Ewaso - A low level study of the Waters of Africa - from Ethiopia to Cape Town

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I have been lucky enough to pilot light aircraft low-level through much of the world, and fly big comfortable jets at higher altitudes too. However, quite simply, the greatest trip I have ever done was the flying safari I specially designed for five passengers and myself to follow the Waters of Africa. It impacted me in so many special ways that I had not expected.

My crew, team and new friends whom I christened "My Angels" were all women over 50 - two professional photographers, Bonnie Muench from Santa Barbara, and Alison Jones from New York, Jane Baldwin from San Francisco, Gussie Baker from upstate New York and Jody Baker from San Diego. All cheerfully abandoned their lives, husbands and jobs to join me on this trip of a lifetime.

Arriving in Ethiopia at the brand new multi million dollar Bole airport presented a stark if welcome change to times gone by, though the poverty that greets one right outside the airport gates questions some of the countries priorities. A city tour brought us to the university, formerly one of the Emperors palaces, which houses a fascinating anthropological museum, and incorporates the ex emperor Haile Selassie's bedroom, uniforms and other memorabilia.

Airborne again on our somewhat tired Fokker 50, north towards Lake Tana, the source of the Blue Nile, we circled low over the muddy brown waters of this historic lake. Here, scattered on the many tiny islands are ancient monasteries, untouched by time. Our little group chugged for three hours out across the glassy lake in an ancient steamer; everyone else on the lake paddled fragile balsa craft piled high with timber for the insatiable wood markets, or their meager catches of fish. Most of the remote islands host monasteries, many of whom do not accept the presence of women, that are a step back in time, the wild bearded faces of their priests come straight off the pages of the bible. We were welcomed into their sincere world and entertained as if they had never seen a tourist before - it was the off-season! By the end of the day a storm had brewed up and we rolled our way back to the shore, lashed by ferocious rain, trusting, probably unreasonably, in a mechanic we never met, and an old diesel built before I was born! We had no trouble in collecting our sample of water from the source of the Blue Nile!

Flying on to Gondar, Emperor Fasiledes' capital in the mid 1600's, and surprising home to vast Portuguese style castles - a total surprise in such remote Africa. But the highlight of any trip to Ethiopia is its remote spiritual capital Lalibela, nestled amongst jagged mountains at 8,000 feet and home to the oldest unchanged Christian religion on earth - unchanged since 400 AD.

Violent thunder and lightning crash and reverberate through the mountains bringing much needed heavy rain - it is August 29 - and St George's day begins. Ethiopia celebrates the day of its favourite dragon slaying saint twelve times each year, and the chanting begins exactly at midnight, wafting through our open windows just a half-mile away. Nothing has prepared me for the whirlwind journey back in time that is about to happen.

Habte meets us at 4:30 am and we drive the short distance to St Georges church, The damp cold air and the now clear starry night set the scene as we descend the ancient rock stairs, worn smooth by countless faithful feet over 800 years. As we drop 30 feet down into the cold rock well that embraces this most famous of the eleven monolithic churches hewn out of solid rock, the somber pounding of the ancient leather drums and impassioned chanting greet us. Leaving our shoes we stoop to enter a small ante chamber crowded by 25 priests, who have been chanting continuously since midnight. We are each given a prayer stick to lean on, and an ancient brass sistram to help with clanking out the slow uneven rhythm. As they chant in the dim light, they shuffle aside to make space for us along the rock walls, our feet adapt to the carpet covering the cold uneven rock floor. The chanters are lead by a tall striking figure in a black cape with a white turban, gesticulating intensely with his long fingers; he sings more fervently than the others, as if moved by a spirit. He is totally blind.

There is a certain peace to the message, which of course we cannot understand, as it is given in ancient Geze, none of the somewhat violent tones of the Muslim muezzins. Closing my eyes, I am moved to ponder on the timelessness of such an occasion. The same thing has happened here every day for over 800 years, acted out by people in absolute material poverty, yet so spiritually complete. Whatever ones faith, and I have little, the spirituality is overpowering. I look around the faces of our small group, each of us is lost in thought.

