A JOURNEY TO THE DESERT'S EDGE

There is no finer plane than the Robin DR400. OK, I'm hopelessly biased, it's what I learnt to fly in - but it happens to be true. Equally, there is no more beautiful holiday destination than Morocco, and when I discovered that its former King was a keen private pilot, I thought that if Moroccan flying was good enough for him, it was good enough for me.

When I tentatively asked CFI Christian if F-GJZK, a superb DR400 Régent based at Nîmes-Courbessac, might be available for a flight around Spain, and over the High Atlas to the desert, he did not hesitate. "Bien sûr". "We'll need it for eleven days", I said. "Bien sûr". Suddenly it was not just a good idea. It was compulsory.

I needed a check flight but could have done without the blustery 40-knot Mistral that blew up for the occasion. My first landing was anything but elegant. Second time around, there were sheep all over the runway. The shepherd, who has airfield grazing rights, shooed them away during the go-around. Anyway, I managed to persuade Christian that I still knew how to fly.

Two days later the wind had calmed. My friend Desmond and brother David checked and loaded the plane while I got the weather and filed a flight plan to Castellón de la Plana, near Valencia. At 3 pm we took off on Runway 18.

To leave Courbessac's circuit you need permission from Rhône Information, who control Nîmes Garons international airport just eight miles away. "Rhône Info, Fox Zulu Kilo, bonjour". No response, so hard left with the stick. Anxiety. Had the radio failed? Then relief as they answered, "Fox Zulu Kilo j'écoute". I passed our details.

"Fox Zulu Kilo, transit approuvé. Affichez 7022 au transpondeur". Tracking the Lyon-Barcelona motorway to the sea, we overflew a departing BA flight on Montpellier's 31R, before routing along the coast to avoid bumping into mountains or getting lost. Flying under cloud at 2,000 feet, we saw our next reporting point, Maguelone Cathedral, perched with due gravitas on its green island.

Soon we were above the fishing port of Sète, beside Mont St-Clair - at 574 feet just a hill with attitude. Oyster beds lined up like rows of submerged washboards in gleaming lagoons, with the multi-layered Cévennes to the north. After passing the craggy Côte Vermeille, where the Pyrenean foothills tumble into the sea, Spain welcomed us with gentle sun. We said "au revoir" to Perpignan Information and "buenas tardes" to Barcelona Approach.

There are three ways of getting past Barcelona's VFR-prohibited zone. One is to climb above 7500 feet, out of the question that day due to cloud. Or you can fly well out to sea. Our choice was to stay below 3,500 feet, following the Mataró-Sabadell-Vendrell corridor; from the radio babble it seemed half of Spain was there with us. Barcelona's sprawl unfolded to our left, with Montserrat on the other side, but communications were difficult and we longed to get back to the silent sea.

Castellón, like most coastal airfields, was unmissable, even if the correct runway proved elusive. We called Castellón Radio to say we were approaching from the north and were offered a direct approach to Runway 18. After a turbulent descent over Monte Bartolo, just over three hours after Nîmes, we floated to a gentle landing on the grass.

In fact, we had mistakenly landed on 21 (18 being a more serious tarmac affair) but nobody minded. After refuelling, we walked to the nearby Golf Club residence, run by a pilot's wife. Relaxed by a verdant view, exuberant red squirrels and crisp cervezas in ice-frosted glasses, we were set up for a brisk walk to the port for dinner.

Next day we took off early. Heading west, skirting Valencia's zone, we climbed to FL85 in brilliant visibility, well above the 6,500 foot peaks of Sierra de Javalambre, before turning towards Córdoba. Red, grey and dark green, the arid mountainous landscape was punctuated by giant circular fields with centre-pivot irrigation, each two or more kilometres across.

If the GPS had failed it would have been no great problem, as Córdoba is located on one of the world's great navigational aids, the snaking Guadalquivir. It also has an NDB. With no ATC, we flew overhead, noted the flaccid sock and turned downwind for a left-hand circuit on to 03. It was just 2½ hours after take-off.

Córdoba was full for football (Spain v Japan) so we ended up in a run-down hotel the wrong side of town. Our consolation, a magical evening walk to the centre over a Roman bridge. We ordered Rioja before dinner. "Si", hissed the barman through clenched lips. Then we noticed that everyone else was drinking the proprietor's fino sherry.

