The glamour of flying across the Western Sahara: Terrible turbulence, land mines, a plague of locusts and Celine Dion singing in the background. 

At the exact instant my bottom touched the unwashed plywood bench, a tremendous tile-rattling blast rocked the restaurant. Somewhat nervous now, since artillery had shaken my ear drums in other African countries, I remembered the Muslim holy month of Ramadan had arrived in Dakhla, Western Sahara, 770 nm southwest of Casablanca, Morocco. The cannon shot announced the end of the daily fast. Around the room, robe-wrapped, turban-wearing men — not a woman in sight — began to spoon their soups.

A few hundred yards away, at Dakhla’s airport, in a city of 30,000 Arabs practically unknown to anyone beyond the so-called “Dark Continent,” our Cessna 404 Titan baked in the white hot Saharan sunlight. Adapted to sprout an eight-foot aluminum-composite, 16-pound tail stinger, containing a magnetometer and with belly punched for camera holes, the light twin had been stationed in a time-stopped world weeks before my arrival. After stomping several cockroaches and paying for a cutlet from an animal of questionable species, I strolled to an open market where squawking chickens and barking dogs added to the gloom.

Hired by Ottawa-based Sander Geophysics Ltd. to supplement two other pilots, I anticipated happy times in a community blessed with one of the world’s most fecund fishing grounds. Other short-term flying contracts kept me busy in tension-filled nations like the Democratic Republic of Congo, where chain-smoking child soldiers beside canvas-covered anti-aircraft guns monitored our Cessna 208 Caravans and deHavilland DHC-6 Twin Otters. However, another conflict here in what a British writer described as “one of the most inhospitable places on earth,” would shortly begin. This non-war related battle dealt with incredible heat, constant turbulence and, worst of all, not a beer to be bought or blonde to gaze upon in this desolate wasteland.

On the western side of Dakhla, a former Spanish outpost founded in 1884, Atlantic rollers slammed inshore against countryside where sunrises had revealed the same vistas since forever. Inland, the wind-blasted Sahara had been the theatre of bitter struggle that began in 1975, when Spain abandoned the area. Mauritania, an equally blighted nation to the south, and Morocco in the north, lusted for the mounds of phosphates available for the scooping. The Mauritanians dropped out and stalemate developed between the Polisario Front or Frente Popular Para la Liberation de Sangria el Hamra y a Rio de Oro and Morocco. In September 1991, the United Nations brokered an uneasy ceasefire between the two nations. Now, the question remains as to whether full independence for Western Sahara would be granted or if the two countries could unite.

To geophysical pilots, such as Norwegian-born chief pilot Jan Kristiansen and myself, this meant that terrain infested with landmines and various “UXO” (unexploded ordinance), made thoughts of forced landings unpleasant. Beyond the jagged shoreline, the rest of Western Sahara belied movieland images of desert as pretty dunes dotted with silhouettes of camels and their hooded riders. Rocks — billions of them — dotted the surface. No oasis of consequence existed and, as one publication said, only 17 acres of anorexic palm trees in Western Sahara’s 102,700 square miles could be counted on to break the monotony of sand and stones.

“Geophysical high-resolution airborne surveys,” as Sander Geophysics Ltd. called them, happened to be a peculiar specialty of aviation that other pilots barely understood. Usually searching for petroleum, minerals or producing environmental maps, occupants of heat-soaked cockpits could be over endless rock and sand or in places like Greenland, contending with noses dripping drops a second. Arctic, desert or jungle, risks are high and salaries moderate. Terribly tiring, the job demands incredible concentration to maintain precise tracks and altitudes, while enduring cramped muscles and bulging bladders as long as eight non-stop hours aloft.

After re-educating me back to the world of piston engines, since I had been confined exclusively to turbine-powered types for years, Kristiansen departed for Canada. The next day, operational work began with the pilots already assigned to Dakhla. Both were much younger and one, who clearly resented anyone over 30, became unbearable within our plastic and Plexiglas microworld. The other, an attractive Canadian woman named Tania Lor, came with flying skills sharpened beyond most pilots in the field. Whatever our experience levels and attitudes, the three of us needed to last together until the survey terminated. Low product efficiency caused by cockpit conflict had to be avoided.

After starting Cessna 404 C-GBWE’s Teledyne engines, follow-up checks included non-rushed survey equipment testing and navigational system programming before we dared to move. Unscheduled returns to base consumed expensive aviation gasoline that arrived haphazardly by truck from Casablanca. All in order, we taxied into position on Dakhla’s 9,842ft by 33 ft asphalt runway, resigned ourselves to the ordeals ahead, eased throttles to full power and waited for V1 or 91 knots.