Just before six, the first rays of dawn appearing, we return our prayer sticks and cross the courtyard into the dimly lit vaulted ceilings of the ancient church itself. Suddenly there is a waft of incense and a flash of colour, the deep green and gold robes of the chief priests. We will not stay for the whole mass itself, as that involves standing still for two hours on end, crammed into the tiny church. We excuse ourselves and back out into the courtyard, to find hundreds more faithful assembling in the soft dawn light. White robed figures press close to the ancient walls, fervent lips kiss the cold rock, while above on the rock rim many others assemble to look down into the well to observe and add their prayers to the proceedings. In the only concession to modernity, the patriarchs prayers and sermon are relayed outside by speaker so that all can benefit. Habte tells us that the content is about living and goodness, rather than remonition! We mingle amongst the worshippers, some quietly reading from their bibles, others clearly hoping that the messages they hear will somehow bring light to their cruelly tough daily toil. Habte, son of the late high priest of St Gabriel's church, shepherded us through the mazes that linked the other 10 rock hewn churches in this ancient spiritual place. We lurched precariously on the backs of sure footed donkeys to the top of Ashetan Mariam to its extraordinary caved church, and on another day drove two hours to hike up into the Axumite cave church of Yemrehana Christos, to be shocked by the piles of skeletons of pilgrims past, heaped up in piles in the depths of the cave.

After a send off party at the Aero Club in Nairobi, picking up the fifth of my five angels, we clambered aboard our Turbo Cessna 210 with our carefully packed light baggage, and soared out over the Nairobi game park in the early morning sun. We took a short dogleg into the Masai Mara to over fly the wildebeest migration, a sight as good as I have ever seen, with over half a million wildebeest in one small area, training north in their great annual search for grass. We landed in Mwanza on the South Eastern shore of Lake Victoria for fuel, customs and to collect our water sample from the source of the White Nile. Heading on into remote western Tanzania, the weather got worse and we barely saw the shores of Lake Tanganyika, the world's longest and deepest freshwater lake, as we descended into Mahale mountains. Taking off our shoes and socks we waded out to clamber aboard their dhow for the journey down the eastern shore to the camp. The seven spacious unique cottages set back from the beach were a complete surprise; elegant and comfortable, wanting for nothing. The highlight here is one of the most rewarding experiences in wildlife - trekking into the hills for Chimpanzees. This is a trip anyone interested in wildlife must do.

Two family groups of these fascinating and powerful primates, who have 99% of our own DNA, have been habituated by researchers over three decades, with the result that one gets a very close up and personal view of them and their social structures.

I was pushed sideways off the path by two screeching males, competing passionately for alpha status. One is only allowed an hour a day with them, and walks on two successive days provided unforgettable photos and experiences. The lake is home to over 2,000 unique cyclids - colourful tropical freshwater fish - which also provides for wonderful snorkeling and fishing in the crystal clear waters. At the river mouth one can clearly see the hippos lumbering calmly along underneath the dhow.

An early start found us flying low along the wild lake shore, and into the remote Katavi game park to refuel from a drum. It took some while to chase two stubborn male giraffe off the strip before we could take off again. We circled low over this barren dry area, game viewing, before flying along the seemingly uninhabited shores of Lake Rukwa and on into the highlands of Mbeya, and its goat strewn grass landing strip. Here we cleared customs once again, unwisely grabbed a bite of somewhat soggy French fries before climbing into the smooth air above the clouds. After the shores of Lake Malawi and the Nyika Plateau, we left the towering cumulus nimbus clouds behind us, and never saw any cloud again on the journey - a perfect time of year this epic flight.

The ground below us dropped away as we flew further south into northern Zambia, just as the temperature rose, and two hours later we descended to Tafika, the small remote bush home of John and Carol Coppinger, rebuilt for the third time on the ever-changing banks of the winding, sandy Luangwa river.

The South Luangwa national park is one of the jewels of Africa, remote and undiscovered, and to spend three days here was a rare privilege. Superb food and game viewing is always on offer and we set off on a walking safari to his Crocodile bush camp, set on a dry sand lugga. Green grass abounded and indignant puku and zebra glared at us as we invaded their peace. A nearby lagoon, fast drying up, provided a superb spot to go and sit quietly and observe the incredible parade of animals and bird life that Africa has to offer on a daily basis. On the walk out, we stopped dead to watch a powerful male leopard wrestle with his fresh puku kill in the muddy water. John took each of my angels for an early morning fly in his microlight to give them a different perspective, before we were airborne again, turning south to the Zambezi. This mighty river, carving through the arid countryside really brings home the importance of life-giving water in this tough continent, today separating a peaceful Zambia from a turbulent Zimbabwe.

