My Emergency Landing in the Sahara.

After my meeting with the Deputy Health Minister of Mauritania, I was invited to enjoy traditional Berber food at his brother’s, Abdoulayeh, tent encampment, who maintained a traditional Berber lifestyle. He owned 800 camels and explained how his caravans still traveled 1,500 kilometers deep into the Sahara to trade salt with isolated communities. His main business, however, revolved around camel milk and cheese. The meal was a true feast: Harira soup, Thieboudienne (fish and spiced rice), Méchoui (whole roasted lamb), Mahfe (camel meat, okra, spicy peanut-tomato sauce), and to drink plenty Zrig, (camel milk). I retired at sunset and returned to my hotel feeling stuffed and satisfied. Thankfully, the temperature had dropped to 32°C with a light sea breeze, a welcome change from the scorching 50°C during the day, accompanied by a hot, dry wind blowing from the desert.

At 06:00, I was taken to Nouakchott airport in a Peugeot 504 provided by the Ministry. The car’s air conditioning was a pleasant relief after a hot, sweaty night. The hotel’s electricity had been cutting in and out, eventually going off altogether from 01:00 onwards. The driver handed me the recipe for Ras El-Hanout, compliments of Abdoulayeh. It consists of 12 spices in equal amounts: cardamom, cumin, clove, cinnamon, garlic, nutmeg, allspice, ginger, chili peppers, coriander, fenugreek, and turmeric. The blend is used in various dishes, rubbed on meat or fish, or stirred into couscous, stew, or rice, and is popular throughout Northern Africa and the Middle East. Different countries, regions, and tribes have their own variations of Ras El-Hanout.

The airport’s main building was a small concrete structure with a corrugated iron roof, flanked by two metal hangars and a brick barrack that had once housed French troops. Behind the buildings, there was a line of Quonset huts. A single concrete-paved runway featured dark asphalt patches and plenty potholes. On the tarmac stood a Kamov KA-25 helicopter, two silver-colored Caravelle passenger jets without markings, and a DC-3 Dakota of Air Maurétanie – my plane for the 1,400 km, four-hour flight to Bamako. More than 10,000 Dakotas have been built since 1935, with hundreds still in service. It brought back good memories of my first vacation job at 15, cleaning DC-3s for Martin's Air Charter in Amsterdam. Five years later, I would jump in Israel from the C-47 Skytrain, the military version.

We boarded on time. The seating in the back had three rows with 2+2 seats, while the front rows had been removed to accommodate large bundles of boxes, tied to the floor with nets, leaving only a narrow path in the middle. There were six passengers, a cockpit crew of two, and a very large purser named Ismael. He looked more like a wrestler, with hands the size of shovels, a broad, bright smile, and deep black skin. Ismael handed out small cups of sweetened tea without asking any questions, along with a small box containing camel cheese, flatbread, and Leksour, Mauritanian pancakes stuffed with meat. The giant advised me to finish my food, saying, "You never know what will happen." He was a pharmacist from Burkina Faso, but I didn’t inquire further.

Having had a tasty breakfast with dates and Yassa fish balls in a lemon-onion-mustard sauce at the hotel, I wasn’t particularly hungry. However, who could refuse Ismael? The takeoff was bumpy, and for a moment, I wondered if we would get off the ground with that mysterious cargo onboard. I began eating as soon as we were in the air, making do without cutlery, which I had grown accustomed to in West Africa.

From the front of the plane, the captain introduced the crew and provided details about the flight and ETA in Bamako. The PA system didn’t work. I was sitting by the window in the back. Across the aisle sat a very tall, skinny guy wearing a Checotah wrangler shirt, a bolo tie, a huge cowboy hat, and pointy cowboy boots. The only things missing were his Mustang, lasso, and Colt six-shooter. "Patrick the Third, call me Pat," he said as he moved over to the seat next to me. You couldn't get more Texan. He talked nonstop, never giving me a chance to respond. The humming of the two large Pratt & Whitney engines made it impossible to hear anything, so I pretended to listen. When I gestured  I needed to read some documents, he finally moved to the seat in front of me, next to a huge person with a thunderous voice and a heavy German accent, sweat pouring down his neck. I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of them trying to understand each other's English. The other three passengers were Tuaregs dressed in wide blue robes and black turbans. Later, when Ismael came by with fresh tea, I asked him why they called him “Ikelan”. He explained it meant "black slave," which was very disparaging. I was amazed by Ismael's self-control since he could have easily dealt with them before I could count to five.

