August 2011
Smoke from the endless wild fires dominates the atmosphere.
August is also the windy, blustery time of the year making low level flying uncomfortable and dust hangs thick. The air is bone dry: static electricity charges everything you touch. Pumping fuel from drums using a traditional rotary hand pump can easily become a fireworks display if the aircraft is not earthed correctly. I never know how to get dressed in the morning because it starts off too cold but by mid day it’s too hot. Come August I’m ready for a holiday, everyone is tired from the past months of camping, inconvenience and flying. The bush is at its ugliest, bare of leaves, gray twigs and dry grass blend into the murky gray sky. My mind wanders during the monotonous hours flying day after day, though my sub conscious is aware of everything, especially abnormal sounds. I spend more time in the sky with a helicopter strapped around me than I do on the ground and I have again become intimate with every aspect of the aircraft. Why then I ask myself, do I so often fall into the trap of doubting my instincts, allowing myself to become accustomed to a gradually developing snag that ultimately leads to mechanical failure?
I approached a long range of hills that I had to climb up and over, from tree top height in a valley. I lowered the nose accelerating while simultaneously pulling in some power, scanning torque and TOT, aiming for the foot of the ridge, meeting it at a 20-degree angle. No need to force the aircraft up, I thought, rather gently traverse the slope, climbing with plenty reserve power. I aimed for a valley within the ridge that would gradually lead me up to the plateau and over the northern edge, then, back down into the valley on the other side. Cresting the ridge I lowered collective descending to pass over a thicket of Acacia thorn scrub, a likely buffalo-hiding place. To our amazement, the bushes shook as we roared overhead, parting to reveal a large elephant bull.
Read the whole article as published in the SA Flyer Magazine: August is not my favorite month for flying in the Northern bush-veld, by John Bassi.
June 2011
Most of the time it’s a privilege flying free every day with open space and wildlife abounding, lately however it sickens me.
I climbed to 1500 feet above ground to benefit from the amazing tail wind bringing me Northwards from the central Free State where the clouds were darkening. Another cold front was sweeping through the interior of South Africa, leaving a trail of ice and snow in its wake, a major inconvenience since I was relying on working in rough country and we needed good visibility.
The following morning I painfully finished a preflight, hardly able to move my arms and head due to the five layers of clothing that were cocooning me. It was only 8:30 am but the freezing wind was already restlessly brushing and plucking at the tall golden grass all around the helicopter. I gazed with apprehension towards the seemingly endless jumbled mass of mountains in every direction. My stomach tightened with nervous butterflies as I imagined how it would soon feel to be hammered by the turbulence in the deep valleys where I would be spending the next 14 days. At least the visibility was amazing, all the dirt and muck in the atmosphere had been blown away, replacing the gray smudge with crystal clear blue sky. The sun was feeble; the weather-man had said it would be a maximum of +6c, without the wind chill. The helicopters blades were blanketed in a fluffy white frost, an occurrence delaying our take off each day until 9 am, when the ice would finally succumb to the suns attempt at warmth and drip away.
Read the whole article as published in the SA Flyer Magazine: The cold front was sweeping deeply through the interior of South Africa, by John Bassi.
February 2011
The Rhino poaching saga now gripping our country is an all too familiar repeat of the early 90’s rhino war in Zimbabwe, a war that was eventually lost. Sadly, no matter what we all feel and no matter how we all ask questions as to “how can this be”, the reality is that rhino horn has been a highly valued item in Eastern cultures for over a thousand years. You don’t just stop centuries of human beliefs for remedies, over night. The power of the rhino horn trade is equal to the deepest, darkest cartels of drugs, diamonds, guns and organized crime. Human greed is difficult to comprehend, especially when it impacts in such an emotional environment. This story is simply a repeat of so many others that have come and gone like the very dust we all eventually become, but somehow this young rhino evoked feelings of utter pain, desperation, fear and hypocritically, trust in humans. What this rhino calf endured will twist my stomach and make me numb for a very long time.
Read the whole article as published in the SA Flyer Magazine: Turning in Circles, by John Bassi.