OCEANIA

Amelia Earhart - Last Flight - Part 3

To Paramaribo

From San Juan I had hoped perhaps to be able to fly through in one day to Paramaribo in Dutch Guiana. but that did not work out and instead we spent the night at Caripito in Venezuela. While the air courses of he Caribbean and along the coasts of South America are well traveled by the ships of Pan American Airways, which have established a notably successful record with their southern service, it must be remembered that P.A.A. flies seaplanes so that all the way they have a watery landing strip beneath them where they may alight. For a land plane, however, especially a rather large one requiring considerable space on alighting, this territory is more difficult. On the three-thousand-mile stretch from San Jan to Natal there are only four reasonably satisfactory airports and 3tween them the slimmest sort of chance for a ship like mine to land safely. the intermediate territory mostly offers the alternative of Atlantic Ocean or jungled tree-tops.

At Clara Livingston's plantation in Puerto Rico I rolled out of bed at a quarter of four in the morning, hoping to make a dawn take-off from San Juan, but actually the Electra did not lift her wheels from the runway until nearly seven o'clock, with the sun well above the horizon. Incidentally, construction work at the field shortened the available take-off distance, making a heavy fuel load a bit difficult, and adding a further factor in the final decision not to try to push through the thousand miles to Paramaribo. "Push through." I find myself writing those words almost resentfully. We're always pushing through, hurrying on our long way, trying to get to some other place instead of enjoying the place we'd already got to. A situation, alas, about which there was no use complaining. I'd made my schedule and had to abide by it. After all, this was not a voyage of sight-seeing. Only there were so many sights I wanted to se. These lovely white Caribbean cities, for instance, nestling among green hills.  

As to San Juan, i had a curious feeling I had been there before - which I hadn't! But at least i left determined to visit it again. All the way, the ambition strengthened to retrace my steps (what is the aviation synonym for that - 're-fly my courses"?), next time really seeing the lands I've only skimmed now - all of them entirely new to me - and visiting their peoples in a decently leisurely and civilized manner. sometime I hope to stay somewhere as long as I like.

In Puerto Rico and our south American stops I noticed first what was further borne in on me as we progressed eastward. We had chosen a route which lay in lands of exclusively brown-eyed people. All the native eyes, seemingly, wee dark. I began deliberately looking for blue eyes. It was a little like the childhood game of spotting white horses as one drove the highways, or the more sophisticated beard-hunting pastime. "Beaver." From the time we crossed the green mountains of Puerto Rico until we sighted the Island of Mangarita to starboard we saw nothing but the tops of clouds and the blue sea below. A line in my log-book: "The little clouds spread far. they looked like white scrambled eggs." I flew at 8,000 feet most of the way, bucking head winds of probably thirty miles an hour.

The coast of Venezuela in the hazy distance was my first glimpse of south America. As we drew near I saw densely wooded mountains and between them wide valleys of open plains and jungle. I had never seen a jungle before. Like the purple cow which one would rather see than be, close-knit tropic jungles are in a pilot's eyes about the least desirable of all possible landing places. Planes have, on occasion, pan-caked more-or-less in one piece into (pr upon) the tree-tops, and the pilot been able to "walk away," as the saying goes. But such walking (if any) in a genuine jungle! Likely, the getting away would be worse than the getting down. A muddy river wound through the mountain pass we followed, a reddish-brown snake crawling among tight-packed greenery. A few miles inland lay the red-roofed town of Caripito, with squat oil tanks on the outskirts. thee was a splendid airfield, with paved runways and a well-equipped hangar. it is managed jointly by Pan American Airways and the Standard Oil company. We wee met by Don Andres Rolando, President of the state of Managas, and don Ramiro Rendiles, Secretary-General, who wee accompanied b their wives. They welcomed us cordially to their beautiful country.