An hour into the flight at an altitude of 6,000 meters, the captain announced  we should prepare for a Haboob, which is Arabic for strong dust winds. Another plane ahead radioed that the storm was coming head-on from the southeast, accompanied by dust devils. These mini-weather patterns occur when the ground heats up much faster than the air above it, causing the hot air to rise rapidly and push through the cooler air above, creating vertical columns of warm, rising air. If strong winds come along, they can carry sand and debris from the ground, forming a dust devil. We were approaching such a storm. We had to go through it since the storm front was 40-50 km wide and reached an altitude higher than the maximum flight ceiling of the plane. The captain barely made it back to the cockpit when the plane started to shudder. This went on for quite a while, tossing the aircraft sideways and up and down. The Texan was screaming while the German emitted a foul smell. Only the Tuaregs remained silent.

Suddenly, the right engine began to falter and then stopped. Not long after, the left engine stopped as well. The air-conditioning and lights turned off, except for a single emergency exit sign, indicating that the power source had failed. It became quiet, aside from the Texan's cacophony. The sky brightened, and all you could hear was the wind. The plane banked to the right. From my parachute jumping experience, I estimated we were at about 1,500 meters, gliding downward to maintain speed. I noticed the flaps and wheels were slowly coming down, probably hand-pumped because without electricity the hydraulic system also didn’t work. Attempts were made to restart the engines on battery power but were unsuccessful.

Below, the terrain looked rough, rocky, and uneven. To my right, I saw a smooth-looking patch of land. Adjacent to it were tents and small huts, surrounded by camels and goats. A jeep resembling a WW2 American Willy's was racing toward the flat area, while people in long robes ran and waved. The pilot was doing a commendable job keeping the speed above stall. Landing a DC-3 with that weight up front would be challenging since it has no nose wheel. As soon as it lands, it must remain horizontal and use the brakes to come to a stop, ensuring the tail comes down to rest on its back wheel. This is manageable on solid ground with hydraulic power, but not in sand and without brakes.

I don't remember what I was thinking or whether I was scared; I was just fascinated as we slowly but steadily glided toward that smooth patch of land. We touched down beautifully on two wheels simultaneously. It was very bumpy, and I pressed against the seat in front of me, in case the landing gear broke off and the plane came to an abrupt stop on its nose. The aircraft shook and jumped, but at least we continued in a straight line. We couldn't use the brakes due to the lack of hydraulic power, and piston engines don't have reverse power like turboprops or jets. I watched as the wheel on the right slowly sank into the sand. In what felt like hours, the plane finally came to a sudden halt. The tail began to rise slowly, pressing me against the seat in front of me. Then the tail slammed down on the tiny tailwheel. Silence. Total, absolute silence. The stern Tuaregs began to clap, while the Texan was frantic. The co-pilot came down the aisle and opened the back door. The German, however, had not moved. Did he get a heart attack? Ismael was already at his side, smiling at me while pinching his nose. I could smell it too; the guy had soiled himself. The sounds of bellowing men and ululating women grew louder around us.

We all exited the plane, climbing down the wobbly metal steps. The wheels were sunk deep into the desert sand, but at first glance, there seemed to be no damage to the plane or the landing gear. The propellers looked fine as well. I glanced at the Tuaregs from the village, who surrounded us with broad smiles. An elderly man, apparently the clan chief, spoke in broken French and invited us for, yes, more tea. I looked around and noticed the sandstorm moving away toward the northwest. Mountain ridges loomed a few hundred meters beyond this natural landing strip. It was terribly hot; the hot air burned my nostrils, forcing me to breathe through my mouth. We were fortunate to have landed safely, but now what?

The captain told us we had landed in Nahali, an ancient Tuareg settlement just across the border of Mauretania in Mali. He had been able to radio the airline's headquarters and Bamako airport to confirm  both passengers and crew were all okay. The clan chief invited us to be his guests, except for the three Tuareg passengers. I understood  they belonged to another clan with which the Nahali clan had longstanding disputes—everything from grazing on each other's land to disputes over the dowries of daughters who were married off. They could not stay and had to move on. The clan chief and the leader of the three Tuaregs huddled together in the smallest tent. I watched as the Tuareg leader handed the clan chief a handful of gold coins along and a note, which was explained to me as an IOU for salt, dates, camels, and goats. The three were given camels, food, water, and left.

The encampment was governed by the chief, assisted by four aids. They made the six of us sit around and began asking us questions. Ismael was excluded from this gathering; I overheard them whisper the word "Ikelan”. Eventually, they divided us into three groups. The captain and I were allowed to eat and sleep in the chief's tent, even though I was the youngest among us. The chief respected my military experience, and on top of that, he was a fan of Johan Cruyff, the famous football player of Ajax Amsterdam. How that was possible, I did not ask. Sometimes it helps to be Dutch. The co-pilot, the mechanic, and the Texan were grouped with the aids, while the German was paired with the camel master, likely to match body odors. Ismael was sent to the camel drivers, who all happened to be black as well. It was clear they were slaves. Times in the Sahara had not changed much.

