappear over the horizon. Up ahead the side of the road is jammed with trikes. Bobby has flown in from his farm to join Nico and his squadron and this is the rendezvous. The flock is gathering.

Mike is driving Ian's Jeep. He turns off the tar and heads towards the pan. Planes are circling overhead to land so we know we are in the right place. Groot Aar is the name and brunch is well underway. The breakfast team are ready for the invasion. The landing strip has been swept clear of millions of sharp stones. Parked in a neat row the trikes and fixed wingers look at home in the desert. The rows of fuel containers stand like soldiers waiting to be claimed by their owners. Each has a name tag and there is spare if needed.

Sandy Kirkpatrick and Kobus refuel at Groot Aar

After brunch Eben waits patiently for the stragglers from Olifantshoek and Upington. The weather to the east does not look good and the sky remains empty of aircraft. An hour later a lone trike comes into view. He is low and sweeps down into the pan like a bird of prey. "Watch out for the telephone lines", yells Eben over the radio. The pan is neatly bisected by the GPO. Thankfully the new arrival climbs neatly over them and joins overhead for a landing. It is Robie and Bokkie and they have had a rough ride. Robie is a little nauseous from the party the night before but has pressed on regardless. Soon they are joined by the rest of their group. Two have not made it. One trike has been wrapped into an aluminium ball after a bad outlanding and the other is waiting for better weather in a farmers yard. ,,Hy het klein vierkantige balletjies" pronounces one of the team that hacked through the turbulence.

The road to Koppieskraal is tar but for the last twenty k's. We travel carefully on the dirt - this is no time to be careless. Rounding a little hill the pan opens to the horizon. This is home for the next three nights. Already a little village has sprung up. A huge petrol bowser dominates the flightline. We will not be short of fuel.

Plenty of fuel at base camp Koppieskraalpan

Llewellyn and Mariana Stadler are back to cater for our every whim. Already the fires are lit and the cooler boxes filled with good things. Paradise in the desert. To ensure there is little left to chance a large ambulance is parked conspicuously next to the dining area. Shawn, the paramedic, and his team are there to make us feel safe from harm. Mama Kalahari is taking no chances after last year. A fixed wing aerie landed on it's back trying to impress the 'poppies' in the spot landing contest. Miraculously no one was injured but it could have been far worse.

Shawn the paramedic, his assistant and very serious ambulance

The Bushbaby squadron occupy the camp which defines the northern border. Any animal foolish enough to wander in from the dunes is in for a tough time. Some capitalists have double storey tents and lounge suites but the majority are happy with simple two man tents and sleeping bags. Camp Chapman is run by the professional Peter and Joey. With three generations to care for they are well entrenched in the middle of the camp. After the adventures with his walkabout trike Dave is happy to have finally joined them by air.

Camp Koppieskraalpan. Have toothbrush, will travel

The 10 mile wide runway is awesome. It is also five miles long. Enough for your average triker. The wind is practically calm and the bum weather has been left well and truly behind. The Kalahari is at it's finest. With over 120 people to share it with and 65 aeroplanes to fly.

Trikes outside the tents: can it get any better?

The stress of the big city is indeed very far away. And cellphones don't work here. There is a very large truck with fresh water tanks to ensure we stay clean and watered. The showers even have hot water. What luxury.

A Desert Rose with Ian Williams at the watering hole

Dinner is Kalahari lamb chops with all the trimmings. The dessert table is visited twice by those with a sweet tooth. Mariana has been busy.

Friday is get to know the desert day. Visiting the old friends; Soutpan with it's beautiful patterns, Kooppan with it's loose surface and pretty hills, the game farms and the animals. Yes, the camels are still here. And the springbok, the giraffe, the gemsbok, the rooi hartbees and the kudu too.

Flying with John in his Pacer we discuss missing our grandparents. "Did you know that the castor oil used in WW 1 aero engines was deadly to the pilots?", asks John. "My granddad told me that if you shat in your pants you would simply freeze to death. Nothing to do with being genteel and sweet smelling". It's funny what you learn about flying over the desert.