Amelia and Fred in Jakarta (then called Batavia)

While the Electra was appropriately refreshed with gasoline, its crew were guests at a luncheon prepared and served in the hangar. An elaborate and delicious meal it was, running the gastronomic gamut from grape juice to beefsteak and fruitcake. Our host was Henry E. Linam, general manager of the Standard Oil company of Venezuela, at whose home we stayed. It seems that hospitality always awaits flying visitors. At my place at the table were orchids such as denizens of drab cities to the north wear only an extravagant occasions. In this lush country the lovely blooms grow wild, as commonplace as the poppies of California. Mine seemed beautiful even against the dingy setting of a crumpled flying shirt. Rain clouds hung thick about Caripito as we left on the morning of June third. We flew over jungles to the coast, and then played hide-and-seek with showers until I decided I had better forgo the scenery, such as it was, and climb up through the clouds into fair weather. An altitude of 5,000 feet topped all but the highest woolly pinnacles.

In such a maneuver lies a recurrent delight of flying. Often one can find the weather wanted, at one level or another. As on this and many other days, the pilot sees the rain slant against the land below. Horizontally, distant views are blotted out; vertically, clouds droop to shroud the shoulders of mountains, or weep upon the jungled plain. but how many of the earthbound realize the relative nearness of sunlight above the cloud-covering? how many know that perhaps only three thousand feet above the gray dank world my plane, if I will it, may emerge into sunlight over a billowy sea of clouds stretching away into blue infinity.  Sometimes the climb is greater, sometimes the airplane cannot top the towering formation of a storm. But no matter whether separated by ice or snow or rain or cold gray mist, the pilot knows the wall-card motto is meteorologically true, "Behind the clouds the sun's still shining."

Now and again that sun illumines mystic caves and rearing fortresses or shows giant cloud creatures mocking with lumpy paws the tiny man-made bird among them. but he airman's pleasantest sight is probably glimpses of the earth through openings in a cloudy floor beneath his wings. Such sights in plenty we had in the days that followed, of sea and jungle and shoreline, framed by the clouds that played tag with us during most of our hours aloft. When we sighted Georgetown, British Guiana, we were well out at sea cutting corners, but even so we could distinguish the neat irrigated fields around the settlement and along the coast. Between the two Guianas, British and Dutch, was a wide muddy delta into which flowed the river Nickerie. Indeed, the entire coastal region abounds with sprawling jungle waterways, many of them connected to each other by cross-streams.

Later, we cut more corners, inland. While Fred Noonan had flown this region many times, our route differed from those he had followed before. In a letter home he wrote: "The flight from Caripito to Paramaribo was tremendously interesting. Instead of following the coastline as Pan American seaplanes do and I have always done before, we cut straight across dense virgin jungle. It was so thick that for hundreds of miles all we could see was solid tree-tops broken by an occasional large river." Strong head winds again cut the speed to an average of 148 miles, which included dodging squalls and flying low. I cannot make fast time at a low altitude, other conditions being the same, for it is too hard on the engines to open the throttles wide when near the ground, except momentarily on a take-off. Modern engines attain an efficiency so high that i certainly would not knowingly mistreat my faithful ones. today's geography required the best equipment for safety. As we progressed, the clouds disappeared and I began to descend for sightseeing again. From an uninhabitable swampy shore endless armies of jungle trees marched inland. then clearings, where many little houses appeared among the paddy fields.

Soon we saw the river Surinam, a silver streak meandering to the coast, a wide tidal stream full of floating green islands of small trees and water plants, and bordered with vast stretches of mud. Twelve miles from its mouth is Paramaribo, capital of Dutch Guiana, and twenty-five miles further inland the airport. Our instructions were to follow a narrow-gauge railroad track. flying very low, we rounded every curve even as Casey Jones did. Nothing was visible but engulfing jungle stretching endlessly with little rice fields and huts beside the track. I tired to see the wind direction from smoke or from clothes on lines, as i expected to find only a meager clearing, and felt I might have to sit down suddenly. Then in a matter of minutes, the field. such a pleasure surprise! No make-shift airport this, but one of the best natural landing areas I have ever seen, where everything possible was prepared for our arrival with what one is apt to set down appreciatively as characteristic Dutch thoroughness.

