Luxembourg

The morning's weather was quite poor for flying, with our planned first stop calling for three hundred foot ceilings and low visibilities, and temperatures hovering just above zero.  Climbing up into the clag and going IFR was not an option.  We elected to try to stay to the West of a large system, and rerouted to Dijon.  Even so, crawling through what little mountains we did have to contend with was anything but pleasant, with forty knots of headwind, brutal turbulence, and low level scud running through the high passes fraught with power lines and wind turbines.  We eventually got down into the valleys and worked our way North to Dijon, the home of Burgundy wine and fine mustards.  For itinerant traffic looking for a routing, I'd recommend avoiding Dijon as the handling fees are atrocious.   The place was like a ghost town, as the military had pulled out about three years ago, but we met with a locally based medevac helo pilot, and he provided a thorough brief on local conditions and weather.  After settling all our fees, we continued North to Luxembourg.

Getting well West and North of the weather system, dodging all kinds of restricted airspace for numerous nuclear power plants, we cleared into Luxembourg.  On the largest, emptiest ramp I had ever seen, the Luxembourg controllers somehow had it in their heads to park us about one kilometre apart.  We protested, we argued, they argued back, they fluttered about us having not called ahead and prearranging our little stopover, and eventually we just ignored them and parked our helicopters side by side.  Having checked into the swank Sofitel downtown, enjoying a very overpriced dinner and a good sleep, we head West for Poland today.

Spain to France

Perhaps due to Spain's financial woes, there are no ATMs nor foreign currency exchange offices anywhere to be found at Almeria, Spain's airport.  Unless we had an account, none of the banks in town would talk with us either.  Here we are with bills to pay, VISA cards giving us grief, and a big thick wad of USD that nobody wanted.  We later found out that if you pre-authorize a purchase on a prepaid VISA, like you often do when checking into a hotel or renting a car, that money is held for thirty days, unless you use it to pay the pre-authorized bill.  Not knowing this and not really paying attention, the other pilot with a company credit card would often pre-authorize on check-in, and I'd pay on departure, or vice-versa, effectively tying up all our available credit in pre-authorizations.  Lesson learned.  We used our our personal cards to get us going again.

We continued up the Alboran Sea into Ibiza, Spain, where they gladly took our USD, and then turned North to Montpellier in the South of France.  By this time everyone had their "shut down for the night checks" down to a "T" but the cold crisp wind had everyone scrambling for their winter gear, packed since we left home two months ago for Gabon.  We found a little maintenance issue with one bird, so the engineers got to work in the driving rain and by supper time they had the required parts ordered, so we hunkered down for a few nights in France.

The weather isn't so great this morning as we travel further North into colder weather, but we'll see how far we get.

Tangiers, and Spain

William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Tennessee Williams and Paul Bowles, Tangiers was the haunt of many famous writers.  Naked Lunch was written at the Hotel El-Muniria, and we sipped coffee in the early morning at Burrough's old haunt Le Cafe de Paris.  Tangiers has always been very high on my to-do list.  

Before bed we received some calls from the Moroccan authorities informing us that there were some issues with the dates on our flight permits that had to be sorted before we could depart, and their Civil Aviation offices don't open before nine, so early the next morning I called the Uncle of our beautiful and perpetually smiling handler at the airport, and he honoured me with a personal walking tour of the old Medina before the others were up for breakfast.  We strolled the back alleys of the old town well ahead of the infamous hawkers who just don't understand that they'd get far more sales if they just backed off.  Tangiers and zero tourists.  What more could one ask for?  A refuge for many cultures, a town full of Jews and Muslims living side by side, the old port city of Northern Morocco, at the Western entrance to the Straits of Gibraltar, enjoyed a period of escape from the McCarthy era conservatism of the United States in the fifties, thus drawing in artists from the world over, as well as spies.  "Casablanca" actually took place here, or so I'm told.

It was all too rushed to truly absorb much of this North African literary hovel, but I was happy that I got to explore in the early morning sans tourists and aggressive shopkeepers barking at my heels.  Flight permits sorted before lunch, we prepped the birds and headed off into the Straits of Gibraltar, between the twin peaks of the opposing shores of Europe and Africa.  The white cliffs of Gibraltar facing the black crest of Jebel Musa of Morocco were called the Pillars of Hercules by the Greeks and Romans, the end of the known world, beyond which lay outer darkness.  Pretty much where we just came from.  Flying our Pumas up the impossibly narrow gap between Africa and Europe, only nine miles separating the First and Third world, we turned North East over the deep blue seas towards Southern Spain, watching the heavy sea traffic below, ever onwards to eventually Poland, and probable lay off.