After breakfast we discovered the Moors' great riverside mosque: an 8th century forest of columns, mosaics and marble. Not to be outdone, the 16th century Christians had constructed at its centre a Renaissance Cathedral - baroque magnificence or vandalism, take your pick.

Replete with culture we returned to the airport to file our flight plan for Tangier. "Impossible. No customs". Astonishment. "At Tangier?" "No, here". So we flew on to Jerez, a hundred miles southwest.

It should have taken an hour but, with the airfield tantalisingly in sight, twenty minutes were added by a controller repeating, "Hold your position and I'll call you back", like a faulty gramophone record.

Eventually an Iberia Boeing took off. After it had gone, radio silence. We called again, this time getting a truly ratty, "I will not say it again. I will call you back". We circled, making our own small contribution to global warming. Then Iberia re-appeared, did a touch and go and we were cleared to land on 03. If Heathrow had controllers like this, they would only fit in half a dozen landings a day.

We cleared customs, donned our life jackets and climbed aboard. Now more hassle from the controller. Having cleared us to taxi for a northerly take-off, he stopped us half way to the hold and sent us the other way. The wind had not changed, so was this now a vendetta? Whatever, it was a pleasure to be leaving his airspace.

Twenty-five minutes later, the southern marshlands gave way to the sea and we were over the Strait of Gibraltar. Pilots familiar with Channel crossings will know the excitement and trepidation when land disappears and you are flying into haze effectively on instruments. This was even better: our first intercontinental flight. Fifteen minutes later Africa came into view and, after the lighthouse of Cap Spartel and a rounded hill, we turned left for final approach to Runway 10 of Tangier Ibn Batouta, three thousand five hundred metres of tarmac I would defy anyone to miss.

Immigration formalities required much form filling but were lubricated with rudimentary Arabic. We good-afternooned with a masa el khayr and thanked with a shukran b'zerft and they positively beamed. It was a warm welcome we came to expect at all the Moroccan airports.

Our cheap town-centre hotel had glittering lanterns and gilded cushions fit for a harem. We walked to the souk, toasting our arrival with freshly squeezed orange juice. But Tangier's cacophony - the water-seller's bell, swerving motor-bikes and the distorted moan of a Tannoyed muezzin - sent David into shock, so we took refuge in the El Minzah bar.

Next day, friendly flight planning staff explained the latest VFR requirements, then it was time to refuel. As I looked for the bowser, a lorry arrived with Avgas in a barrel. Two young men tested the contents with an old-fashioned glass hydrometer and water-detecting paper, inserted a syphon and cranked a Japy hand-pump. A large stork flapped creakily down from its lighting tower home to watch, as a 737 roared on to the runway a hundred metres away. Not the safest place for a nest.

We flew past coastal Asilah and Larache, then inland along the compulsory VFR route to the great Maâmora cork and eucalyptus forest, Al-Massira dam and the arid red phosphate-rich plain leading to Marrakech.

With few Moroccan navaids, we were grateful for the GPS. After two and a half hours, the dark stripe of Marrakech's 3100-metre runway appeared on a beige canvas of dusty farmland. It stood out for miles in the limpid air. Crabbing our way down against a northerly crosswind, we landed on 28.

Our rooftop room at the Grand Hotel Tazi was more agreeable than grand. That evening in the huge Place Djemaa el Fna, turbaned charmers necklaced us with somnolent serpents and we were fought over by owners of myriad outdoor eateries, eventually succumbing to barbecued fish with cumin-spiced salad. Back at the hotel, our Koutoubia minaret view was adorned by a perfect crescent moon.

Next day at noon we took off for the true South. The 180 HP Lycoming hauled us up the High Atlas without complaint, and we reached FL115 over the Tizi n'Tichka pass, keeping a respectful distance from the 13,500 foot snowy peak of Mount Toubkal.

Not a cloud could be seen and visibility was only limited by the curvature of the Earth. Awe-struck, and in no hurry to come down, we wheeled eagle-like before swooping down over crags, peaks and wavy, layered rock, for a direct approach to Runway 12 at Ouarzazate - still 3,782 feet above sea level. The flight had only lasted an hour, but what an hour. We stayed just long enough to complete the police documents, file a flight plan and refuel.

It was hot, and at this elevation we were thankful for the 3 km runway as we struggled off the ground into a shimmering mirage. Passing the El Mansour Eddahbi reservoir, a remarkable turquoise against the brown desert, we climbed over the lunar peaks of Jbel Saghro, before a winding descent of the Drâa Valley's palm oases and sun-baked mud villages. Bright sun threw it all into sharp relief as, a few hundred feet above the treetops, we followed the river to Zagora.