It was getting late already. The captain had to wait for instructions from the airline. We relaxed on carpets in the tents, drinking hot tea, moving as little as possible in the desert heat, which was close to 50°C, with still air and less than 10% humidity. The water came from a deep well and should have been free of contaminants. Boiling the water was an option, but that wouldn’t look good to the locals, and how could we cool hot water down to below the ambient temperature? I just had to take the risk; there was nothing else to drink but camel and goat milk. Together with the captain and mechanic, I checked on the plane. It seemed to be in decent condition. The mechanic removed the air filters from the engines; they were clogged. Cleaning them was impossible without high-pressure water, and even then, they would likely be too damaged to function properly. Sand acts like sandpaper, hence the name. The board generator had stopped because of a clogged air filter, but that one could be cleaned, and he managed to start it up again. There was also a hydraulic lifting jack on board, so we wouldn’t need shovels to free the wheels. Despite the inconvenience, I began to enjoy the adventure.

Later in the afternoon, I heard an approaching helicopter. It was the familiar sound of a Huey, the type of chopper the Americans used in Vietnam. Sure enough, it landed next to the Dakota. They brought spare air filters, and Jerry cans with fuel. The plan was to prepare the Dakota for takeoff and continue its flight to the nearby airport of Kayes, which was about 80 km away. After an inspection there, it would continue to Bamako. The Texan and I were the only ones willing to give the Dakota another try. The German had had enough; he preferred to travel overland. He had two options: travel by camel for 40 km to Sélibaby across the border in Mauritania, which would take all day, or take a Jeep 55 km over rough terrain to Ambidedi, then to Kayes on a better road, totaling about 100 km, which would also take a whole day. He opted for the Jeep.

We worked on the Dakota until sunset, making sure it was ready for takeoff at sunrise. In the meantime, the German managed to convince the Army pilots to take him along, which was against regulations—no civilians were allowed in military aircraft. I could only assume some money had exchanged hands ‘under the table’, which by the way, is not a common item in Tuareg households. They didn’t use tables; everything was done on the ground: sitting, eating, and sleeping.

The next morning, I woke up at sunrise. One of the chief's aids turned out to be his eldest son, Adib. He brought me strong coffee infused with cardamom and took me for a walk into the desert. All of a sudden he told me to be very quiet and get down on one knee. Just in front of us, I spotted a scattering of Sahara silver ants. To my right, I saw a small desert fox chasing a hare that zigzagged at high speed to escape him. Further down, about eight gazelles were munching on a type of grass called Acheb. Two harriers circled overhead. Adib cautioned me to beware of two dangers: the deathstalker scorpion and sand viper, both of which possess deadly venom. As he said this, we walked down the hill. He froze and told me to stand behind him and not move. With his sword—an item I had only just noticed—he poked at a rock, revealing a small, toy-like green transparent scorpion that aggressively raised its tail, hitting the sword with its sting. We moved around the rocks to avoid any others that might be hiding there. We climbed over two more dunes, unveiling a wide panorama. Not far from us, six Addax antelopes walked slowly in two-by-two formation. Adib explained they strolled like this because they probably sensed the presence of a Saharan cheetah. We waited to spot it, but luck was not on our side. Down in a small valley, there were acacias and tamarisk bushes, with small birds flying around—no clue what kind they were. I was amazed  there was so much life in the Saharan desert. It was time to return to the encampment, keeping an eye out for vipers and scorpions.

By 9:00 AM, the DC-3 was ready. The freight had been removed and would be picked up later. The chief offered to transport it by camel to Bamako, which would take a few days. The crew, the Texan, and I boarded the aircraft. One of the rows of seats was moved from the back to the front so that we could sit behind the cockpit. Fingers crossed, the first engine was started using the auxiliary power of the Huey, which had been converted into a workshop for technical emergencies. After a few attempts, engine one came alive, followed shortly by engine two. The pilot revved up the engines, moving the plane a few meters forward to ensure the wheels were free and rolling. He turned the plane around for take-off. The wind had shifted to the west, so there was no need to taxi down the strip and turn around. Opening the throttles while keeping the brakes on, the plane began to shudder. With the engines at full force and the brakes released, the plane slowly gained speed. With only five people onboard and no freight aside from a few suitcases, we were nose up in no time. The flight to Kayes took less than half an hour, where we landed safely on an unpaved but smooth landing strip of packed sand. A Gulfstream jet with Libyan registration stood on the tarmac. Was it deposed King Idris or the new Libyan leader, Muammar Gaddafi?

The check-up on the Dakota took only three hours, and after enjoying a nice lunch of roasted goat from a communal plate for eight persons, we were off to Bamako. Next I was for one day in Timbuktu, and then I flew back to Amsterdam via Dakar and Paris. This had been an amazing experience and not easily forgotten. I learned about the history, customs, and cuisine of the Berbers and Tuaregs.

Robert Barzelay