An orange wind sock flew from a pole. Strips of white cloth marked the best section for landing. As soon as we came into view, a bonfire was touched off to show the wind direction and a main waved a white flag to guide us in "Zandery" is the field's name, which means "sandy." As far s I could see it is the only space of the kind for miles. We were welcomed by Commissary Wempe and Captain Sluyter, in command of troops, James Lawton, American consul at Paramaribo, and others who had come out from town. Soldiers stood by to pump in gasoline from drums and guard the plane. Coffee, orange juice and sandwiches were ready for hot and famished flyers. Never did I have better service anywhere, or welcome more sincere. After the tanks had been refilled and the propellers greased, the plane was staked down in the open, for there was no hangar. Then we embarked on the railroad which we had followed in from the coast for the hour's run to Paramaribo. Dog, chickens and goats were herded from the track at our approach. Women carrying baskets of fruit on their heads came to the car when we stopped. For part of the way, the road ran beside a canal. Burma cattle, burros, bicycles, a fleet of boars and, now and then, automobiles, were varied means of locomotion noted.

The next day we had planned a jump to Fortaleza, Brazil, though that depended on the weather and field conditions. It had rained heavily at Paramaribo the previous day but the officials solemnly p0romised to arrange a good take-off wind and dry ground in the early morning as part of their hospitality. The name of the river, Surinam, was once applied to this whole country. In its heyday, Surinam was a black spot of slavery and colorful viciousness, probably as wicked a town as flourished along all the wild coast of South America. The Paramaribo of today is a substantial community with the inherent virtues of Holland written in its broad tree-planted streets and its general spic-and-spanness. but, at that, it is picturesquely tropical. The adjacent jungle, which creeps to the very edge of town, is inhabited by Bush Negroes, descendants of escaped African slaves of long ago. Now they are friendly people and it was fun to glimpse them in the market, bartering soft-shell turtle eggs, string beans eighteen inches long, horned cucumbers, breadfruit and sapodillas.  

We stayed at the Palace Hotel, a stamping ground of Noonan's in his P.A.A. days. he encountered an old friend, Carl Doake, who was his radio operator in Haiti in 1930. this south American leg of our journey provided a sort of old-home week for Fred, who knew many people and was familiar with the coast line generally although he did not know the land-plane fields we used. Incidentally, little by little I came to know my shipmate's full story. In addition to being an air navigator, he is a master Mariner unlimited. And, for some quaint reason, he also holds a first-class pilot's license on the Mississippi River. In his diversified twenty-odd years of nautical knocking about, he rounded ape Horn seven times, thrice on a wind-jammer and four times on steamships. At the age of fifteen for no particularly good reason except that he wanted to, Fred left home to go to sea. During the World War he served on a munitions carrier between New York and England, and later in the British Navy was on three ships which were torpedoed.

Once we were discussing the delays apparently inevitable in aviation, especially with our kind of flying. "It's all a mater of comparison," Fred assured me. "We're impatient about a day's delay. that's because the lot day's flying might se us across a continent or an ocean. But a swell way to lean patience is to try a tour of sailing-ship voyaging. Back in 1910 I was on the bark Crompton which was then the largest square-rigged ship under the English flag. We were weather-bound 152 days on the voyage from the state of Washington, on the Pacific coast, to Ireland. After nearly half year on one vessel on one trip you become pretty philosophical about the calendar!"

At that, I decided to stick to airplanes.