Departing the valley into a featureless wilderness, the GPS indicated less than a mile to Zagora airfield. We saw nothing. Then suddenly there it was, an improvised runway marked on the sand, a limp windsock, a hut and the letters ZAGORA in white paint. We blew up a huge cloud of dust, and taxied to park by a solitary tree where a man stood with two small girls.

He was the airstrip guardian, living there with his family. Greeting us like long-lost friends, he took us in a bone-shaking truck to the Gendarmerie Royale where an effusive Chief of Police welcomed us for the form-filling ceremony. Our admiration of his embroidered white jellaba evoked such generosity that he started to take it off, but we persuaded him it would be a gift too far.

A jeep took us to the Kasbah Asmaa hotel in the nearby oasis village of Amazrou - 52 days camel-ride from "Tombouctou", according to a gaudily painted sign. Relaxing in the pool surrounded by tropical flowers and tall waving date palms we listened to other guests' bus, car and camel adventures - our own tale of flying in over the High Atlas being greeted with astonishment.

Next morning a confident boy guided us through bamboos and dusty fields where camels fed on palm shoots. Women washed clothes in a rocky stream and bright rugs lay drying on the hillside. He showed us the bare interior of an old mud building, saying it was once a synagogue, and right on cue a suitably celestial sunbeam shone through a hole in its roof.

That afternoon, we remembered forgetting the plane's vent protectors, imagining the entire insect population of the desert nesting in the static vents and Pitot. We piled into a taxi and returned to the airstrip. Children gazed wide-eyed as we swarmed around the plane, inserted three tiny plugs and departed.

The following morning we said goodbye to guardian and children. We had seen little of them but they were already our friends. After taking off we circled and dipped our wings before breaking away west towards the Atlantic coast and Agadir.

Climbing quickly to FL65, we crossed the dusty wilderness of the Anti-Atlas. High in the barren mountains beside Tasla, on a wide plateau, a disused airfield appeared, a vast cross like some ancient ritual site; we dived towards it for photographs then, after a further climb to FL105, caressed the two-mile-high snow-flecked peaks of Jbel Siroua before a long cruise descent towards the lush green Sous Valley.

Near Agadir, a misleading runway came into view. It was the old Inezgane airport, now superseded by nearby Al Massira - where we were cleared to land. A PAPI helped us to a 3° glide onto two miles of manicured concrete. How different from Zagora's kilometre of sand.

After refuelling and paperwork we headed north over the Bay of Agadir. Then the fun. As we battled with a gusty headwind, the turbulence became ferocious. We experimented with various altitudes and distances from the coast, but to no avail. Suddenly we were in free-fall and Desmond hit his head on the canopy. We all, belatedly, tightened our seat belts. Landing in bright mid-afternoon sunshine with a thump, we found the windsock horizontal and palm-trees flailing. Essaouira - Windy City, Afrika - was living up to its name. It was only an hour since Agadir, but it had been a long sort of hour.

Next day was a sunny breezy Mayday of colourful processions. We walked into the old city to buy aromatic craftwork carved from thuja roots and lunched on overpriced fish in a port-side tourist trap.

The wind dropped for our departure and we had stunning views over the Iles Purpuraires. Heading inland for Tetouan, we bypassed Casablanca to our left, overflying a cluster of circular fields even bigger than those in Andalucía. Then the weather deteriorated and we thought of diverting to Tangier, but it was submerged in low cloud. The afternoon darkened as we headed over the menacing Rif mountains, playing tag with bits of cumulus. After nearly three hours in the air, it was a relief to see Tetouan encircled in the foothills of Jbel Dersa.

Vertiginous is hardly the word for our descent. Our initial clearance was to join downwind for 24, but finding ourselves perfectly aligned for the 2,300-metre Runway 06 and miscalculating the effect of a 310° 12 Kt wind, we requested a direct approach to 06. This was approved by a somewhat surprised-sounding controller.

He must have known we were far too high and even a kamikaze, orbiting dive failed to get us on to a reasonable glide path. Half the runway had gone by before our wheels found the ground and we had to backtrack a good mile to the terminal.

We dined by fluorescent tubelight in the Restinga, the only place in town serving wine. Our rickety oilcloth-draped table was set amidst plastic vines but the welcome was warm and the food good. Logs could not have slept better than we did that night.