We eventually flew into Almeria, Spain, low over the massive greenhouses that provides the majority of tomatoes that we eat in North America, to the most modern airport anyone had seen in months.

 Clearing customs with nary a fraction of the bullshit we had to deal with in Morocco, and while most were relieved to finally be in Europe, I was already missing the dark continent.  I'm sure the Almeria area has plenty to offer, but hungry at 6 pm, we soon discovered nothing opened before 8:30 pm, so we walked to a crowded modern mall near our generic hotel, all absorbing the culture shock at our own pace, and ended up hungry and sad at Burger King in the food court.  We could have been in Anytown, Europe and it was all so generic, so pristine, so normal, and after all the exotic places we'd been through this past month, a bit of a disappointment.  I imagine Southern Spain could be beautiful, but our evening was anything but.  I'm missing Africa already.

Agadir to Tangiers

We were lucky to have the talented young Sandra Bouza singing at our hotel bar in Agadir,  who was ecstatic to find a half dozen Canadians drop into her Moroccan gig.  I requested some Pixies and they nailed it.  Being rather dark, I couldn't really see what the hotel had on offer to drink so I pointed to a bottle and headed back to my seat.  The bartender brought something rather delicious, but as we went to pay the bill sometime later, I was shocked to see my little drink was some 860 MAD, or about $125 Canadian!  I may have sipped it a little slower had I known.  Sandra wanders back to our Canadian table slightly annoyed at the folks she was visiting with, as apparently their opening line was "we were drinking with Jay Z the other weekend" and she rolls her eyes.  I show her my exorbitant drink bill and she laughs; "Well, hell with Jay Z, I've drank with Darcy Hoover!"

A fews days later, permits sorted, or so we thought, we cruised up the coast bucking a head wind today, strong enough to convince us we had no hope of going straight to Tangiers, so we dropped into busy Casablanca for a drop of fuel.  I actually detest going through Casablanca as a passenger,  as its a common hub for West Africa travel, and it's terminal is one of the most disorganized that I've been through, but it was fine as a fuel stop when I'm the guy flying.

Unfortunately the VFR low level routing further North was brutal with tons of restricted airspaces to avoid, and we'd spend most of our fuel just reprogramming numerous waypoints into our GPS, so we filed IFR and headed high up into the skies and direct.  It was easy but not nearly as pleasurable as the previous flight, watching the gorgeous Moroccan scenery pass by.  Settling into Tangiers, we were approached by a cop yielding....yes...more landing cards, and more cops with even more bizarre requests for paperwork we didn't even know we had.   We may even be delayed getting out tomorrow for permit issues.  I think everyone preferred sub-Sahara Africa's money grab compared to the mind numbing bureaucracy of Morocco, but it's all par for the course.

We had a late dinner in the old part of Tangiers, looking for William Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg haunts.  I wouldn't mind spending some time here....

Stuck in Agadir

Well, I had forgotten how obtuse Moroccan bureaucracy could be.  Not only did we have to fill out all our landing cards and immigration forms four times each for four different sets of officials when we first set foot in this country, not to mention all the aircraft documents and have dogs sniff our birds,  they've been demanding we do it all over again at each airport we land at!  I've been stamped into Morocco at least four times now.  Try explaining to these cats that we are already here....

What's even more maddening is that every other country we've been through has just waved us though as Air Crew in Transit and we haven't been stamped into anywhere from Gabon to Mauritania.  And the officials here seem to get quite excited, yelling and getting overly irate, and we just stand there smiling and relaxed and wait, and fill out whatever forms they hand to us. Ah Morocco.

So we finally receive our parts for our little unserviceability that stopped us here in the first place, but it takes about four hours for our engineers to get airside to fix the birds, as the airport officials just weren't having any of it.  And they had to fill out more landing cards!!!!  No shit!!!!  Then, they won't issue our flight permits to depart until they have the maintenance release forms, which are quickly provided but it takes them a few days to process.  We just threw our hands up and rented some Rhino buggies for the day and headed up into the Atlas mountains.....

Maybe, just maybe, we'll get our permits tomorrow....

Back in Morocco.....

That's me trying to get the battery out of our old Garmin GPS with my DPx pocket knife in the Western Sahara.  We purchased two of these units for a contract in Northern Turkey in 2010 because you couldn't get a database for our Super Puma's ancient FMSs.  Even these Garmin are now getting long in the tooth, and often lockup, the only fix being to pull the battery out and put it back in, but sand had jammed the tracks.  Getting 'er done!