Fortaleza and Natal

The weather at Paramaribo was perfect except for a morning mist from the Surinam River, when we took off to skim the tree-tops and then pull up. Speaking of trees, we had plenty of them on this jump to Fortaleza in Brazil - trees and water. During the day we flew over 960 miles of jungle, added to hops of 370 miles by compass course over open sea, a total of 1,330 miles, or a trifle more than half the transcontinental distance between new York and Los Angeles. There was only one possible stop between Paramaribo and Fortaleza, a jungle-surrounded and none-too-large field at Para, which, as all went well, we passed by. The infrequency of ports of call made land-plane flying somewhat uncertain as I've pointed out. Then, again, we left too early to receive weather reports so what lay in store for us was largely a matter of conjecture. Under such conditions in a strange county one must be prepared to turn back if and when it looks like bad visibility at the destination - assuming the way back can be found and a landing made wherever "back" may be.

One of the last photos of Amelia and Fred, taken in Lae, New Guinea (with them is F.C. Jacobs,

manager of a New Guinea gold mine). They took off for Howland Island and were never seen again.

Yesterday I had my introduction to a continent new to me. Today I crossed the equator for the first time. Fred had plotted an appropriate ceremony, himself officiating as an aerial King Neptune. But at the time the Electra's shadow passed over the mythical Line we were both so occupied he quite forgot to duck me with the thermos bottle of cold water which he later confessed had been provided for the occasion. I remember once crossing the United States by night, when I had been flying very high, glimpsing through suddenly opening clouds the broad Mississippi gleaming in the moonlight. today we crossed the Mississippi's southern brother, the huge Amazon. We did not actually span the river itself, short-cutting the 180 mile stretch between the capes at its ultimate mouth. To our right stretched the lower delta, seen from aloft a crazy-quilt of variously colored currents each flowing this chosen course, each retaining its own particular hue of yellow or grown muddiness, and all bearing seaward, like matches, countless thousands of giant trees wrenched up at the roots. How far beyond our view those tentacles of muddy water soiled the sea I do not know. 

After about ten hours' flying I was glad to see Fortaleza sitting just where it should be, according to the maps, between the mountains and the sea, on a brown, sandy plain, in the arc of a crescent-shaped indentation just west of Cape Mucuripe. the adjacent coast line differed vastly from that encountered northward. Instead of dank jungles surging down to the surf thee were wise stretches of semi-desert, and off-shore tidal flats of mud and sandy reefs. there the climate was almost arid. Drought, not excessive rainfall, was customary. Fortaleza is a town of 100,000 people, a potent metropolis whose name few of us in North America have even heard. In my own ignorance I had thought of Natal as a more important place. that, of course, because Natal figures so largely in aviation matters. Fortaleza's airport was so fine we decided to make final preparations for the South Atlantic hop there rather than at Natal, the actual jumping-off place for that much-flown stretch. When Captain Macedo generously put at our disposal Pan American Airways' facilities we determined to lay over a day and get everything shipshape with the plane, mechanically and from a housekeeping standpoint. Likewise ourselves. Sartorially, at least, we required a full measure of attention. Looking as we did after only a week on the way, i hesitated to visualize what disgraceful tramps we'd be before journey's end. 

With the plane the only specific job to be done, so far as appeared, was curing one small leak where a gauge let flow a few drops of gasoline, though from a harmless source. But while everything was working well, a complete inspection was in order, and an oil change, greasing, check of landing gear and the like. further, the plane itself was given a thorough-going scrubbing. Moisture of the preceding week had tarnished its metal surfaces, which every so often should be cleaned and burnished to a degree. Laundrying for ourselves seemed as important as for the plane. I was on my last shirt and had abandoned hope that the appearance of slacks, or my shoes, ever gain would be respectable. (Phil Cooper,* I am sure, would have disowned me.) My one suitcase supposedly carried everything I could need on a world flight but of necessity it didn't contain many duplications. My wardrobe included five shirts, two pairs of slacks, a change of shoes, a light working coverall and a trick weightless raincoat, plus the minimum of toilet articles. whi8ch, for me, was pretty elaborate. In my salad days I flew the Atlantic with no luggage at all and no personal equipment but a toothbrush. A reward was the fun of shopping in London literally "from the bottom up."