Next day, in near-deserted morning streets we walked through the great square beside the Royal Palace and into a maze of souks. A peculiarly tenacious "guide" appeared, but we eventually shook him off just as shutters rattled up, ornately studded doors swung open and the market came to life.

After absorbing a few hours of atmosphere we returned to the airport. Cleverly, we thought, we had got rid of most of our dirhams - a currency you are not allowed to export - but then we realised we did not have enough to pay for fuel. No, the pétrolier would not accept credit cards. Pesetas or sterling would do nicely, but only at totally fictitious exchange rates.

The nearest bank was not only miles away in town but it had closed for lunch. Tetouan's nickname is "City of Thieves", and we were beginning to see why. Then a policeman appeared and questioned me about how I had got on to the apron without passing through the correct channel. My defence, that I had simply walked through a door, sounded feeble, and I feared incarceration, but when I switched the conversation to our petrol problem he was suddenly, inexplicably, on our side.

Departing from Tetouan under bubbling cumulus, we crossed the Mediterranean to Spain. Cloud gave way to serene blue skies as we passed the hideous concrete of Fuengirola and Torremolinas, then the Málaga controller slotted us between holiday 737s in a right hand circuit to Runway 14. A small airport bus whisked us to the modern Terminal Aviacion General where young Ramiro, of Air Taxis Handling, helped us with arrival formalities.

After a night with friends in an orange grove at nearby Mijas, the next day dawned forebodingly with black clouds and rain. With plenty of Costa, but no Sol, we breakfasted anxiously.

At the airport Ramiro was looking gloomy. The rain in Spain was falling on the plane, and he didn't like it any more than we did. His colleague bussed us to the weather office in the control tower. The bad news was that it was a fairly static weather system, but it was weakening and further north was clear.

We were driven back to the terminal where we paid for our landing fee, overnight parking, four bus transfers, and assistance with customs formalities and flight plan filing. The total was just £20.

With the rain more or less stopped, visibility over 10 kilometres and cloud base at 4,000 feet, we had a chance to leave. As we taxied through puddles for Runway 14, we took a wrong turn and were surprised by a holiday jet rocketing off the ground in front of us from a wholly unexpected direction: a cautionary reminder of the perils of get-there-itis.

Once airborne, the rain set in with a vengeance. After a few miles we thought about going back, and radioed Málaga, but conditions had worsened there too. We battled through darkening skies, seeing Almería against a flashing backdrop of violent storms on mountain peaks. It seemed to go on for ever, but approaching the gentle landscape of the Costa Blanca, we finally broke through into the veiled sunshine the meteorologists had promised.

Approaching Castellón we calculated we could manage another hundred miles - so we radioed Valencia to ask if there was fuel ahead at Reus. We had trouble making contact, but somewhere above a Lufthansa pilot offered to relay messages. "They have Avgas", he eventually confirmed, "Have a good flight". "Danke schön", we replied, "You too".

Four hours after Málaga we taxied to a halt at Reus, relieved to be safely on the ground. The airfield is just six miles from Tarragona where we found a hotel. Next day we climbed to the Romanesque-Gothic Cathedral through mediaeval streets with Roman fragments embedded in ancient walls. Inside, a bearded wooden figure was recumbent on a tomb. I asked someone who it was. Astonishment. "It is Jesus Christ". Feeling somewhat foolish, I exited to the cloister, admired ancient stone carvings and kept quiet.

After lunch we retraced our original route around the coast for what we expected to be an easy flight back to Nîmes. But near Montpellier - with just twenty minutes to run - the weather closed in again. "Are conditions better inland?", we asked the controller. "Non, Monsieur". So we decided to land.

The weather bureau told us that this was simply the back of a front, and in the downing of a coffee it had gone. Fifteen minutes after take-off, we were passing the great Roman amphitheatre of Nîmes and calling Rhône Info with Courbessac in sight. "Vous pouvez quitter, Monsieur, au revoir".

Dusk was approaching as we landed on 36 into the first gusts of a new Mistral. We taxied to the clubhouse, cut the engine and pulled back the canopy. Some friends were manoeuvring the last planes of the day into the hangar. "Bon vol?" asked one casually. "Très bon. De retour de l'Afrique".

Published in "Flyer" June 2002
Text: © Brian Simpson 2002
Contact: broglets@gmail.com
Photos: © Desmond Winchester and Brian Simpson 2001