Continuing our journey North over the Sahara, we were finding the incessant radio calls taxing, as every call involved infuriating clarification back and forth and back and forth, so we opted for a low level run up the beach into Morocco. 

Best decision of the trip!

Within a few hundred miles we were back to my old thrashing grounds of Agadir Morocco.  I had managed the base and flew AW139s out of here in 2014, so it was pleasant to be back on familiar ground.  Unfortunately the problems that plagued us in the Western Sahara had reared their ugly heads again, and this time, we wouldn't be going any further without parts.  Once again we were greeted by Moroccan bureaucracy, even though we told them repeatedly that we were already in country, having cleared customs and immigration the evening prior, but no, we went through the full monty yet again.  The allocated "hotel guy" of our little adventure had booked us into the new Sofitel,  under construction when I was last here, and everyone was very pleasantly surprised by the grandeur and opulence of this beachside resort.

An old Moroccan friend stopped by last night with his guitar and we jammed in the lobby for a few hours, and today was spent poolside catching up on my blog, and the parts should be in late this evening.  We'll soon be North bound once again......

I'm sure certain people are wondering why we broke down here in beautiful Agadir, but the truth is, they should be thankful we pushed on to an easily reached International airport as opposed to going unserviceable in the Western Sahara.  We would have been grounded for weeks.

The Islamic Republic of Mauritania and the Western Sahara

We departed Senegal in the early hours, and the vegetation turned brown then disappeared altogether. It was the Harmattan, as dry and dusty northeasterly trade winds picked up sand from the Sahara and carried it towards the Gulf of Guinea.  Visibility was about one kilometre and we climbed and climbed and finally got on top at over 4000 feet, the hard blue horizon stretching forever above the yellow haze.  That sand was in everything, you could taste the dry chalkiness in your mouth, eyes watered with irritation, the helicopter doors jammed in their tracks, and things ceased working with increasing regularity.

We soon settled back into the dust into Nouakchott in the Islamic Republic of Mauritania, the winds howling at over forty knots, yelling at each other over the tumult.

The people were friendly and it was a relatively easy fuel stop.  The Chief Pilot of either Heli Union or Heliconia, I can't recall which, greeted us in the  flight planning office.  We all inquired about employment in this depressed market, but without EU licenses and passports, there wasn't much of a chance that he could help us out.






As we flew further North the effects of the Harmattan dwindled with each passing mile, and we soon descended into Dakhla, Western Sahara, hot, tired and thirsty.  Being governed by Morocco, I knew the bureaucracy would be intense as I flew and managed an operation in the area a few years back.  I wasn't disappointed.  Not one country to date had even asked to see our passports, even with the overnights, as we were simply waved through as Air Crew in Transit.  Actually I was hoping for a few interesting stamps in my passport and we all wondered why we spent a day and a few hundred dollars at the Liberia Embassy in Libreville to get their VISA.  No one cared.  But here?  First we filled out two forms for the first military officer that arrived, with passport information, pilot licenses, all the aircraft documents, every piece of paper we carried was scrutinized, and a drug dog was led through our aircraft and bags.  Then we headed up to the tower and did it all over again!

Once again we had issues with our Service Orders for fuel, so after a few long distance calls to the U.S. and repeatedly calling the refueler, we were fueled and ready to head on but it was now after 6 pm and getting dark.  As we tried to depart the airport the police finally had their go at us, asking us all the same questions and having us fill out all the forms all the others had requested in triplicate.  He obviously did not believe our reason to be in his little domain as he repeatedly asked everyone just what we planned on doing in Dakhla, then asked again.  Finally sorted, we headed outside to find hailing a taxi was not one of our options, so I found a local fellow headed to his minivan and pleaded for a lift to a hotel.  He seemed quite happy to help out and wouldn't accept a cent.  This is often my impression of the Middle East; mind numbing bureaucracy and unbounded hospitality.

We had more aircraft issues in the morning, but after many a false start, we were pulling pitch and continuing North to El Aaiun and more police and paperwork....

A Day in Dakar

After one of our most pleasant refuelling stops to date in Conakry, Guinea, where the people were friendly and the scenery beautiful.  We seem to have left behind the squalor of most of West Africa, to clean organized cement buildings of red and yellow ochre, umber, azurite and Egyptian blue.  We elected to overfly Gambia and Guinea-Bissou and push the limits of our fuel endurance into Dakar, Senegal.  It was tight but neither of us saw our low fuel lights either.