And a sun helmet. Neither Fred nor I have a coat (which complicated formal entertaining). but soundly lectured by tropical experts, wise in the ways of sun-stroke, we each started with one sun hat, to which others, as gift, were added seemingly at each port of call. by habit we are both bare-headed people and I find each of us up to this point apparently had worn one hat once, and that solely because whenever we fared forth friends clapped protective headgear on our unworldly pates. In Fortaleza we stayed at the Excelsior Hotel.** the windows of our rooms opened on red-tiled roofs and busy streets which ended in the sea. i could hardly believe were were in the tropics it was so comfortably cool, with a good breeze. but after all I know the topics only from books, and I have always loved sunshine and warmth.

At the airport next day Fred and I cleaned house while the men worked on the plane. We repacked all spares, sent home the maps used so far and washed the oily engine and propeller covers. these, of light strong Grenfell cloth, I had designed and made at Burbank. They were close-fitting union suits to protect engines and propellers from sand and dust, and somewhat from rain, when absence of hangar facilities made it necessary to stake out our chariot for the night. Also we sorted what we had accumulated in the last few days, including everything from a gift pineapple to calling cards, and one unusual object - a large yellow and mauve moth who had established himself on the black cushions of a pilot's seat. I wondered if it had recognized the Wasp-motored Lockheed Electra monoplane as a very big brother.

 

Among our purchases wee coveralls for navigator Noonan, a transaction whose bewildering sped would put to shame any North American tailor shop I've encountered. He was measured for them at eleven o'clock in a shop where ten or more women sat at sewing machines, ready to pounce on the cloth as soon as it was cut. by afternoon he was properly garbed to do any kind of manual labor. I had brought along my own suit. Fortaleza is one of two cities in Brazil which is laid out with straight streets. I fond that out when I left the airplane long enough to do some exploring, in addition to shopping. the latter included a successful search for sponge rubber to replace some on the cockpit hatch which was wearing out. A pleasant feature of the purchase was that I was not permitted to pay for it.

 

I found on Fortaleza's waterfront interesting sights. The fishermen wee returning with the day's catch in catamarans called "jangada." Most of these are very small, consisting of logs bound together, with a large three-cornered sail overhead. The mariners venture as far as twenty miles off-shore and are famous for their skill in handling their frail craft. Great, round, hand-made baskets lashed to the masts were the usual containers for the fish. Sale of the wares began as soon as the boat were beached and hauled on rollers back under the palm trees which line the shore, an open-air market colorful and pungent. The dexterity of the fishermen is not more than that of the women I saw balancing varied loads on their heads while they paced along, their hands and arms occupied with large or small bundles, or baskets with fruit or loaves of bread. the only inconvenience seems to be their inability to turn their heads quickly if anything worth looking at passes. the custom appears to aid the carriage, for they are straight and sturdy as can be.

 

I went tourist and took pictures about the fringes of my flying. A group of them wee munching breakfast in the heavy grass at the edge of Fortaleza's airport when we appeared at dawn. they just didn't like the commotion created by the Electra's engines warming up. They showed their hurt feelings not by silly protest, but by gravely stalking away, turning a completely cold shoulder (plus hind-quarters) on the interloper. Proud cows, those. Likely they wee kin to some haughty hero of the bull-ring. During the night a deluge of rain had fallen and i feared we might find the field a quagmire. but fortunately it was well drained and the sod had and firm. So there was no difficulty in getting off the light load needed for the short 270 mile hop to Natal.

 

We got into the air at 4.50 A.M. and arrived at Natal at 6.44, so our day's work was done almost before conventional breakfast time. However, we had wanted to reach Natal early, on the chance we might start thence across the South Atlantic that evening. The weather was unsettled all the way, a morning of vagrant clouds and rain-squalls which chased each other across the sky. it was interesting country we flew over. Ruffled dunes on the shore shone with bright and. We passed near a stately church on a high hill, supposed to be one of the oldest in Brazil. We could see it plainly and even spot parishioners, tiny dark dots trailing along the white ribbon of a road. We saw the airport at natal almost before the town because it is so large, consisting of long marked runways, large hangars and living quarters. With French, German, Brazilian and American planes coming and going constantly it is, I suppose, the most cosmopolitan and multilingual airfield of our hemisphere.