John in Pacer over Soutpan

The camp loosens up as old friends are met and new ones made. In mid morning a flying Cobra trike touches a wingtip on the desert floor and lands up in a pile of used aluminium. Four hundred meters in front of the camp. Front row seats. Its two occupants are unhurt but for shock and a terrible pain in the owner's money pocket. The paramedics and their ambulance are on the scene within minutes.
That night the kitchen serves up the largest springbok potjie in the Southern hemisphere - it takes four men to carry it in for serving. No one goes to bed hungry. This event has now grown up. With wives and kids along in numbers, not to mention in- laws and grannies, everyone is in bed by 10. Even the Cape Town team have learnt their lesson from the night before and are cuddling their pillows to keep out the freezing cold. Here it is easy to sleep well. The darkness is inky black and the silence deafening.

It is 5.30 am the next morning. Very cold and dark. A wounded buffalo must be nearby. The noises he makes are scary. The very ground vibrates with his snorting. The camp holds its breath to find out if he will survive. Suddenly a human shape emerges from a tent and stumbles into the bushes to relieve himself. The silence resumes.

The camp comes to life in stages. A couple of Rotaxes bark and rattle as they start up and taxi to the threshold. Their intrepid pilots well wrapped up against the cold they take off and head out to explore. The kitchen is busy. The breakfast tables are laid out and the early risers are met with the smell of coffee. Once again the skies are clear and the wind still. Papa Kalahari can relax again.

Nico Tiedt stumbles into breakfast with a saline drip attached to his arm. The paramedics have just saved his life after a heavy night of Klippies and coke. He does not look well.

Nico Tiedt: saline drip at daybreak

To take advantage of the still conditions the spot landing contest starts early. Mike Blyth starts the queue of trikes at intervals to provide decent spacing. At 1000 feet overhead the engine is cut and the fun begins. The standard of flying is very high. Mere feet separate the winners from the losers. Let it be recorded that the editor of MFN, Chris van Eeden, won the trike spot landing event. A few pilots are novices to the activity and land outside the zone but they too soon learn. What better way to find out what happens when the fan stops turning.

The fixed wing pilots are allowed to reduce power to idle. The Krugersdorp team lead the way with excellent results but a Bushbaby snatches a close win. The blokkie dropping is even more fun. A wooden block has to be dropped as near a 44 gallon drum as possible. From 50 feet. Even Jean-Pierre and Evelyn in their gyro have a go.

That night the prize-giving party is even noisier. Captain Sandy Kirkpatrick has bought large trophies for the winners. Mike has taken a crowbar to Niren's cold heart and donated prizes too. Mama Kalahari enjoys lots of hugs and kisses as last years winners hand over to the new champs. Fun is had by all.

Dinner is lamb on the spit. The size of your garage. Llewellyn has cooked all afternoon to bring us succulent sheep. The custard and carrot cake top off an amazing meal. I have to pinch myself to remind myself where I am.

The next morning is departure day. The camp packs up slowly and soon the sky is full of departing aircraft. Some are heading straight for home, others back to Upington. Farewells are exchanged and promises to meet again next year are made.

I get lucky. Charles is flying alone in the Katana and I get an invitation to join him on the flight home. It must have been the hangdog expression on my face. Mike gallantly offers to take all the gear home by road. We face one more challenge. The little Continental engine doesn't want to leave. Stubbornly it refuses to start. Andy borrows a battery and jump leads from Papa Kalahari and soon the sound of a happy engine is heard.

We forget it is Sunday morning. As we approach the airfield the Upington controller asks: "Shall I put a callout to the bowser team for you?" "Thanks", says Charles as we struggle to find the right runway. On the ground we find that the privilege of avgas after 10.30am costs an extra R250 for the callout. No wonder blik aeries are an endangered species.

At Vryberg airfield we find Robbie Gassman and young Robbie sprawled out under the wing of their S6. They are in no hurry to get home. "We shall spend the night in Wolmaransstad", announces the Lone Ranger. He needs to acclimatize slowly back into big city life.

After a mere 3 ½ hours we are back at Krugersdorp. The glass slipper has served us well. As the hangar doors roll open I wonder to myself what the desert is thinking about after the recent invasion. Never mind - we shall be back again next year.
For those who have never experienced this gathering of eagles or did it a long time ago let me encourage you to write this telephone number in your diary. 082-717-2341. It is Mama Kalahari's personal number. Phone her next year in May and change your life forever. It really is that good. Don't forget to bring Mom and the kids.

Papa Kalahari: Eben Mocke

If you wish to visit before then phone Eben on 082-717-2340. He and Ansa have a comfy guest house for you situated right on the Orange River. His flight school is also well equipped to help you conquer the mighty Kalahari.

train in the beautiful green kalahari...