We circled down over the Zambian highlands to Jeki, and were met by an excited Jason Mott who had just located a pack of rare wild dog with their week old pups. These painted wolves have teetered on the verge of extinction for many years, so it was a huge privilege to watch them for 40 minutes before game driving back through the lush riverina to his Sausage Tree camp for a superb lunch. We then ploughed back up river, stopping to try our hand at tiger fishing in the fast flowing waters. Let me assure you, the guide certainly earns his tip taking those fish with their razor sharp teeth off your line! Flying low along the Zambezi is absolutely exhilarating, elephant trumpeting, hippo snorting and buffalo tossing their heads in annoyance at our noisy passing. Our Cessna 210 which we have christened Ewaso, the Maasai word for river, is the perfect platform for this, with its high wings, no wheels or wing struts to obscure the view; we often fly with the widows open to enhance the viewing, photo opportunities and the feeling of being at one with remote Africa. In the softening evening light the spray from the falls reflected from miles distant, and we obtained special permission to circle around the falls as we wished - an awe inspiring sight which staggered the angels to the point of silence. We landed at Livingstone and were driven to Tangala, Ben Parkers private luxury home on the rivers edge. We went straight out on his boat, white wine in hand in time for a perfect sunset - the only ripples coming from the gently submerging hippos. Our new home for the next three days was a fully staffed house with every modcon, and we all folded easily into the ultimate luxury of it.

The falls at this time of year are not as powerful as usual, but now, less spray enhances the views. We walked to all the viewpoints on the Zambian side before powering through the rapids by speedboat to Livingstone Island where David himself sat 149 years ago, marveling at this wonder of nature, a mile long, and half as high again as Niagara. The staff served us up a superb lunch for 14 people, before we waded out through the still fast flowing waters to swim in the tiny rock pool on the lip of the falls! That is an exciting feeling, one that certainly would never be possible in the USA, due to liability reasons. The excitement continued the next day as the angels set off to white water raft the19 cataracts in one day, all of them class four or five rapids, surpassing any rafting experience on earth - and in warm water!

Too soon we were circling the falls again on our way for the short flight via Kasane for customs into Botswana to Lebala camp in the vast remote Northern private concession of Kwando, for two nights of excellent game viewing. My lasting memory of Kwando is witnessing a herd of over 200 elephant trudging across a marsh towards us, the splashing noise they made was as loud as a waterfall. We descended low into the heart of the Okavango Delta, and dodging red lechwe on their soft sandy runway, landed at Xugana, a water camp on a small island on the northern part of this, the largest remaining wetland area on earth. The cheerful camp staff helped us pass our time here in complete tranquility, taking boat trips, mokoro dug out canoe rides and walks on other small delta islands. Elephant, red lechwe and buffalo were plentiful enough, but this was a place to unwind, to observe the birdlife, tiny painted frogs and spectacular reflections of this vast untouched ecosystem. None of us were ready to leave as we boated back to the airstrip. The runway is short and sandy, so I flew two shuttles across to Camp Okavango to get more length, and it also allowed us a chance to take the doors off and get some superb aerial photography.

The vastness and tranquility of the ecosystem finally gave way to the buffalo fence and Maun, an unattractive dusty frontier town, which served to provide some quick shopping, fuel and relieve us of yet more dollars in fees. Flying west over the great Kalahari, we climbed up to beat the bumps and cool off a bit, before descending to land at Grootfontein, on the Namibian border. This onetime military base was now virtually abandoned save a bored air controller and an old Russian transport jet with very flat worn tyres.

We had booked customs to come out from the town, and amazingly, a little plume of dust heralded his arrival. The arrogant young officer, sporting an earring, however had his own ideas for the afternoon's entertainment. He quickly spotted that Jane, one of my angels, did not have a clear space in her passport for him to comfortably place his stamp. This was grounds, he happily announced, to make us return to Maun. The conversation meandered in all directions; we tried reason, compliments - not well meant - and even threats to contact his senior officer. Finally, against my better judgment, I offered to buy him lunch - a peculiarly African way of transferring some dollars! All, to no avail. However, just as I was preparing for the four-mile walk in the midday heat to town, he asked the angels if they knew any Dolly Parton songs. The girls, to their undying credit, struck up a dance version of one with much gusto, and space enough was suddenly found for the stamp. A full two hours later we were on our way for a refuel and an exciting landing on the road on Andre Schoeman's remote farm near Otavi. We parked the plane by the swimming pool and bumped off into the hills in his ancient Land Rover to study some ancient limestone caves. That night the stars seemed to rain on us as we studied them and the new moon through Andre' s powerful telescope.

