SACRIFICE

John continues his anecdotes about the sacrifices he has had to make in the course of his helicopter bush flying career.

- JOHN BASSI

MY BASE WAS THE administrative centre of a medium sized reserve. It was more or less in the middle of the southern half of the park, and its only asset was the small waterhole in front of the main building which attracted an endless array of game, day and night.

It had been an old mission station, build in 1927. It could have been a beautiful old building with high ornate ceilings, wooden floors and wooden sash windows. It’s a double story with offices as well as a kitchen downstairs and four bedrooms upstairs. Huge colonial verandas all around the front. The building was rotting, smeared in baboon shit and mostly without water and power.

The province was in the throes of a terrible drought. The reserve had run out of water and every day from sunrise to sunset a water truck had to drive around providing water to the lodges and waterholes for game. The wind did not stop howling, so much so that you felt it pounding the building. Whistling, rattling sounds emanated from every window and door. Every day the sun beat down onto the parched land heating to it to 40 degrees C. There was not a blade of grass anywhere and no tree carried even the smallest leaf. The animals were starving to death and many would never make it to summer.

At sunrise I’m at the helicopter, removing covers and tie downs, my mind filled with my mental pre-flight. There’s a lot to be done in the few hours of cool air before the oppressive heat takes over. Everyone is in place, expectant.