 

In the last few minutes of flying we raced a black rain squall to the field. As we turned on the runway and taxied toward the hangar the rain caught us, a muddy tropic deluge which blotted out vision fifty feet away. We wee waterproof in our cockpit, but those who kindly rushed out to push the plane into shelter were soaked for their pains. The French have been crossing the south Atlantic on regular schedule for several years. the service is now run twice a week, carrying mail but no passengers. I talked with the crew of the next plane out, and found they preferred to fly early in the morning, since they expect the most difficult weather during the first 800 miles. So I decided to rely on their experience and defer my departure until the following morning, by which is meant some time after midnight. The plane was refueled by daylight so as to be ready. if the weather had turned out too bad to take off in the dark with such a heavy load, I planned to wait until the next afternoon and then fly all night, reaching Africa in the morning.

 

Everyone at Natal co-operated generously. The French have two ships stationed in the south Atlantic, which give weather conditions, and their information they shared with me. Incidentally, I believe that a similar arrangement will be - at least should be - worked out in connection with the north Atlantic flying services. In due time we may well see a couple of vessels anchored at appropriate positions to serve as gatherers of weather data, as radio guideposts and emergency aids. Perhaps such a system may involve the use of modified "floating landing fields" which were considerable discussed some years ago. The soil in this part of Brazil is red, reminiscent of Georgia or Virginia. As man of the houses are built of 'dobe a vivid touch of color is added to the landscape. Green trees face a gray-green sea.

 

 

1928. Amelia posing before a Plymouth. Chrysler hired her to be their first celebrity spokesperson.

 

 

At luncheon I could hardly realize that I was in South America, for the food was so like that at home - corn on the cob and apple pie a la mode. Speaking of food, everyone took pit on us. When we left Fortalez we had a 0resent of a package of turkey sandwiches and cake. If this continues there will be no keeping down our weight, lean as Fred and I naturally are. By the way, the measuring stick of avoirdupois aloft is gasoline. six added pounds offset one precious gallon of fuel. As i wrote this, looking out the window I can se two children playing in the sand. I would like to play too, or at least sunbake beside them. Beyond, the surf beats against a stranded wreck. I noticed a number of these along the coast, and the long white ribbons of surf breaking on the shoals and sandbars that lurk dangerously about twenty-five miles off the shore. I want to get a pair of sandals such as I see so many  people wearing. It is easy to understand where this season's toeless and heelless shoes originated - somewhere around the equator. 

 

The South Atlantic

 

On the evening of June 7, my Electra put her wheels down in Africa, the third continent of our journey. That left two more continents before u, Asia and Australia. Also we crossed the equator for the second time since leaving home, the schedule calling for two more crossings beyond India. it was 3.15 in the morning when we left Parnamirio Airport at Natal, Brazil. The take-off was in darkness. The longer runway, which has lights, was unavailable because a perverse wind blew exactly across it. So I used the secondary runway, whose surface is of grass. In the dark it was difficult even to find it, so Fred and I tramped its length with flashlights to learn what we could and establish something in the way of guiding landmarks, however shadowy. Withal, we got into the air easily. Once off the ground, a truly pitch dark encompassed us. however, the blackness of the night outside made all the more cheering the subdued lights of my  cockpit, glowing on the instruments which showed the way through space as we headed east over the ocean. "The night is long that never finds the day," and our night soon enough was day. I remembered, then, that this was my third dawn in flight over the Atlantic.