Dakar had one of the most bizarre VFR arrival procedures we'd yet seen, though not as bad as Monrovia requesting we fly through a mountain.  We had told the tower we were looking for fuel on arrival, but he had us park way out in the boonies.  We only found out after shutting down and putting all the covers on that we had to restart and taxi across the airfield to get some Jet A1, then restart and taxi back to our remote parking spot out in the nether regions of GOOY.  After a long day the extra bullshit really wasn't appreciated.

Too late to push on, I called my good friend Filippo, an Italian fellow I had flown with in Tanzania and Kenya, who was in town training up Senegal Government pilots on the AW139, and he recommended the King Fahd Palace Hotel down on the beach.  It was a gorgeous spot but quite noisy as the U.S Embassy lads were having a big night out by the pool.   Lots of yelling, stripping down to their gitches and seeing who could score the biggest belly flop was fun to watch for awhile, but we soon drifted off in search of some quiet and some grub.   Next morning we were back at the airport but the old girls started giving us some grief.  The engineers soon set to work and after some troubleshooting, we had everything in working order but it was too late in the day to make it through to the next overnight, so we elected to see some of Dakar.

We caught the ferry over to Goree Island, the House of Slaves, but we were instantly attacked by all these pretty young things asking ever so politely to come visit their shops on the island.  Once we had arrived the aggressive shop keepers kept it up in ernest and while one hates to be rude, you had little choice, as it was overwhelming.  I got some great shots and saw some interesting and dark history, but the incessant and aggressive shops had everyone at wits end.  Times are tough all over, and I understand the desperation to sell us tourists trinkets, but I have more than enough souvenirs from the Dark Continent.  It put a bit of a damper on the day but we all took it in stride.  It was nice to get back to the Palace and chill before the next day's flying.

The next morning, we covered our bills, stocked up on water, and headed North into the desert.

Cote D'Ivoire, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Guinea, Gambia, Senegal

Cote D'Ivoire, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Guinea, Gambia, Senegal. We skipped Guinea-Bissau.  

After a scary night having been "arrested" and robbed by AK47 wielding police in Benin, friendly modern Ghana was a welcome change.  Too bad it was only for a night.  The next day we were off again for Abidjan, Cote D'Ivoire, and the dizzying fees and "cash only refuelling" just reinforced our concept of a country recovering from turmoil.  President Gbagbo refused to quit when he lost the election in 2010, civil war erupted yet again, and while he was captured and handed over to The Hague in 2011 for crimes against humanity, the UN still maintains a stabilizing presence.   To be honest, Abidjan looked like quite a modern city, but then it was nothing but jungle and small grass huts with the locals scattering into the bush as we flew overhead at a few hundred feet.

Next was the capital Yamoussoukro, with a huge Basilica, and plus forty-two degree heat.  Landing fees here were but a fraction, and everyone was friendly and helpful.

Despite the heat and long legs, we were soon airborne yet again and cruising along the jungle tree tops for another 300 miles into Liberia, with the controller restricting us to maintain below one thousand feet, which seemed unlikely as there was a twelve hundred feet high ridge line to cross just twenty miles East of Monrovia's airport.  We did the best we could, all the while confirming and reconfirming repeatedly that each aircraft had "three crew members on board" and no passengers, only to be asked the same question every two minutes by the same controller.  We assumed either she was testing us, or didn't believe us, or she had memory problems and her pen stopped working and she couldn't write it down, or perhaps she just really liked asking that question.

Soon enough the marshaller flagged us into our parking spots (I was charged $240 USD for this service the next morning), and after shutting down and putting the birds to bed, we were treated to a $400 bus ride to the terminal, all of 200 metres away, then directed to the hand wash station.  Ebola was still being dealt with here.

Next we found ourselves stuffed into a rickety old van and driven to a very quaint little hotel on the water, which had absolutely nothing on the menu in stock, so we requested "something to eat, your choice" and soon fed, we were off to bed.   I actually quite enjoyed Liberia.  After quite a few years of kicking around this continent, Liberia seemed to fit the mold of the quintessential African experience.

Next morning more ridiculous charges were being added to the bill, cash only of course, and we couldn't get out of there fast enough.  Kick the tires, light the fires, and we were soon flying over the "Blood Diamond" country of Sierra Leone.   We did overfly quite a few diamond mines, and we watched the topography gradually drift from jungle to farm land and the very beautiful Guinea.  Seeing our fuel state was a little better than planned, we elected to save some time and money and push on to Gambia.  We skipped Guinea-Bissou completely as everyone I knew that has gone through there has been hassled or arrested.  I was even advised to turn off our transponder and maintain radio silence while flying by the small country low level some distance offshore, but that wasn't required.

Gambia was where we really started to see that we were leaving sub-Sahara Africa behind.  But I'll catch up on that next post......