Afternoon departures became nightmares. Always, always, the windsock splayed flat out 90 degrees to our takeoff path as salt-laden dust whirled in the distance. Tracking the nosewheel down, the centreline required plenty of anxious dancing on the controls as gusts forced wingtips close to runway lights and boulders. Incidents or accidents in foreign countries could be costly and many survey companies had been forced to leave repairable airplanes behind.

Airborne, we turned left over the seething Atlantic and realized that Western Sahara had few natural harbours along the 660-mile seaboard. We knew air temperatures inland could reach 135 degree Farenheit (57 degrees Celsius), but luckily, moisture-laden air tempered the city slightly. Still, annual rainfall rarely exceeded two inches. Innocuous breezes frequently turned into hysterically violent beings whirling around us like miniature infernos, slamming us so badly we could barely maintain wings level or stop the nose from swinging.

Behind the cockpit, custom-built racks held arrays of geophysical monitoring devices. An Airborne Data Acquisition Computer (ADAC) measured and catalogued signals dispatched downward, and returned to onboard sensors. The same unit provided guidance and navigation. Close by, two non-radioactive sodium iodide crystals, weighing approximately 500 lbs, detected gamma rays. The package carried a worth higher than C-GBWE and we needed to be efficient enough not to waste a minute.

To navigate within survey blocks, a flat screen stayed on the floor between the front seats while a portable unit, resembling a Wal-Mart calculator, updated navigational details every half-second. Developed by Sander Geophysics, the apparatus brought us to a start line and indicated height above ground through a “Pilot Steering Indicator,” consisting of vertical and horizontal needles providing fly up/fly down or left/right commands. Full-scale deflections were unappreciated as they could mean readings recorded so far off profiles requested by clients that they would be useless and require reflights.
Initially over the sea, within sight of land to fly test lines, we leveled at a standard 300 feet near numerous fishing boats, ranging from massive Russian-registered tankers to two-man wooden dories. Turning east, or “forward” in survey terminology, towards cliffs speckled with darting birds, I understood tolerances on either side or above our lines were tight and bank angles greater than 30 degrees could upset the data as well as geophysicists back in Canada.

An instant after leaving the smooth air above the sea, it felt as if we slammed into invisible walls of turbulence as colours below our belly turned from green-blue saltwater to the various browns, greys and charcoals of fractured rock. Stick-like figures herding goats waved their bony arms even when their animals scattered from the ear-piercing roar of our Continentals. Far above, jetliners sailed comfortably along with air conditioned cockpits. I once headed a Finnair MD-11 enroute to Bangkok pass positions and wondered if I had selected the wrong career. Nevertheless, at our meagre altitude, we expected no respite and certainly no in-flight movies or lamb medallions served with Mediterranean sauce.

Sometimes, we surprised nomads standing beside butterfly-shaped tents. Despite the harshness in this least likely piece of real estate, the Saharawis Arabs survive in their chaos of tumbled rock. Our attention was drawn to the occasional white salt pans surrounded by piles of abraded low lying walls, placed by ancient caravans, and prehistoric watercourses sheltering clusters of acacia trees and spiny shrubs flashed by so quickly, we had little time to stare. Progressing eastward, visual distractions became less and less, although occasional dust plumes marked the trails of military convoys.

Fences and forts formed from millions of hand-carried stones provided evidence that modern man had been busy. Abandoned nine-foot walls of bull-dozed sand, called berms, showed us where the Moroccan government distributed 80,000 troops to consolidate their superiority over the out-gunned Polisario. In a few places, we noticed semi-wild camels. Later, a local told me these ugly creatures could travel five days without a drink yet, when necessary, their stomachs held up to 60 gallons (273 litres). Once, Lor spotted a small creature that resembled a gazelle as it scrambled from beneath a rockshelf, but our only contacts with Saharan wildlife was with flies as they settled on our foreheads or tiny spiders surfacing from behind the instrument panel.

At the end of each line, some measuring 175 miles, intercepting the opposite track demanded a 30-degree turn until the mini-terminal indicated 2,000 metres from the next invisible path. At nearly three miles (4.5 kilometres) by the end, another properly banked turn, carried out as smoothly as possible considering the rising heat columns striking our belly, brought us around for the new heading. Strobes and autopilot could not be used due to their electronic interference with incoming pulses. Besides, a runaway autopilot at 300 feet left little time to recover.