Bonnie completed the artwork for Ewaso, our Cessna's name, on her cowling, we and took off from the road - to some applause - and turned west along a spectacular sandstone escarpment reminiscent of the Grand Canyon towards the coast. As we neared Terrace Bay we dropped down very low over the famous rolling sand dunes. A gemsbok, coming from seemingly nowhere, and going nowhere, galloped away, startled by our low flying shadow. The wind was howling now, the residual from a cold front that had dumped snow on Cape Town a few days earlier, but the benefit for us was that it kept the fog banks several hundred yards off shore. We landed, scurried to put on our warmest clothes and walked a few yards to the shore line. The coast has yielded diamonds for over a hundred years and we pored expectantly amongst the big coloured pebbles, soaking up the cold wild fresh air. There were battered signs prohibiting further progress, but it was time to move on, and we were soon flying low down the coast, wondering at ghostly shipwrecks, bleached whale bones and colonies of hundreds and thousands of cape fur seals, who scampered for the safety of the cold white frothy surf. The headwinds were ruthless, but we all marveled at the stark scenery unfolding before us.

Refueling at Swakopmund was challenging in the 35-knot wind which mercilessly pelted us with sand, but we were airborne again in very few feet and continued low, south along the coast. Hundreds and thousands of seals lay soaking up the afternoon sun, and thousands of greater flamingoes scattered into the air, the evening sun reflecting vividly on their pink black and white wings. Thankfully they always stay low, and wheeling gracefully in perfect formation under our rigid Cessna wings.

We circled low over the Edward Bolen wreck driven ashore by treacherous currents a hundred years ago and gripped ever since in the whipping red sands, before turning inland. Finally the clawing headwind and pelting sand abated as we dropped low into the world famous Sossusvlei sand dunes. With the softening evening sun at our backs, the incredible shapes that can only have been fashioned by the gods - or some would say the devil - began to cast their eerie spectacular shadows. With the windows held open we cruised slowly across the iron red sands, everyone of us stunned into silence by the magnificence of these, the worlds highest dunes. We circled low over the Wolwedans Dune camp before setting down on their sandy strip. We drove up into the dunes in an open Land Rover, the cold wind, thankfully without the pelting sand, chilling us considerably, as the sun set.

The spectacular view from the open tented rooms demanded that one should endure the cold rather than close down the tent flaps. The 500,000 acre Namib reserve was formed by 13 farmers donating their arid land to conservation; the Bruckner family contributing seven of them. Stefan Bruckner joined us for a first class dinner, introduced to us in the traditional click language, before the welcome hot water bottles and warm duvets gave way to a spectacular dawn over some of Africa's wildest and most rugged country. The days were spent exploring the dunes and the wildlife, spectacular pictures of gemsbok offset by the red dunes, springbok and zebra living out their harsh lives. The weather warmed, we took the doors off and returned to fly low over the dunes, rounding off the trip to the area by landing at Duwisib castle, an extraordinary time warp from the past. In 1907, with a combination of eccentricity, lunacy and grandeur, a German Baron and his American wife Jeta - Alison's great aunt - built it, transporting virtually everything 600 kilometers inland by ox cart. No photos or descriptions can do justice to this raw backbone of Africa - it is a must see for everyone who loves Africa.

Airborne again, 40 minutes brought us to Keetmansdorp for customs out of Namibia and heading South on the final part of our odyssey. We crossed the last of the great rivers of our journey - the Orange, which heralds South Africa, and with it the lush green farms of the Western Cape appeared, and the great citrus growing areas. We could not have asked for better weather, Table Mountain appeared on the horizon some 80 miles distant. It was good to talk to some coherent air traffic control, who gave us the permission to fly low around Cape Point. We dropped down to 50 feet above the clear blue South Atlantic waters, feeling an incredible sense of achievement as we circled round the Cape of Good Hope - our journey complete. We returned to the airport landing alongside a South African Jumbo just landing from London. Feel very tiny alongside the big boys, a blind mole shambled out of the grass past our tyres, bringing the relativity of size into focus. Jane was connecting straight off to Germany, and the immigration officer was kind enough to find another small spot for her visa - saying that 3 Americans had been sent back the same morning for lack of passport space.

I taxied to the Aero Club, parked, and took a cab into the city's Waterfront and the Cape Grace hotel, where we quickly settled into the warm luxury of one of Africa's finest hotels. A dinner at nearby Dan Ankers Belgian restaurant on the waterfront, finally gave me the chance to unwind: time for reflection on the enormity of the journey we had undertaken. Our happy angels left for their guided trip to the Kirstenbosch gardens, penguins and Cape of Good Hope by road. Here they poured the waters we had collected from the mighty waterways of Africa into the confluence of the Atlantic and Indian oceans - the culmination of a unique safari adventure.

With thanks to all the contributors!