In C-GBWE’s confined cabin, ventilation came from 6 by 6 in. (15 by 15 centimetre) plastic windows beside each pilot until the noise, and airflow blasting onto our shoulders and into microphones became intolerable. Each pilot flew for 20 minutes, but never more than an hour to mitigate fatigue. Unfortunately, the NFP (Non-Flying Pilot) could not relax. Both of us monitored track needles and ensured groundspeeds remained close to 120 kts, and every 30 minutes policy demanded the transmission of position reports. With headsets pressed against our ears, we frequently landed with intense headaches and bloodshot eyes.
Long periods manipulating non-boosted flight controls could lead to short outbursts between pilots, but few obstructions lay ahead of us except occasional desert eagles and buzzards. At one point, Lor remarked that the acacia trees anchored in ancient valleys appeared to be turning colour. Thinking that leaves changed shades in the Sahara just as hardwood foliage did every autumn in North America, the switch reminded me of home. The following day, we collided with herds of cute little creatures known as the “Sahel Desert Locust.”

The pink insects, normally solitary crop munchers up to 6 cm long, were on their way to more fertile lands. Considered one of the worst infestations to hit Africa in 30 years, the little dark dots suspended in the sky, smashed by the hundreds against our windshield, even after we climbed above survey height to 3,500 ft. Forward visibility became so obscured, we had little choice but to break survey and return to Dakhla. With overheating engines, plugged pitot tubes and zero indicated airspeed, landing with the left window for reference became interesting. An email went to Canada immediately:
“The prevailing winds inland are from the east and quite strong, on average 20 to 30 kts. This contributes to the fast migration of the locusts. They seem to wait until about 12 o’clock to take off and, once airborne, don’t stop until late afternoon. This is a form of surface contamination just like ice, only it doesn’t melt.”

AME Randy O’Donnell spent hours removing engine cowlings, poking the tightly jammed pests from cylinders and extracting wedge-shaped carcasses from filters. Had we continued surveying, he says, the locusts might have caused total power loss — an unwelcome prospect since it would take the Western Sahara and Morocco Search & Rescue a long time to find a minuscule Cessna 404. We later learned that even Royal Air Maroc grounded their Boeing 737s for safety’s sake. A follow-up news release explained that locusts could travel up to 130 km a day.

On the job again after the plague passed, heated ground made flying as hellish as ever before. Every flight kept us wrestling with controls, sometimes plunging towards the earth and, an instant later, pushing the wheel abruptly forward. Clouds of rasping sand granules hindered visibility and occasionally flashing error messages on the mini-terminal forced us back to base. Such delays made no one happy because each one extended our stay above the “anarchic world of the desert.”

Airborne in an aerial blast furnace did nothing for physiological systems. No Johnny-on-the-Spot facilities were in easy reach and desert airstrips didn’t do the sand traps or rock piles. Nature’s call meant a journey to the rear of the Cessna 404 to a wide-mouthed sharp-edged plastic pail. Airsickness became a concern regardless of how long we had been in aviation as stomachs became containers of foul-tasting concoctions seeping up our throats. God help the pilot who discharged bodily gases into the “environment of mutual respect,” as writers of glossy textbooks called the cockpit. In spite of it all, we continued making head office content with mile after mile scratched off our topographical charts, although the thrill of experiencing new country had long departed from our minds.

Fortunately, we never came up against the dreaded searing sandstorm called the “Irifi,” a horror that penetrates nostrils and sears the eyes of anyone caught unprepared. It wormed into airplanes, destroyed hydraulic systems and clogged fuel lines. For us, only a couple of raindrops scuttled across the windshield and we only had to ground ourselves once due to fog. Sadly, pilots ferrying a Falcon 10 business jet from the US to Europe picked Western Sahara’s only no-fly day of the year to run short of fuel. With nowhere else to go, they managed to locate Dakhla’s fog-covered runway and arrived so hard, wrinkles erupted along the wing roots. An insurance adjuster later wrote the airplane off due to distance from repair facilities.

All geophysical flights terminated for the day with an approach over Rio de Oro Bay’s wave tops and parallel to an overcrowded refugee camp facing the harbour. Gusts and angled breezes, which nearly exceeding the Cessna 404’s 20 kts crosswind limit, added to the workload until finally down, with only wind beating against the raised pilot door, the relative silence felt almost overwhelming. With dampened bottoms sticking to leather seats, we watched company geophysicists, or “beakers” as we called them, pounce on data computer disks, video tapes and flight logs.

Post-flight, one pilot assisted O’Donnell in moving gasoline drums too hot to touch while watching for scorpions. Airport guards watched every step we made. While they were not hostile people, they rarely came across as friendly and we knew better than to discuss politics or religion with them.

After filing flight plans for the next day, we trudged to the Sahara Regency Hotel. Children throwing rocks at us on our way to the hotel diminished my liking for Western Sahara even more. In the evenings, we wondered about the Muslim preoccupation with Celine Dion, whose melodic voice always sounded somewhere in Dakhla.

At the end of our contract, we received word that Sander Geophysics wanted C-GBWE in Germany. Great. None of us spoke German, but at least we could look forward to a mug or two of ale — and no cannon shots.