 

The trip was uneventful except for little incidents of long-range flying - just another crossing of this stretch of Atlantic which has been flown so many, many times. Such uneventfulness, I suppose, is a part of expeditioning which comes off successfully. If all goes well, there is not much to report. If all doesn't, there are "incidents." The weather was exactly as predicted by the efficient Air France meteorologist. Nearly all the way head winds prevailed. I dare say they averaged twenty miles an hour for the first half of the distance. Then came a stretch of doldrums, a period of clear skies, and next an area of low, ragged clouds strewn all about the sky, and the heaviest rain I ever saw. The heavens fairly opened. Tons of water descended, a buffering weight bearing so heavily o the shi I could almost feel it. Fortunately, that was long after daylight. The water splashed brown against the glass of my cockpit windows, a soiled emulsion mixed with the oil spattering from the propellers.

 

Our flying speed was about what I had planned. Throughout my flight, calculations had been built on a base sped of 150 miles an hour. Reckoning the distance across the Atlantic as about 1,900 miles, our average fell only little short of the estimate despite head winds. On this stretch, as on those that preceded, I did not at all open up the engines. With plenty of work ahead, i wanted to treat them as gently as could be. When need be we could better our speed twenty or more miles each hour. About midway we passed an Air France mail plane. Unfortunately I could not "talk" to it. The mail plane's radio equipment, I believe, is telegraphic code, while mine, at the moment, was exclusively voice telephone. As always, i broadcast my position by voice each half hour. Whether it was heard at all, or understood if heard, perhaps I shall never know.

 

Once before I kept a little diary when flying over the Atlantic, that time on a route some four thousand miles further north. Some of those scribblings later appeared in a book of mine. Here, then, are extracts penciled at random exactly as set down in the "log-book" (which was a loose-leaf stenographer's notebook) while the Electra flew us across the South Atlantic.

 

6.50 Just crossing equator, 6000 feet. sun brilliant. Little lamb clouds below. Ahead dark ones.   Ship below. I descend to let him see us for report.   Doldrums. Rain send clouds. Sperry flies while I do this. Have just come through very heavy rain. Blotted out everything. Looked brown on windshield. *     *     * Ragged clouds piled up very high. giants of S. Atlantic throw liner about carelessly down there. Up here can be rough too. sly unkempt. Water dirty gray. Left engine been bumping. Now starts again. Also right. Only too much oil I think. Gas fumes in plane from fueling made me sick again this morning aft4r starting. Stomach getting weak I guess. French and Standard oil people very careful about wiping oil cans. No ground wire used as in U.S. In refueling at Natal boys spilled so much gas it was funny. I am charged with 165 gals. in a 149 gal. tank. Have tried get something on radio. No go. Rain, static. Have never seen such rain. Props a blur in it. Kinseys sent lunch. took to field. Odd scene. Frenchmen all rotund. Berets. Champagne bottles along walk. Frenchmen waiting their plane from B.A. not in until 6 A.M. Rain makes strange patterns on windows. Harried by speed. Indicated our speed 140 at 5780 feet. Man. press. 26.1/2 rpm 1700 5.1/2 hours out. Driest cockpit ever had ... boys at Lockheed did a good job. ... Glad I got that new rubber lining at Fortaleza. 1 hr. 15 mins. doldrums. Seeing nothing but rain now through wispy cloud. Fred dozes. . . . I never seem to the sleepy flying. Often been tired but seldom sleepy. Outside temp. 60 degrees. Seems to be a good Equator we've picked - upstairs anyway. In half hour should be about half way across. 9.41 Natal time. Clouds seem to be changing. formation seems thinner, shredding out. Rather bright in spot. Can hardly believe sun is north of us but so it its. 147 mps          distance across 1900    8 hrs. out     thus far             1176 1176               "Balance"          724 Seven hundred and something to go . . . that's about the mileage between Burbank and Albuquerque. Seems long way off . . . long way too from radio beams and lighted airways . . . our flyers at home don't know pampered they are . . . air lines especially. High overcast now. good visibility except now and then showers. Fred takes sight. Says we're north of course a little. Oil from props and rain on windshield have made smeary emulsion. I cant see through. Nothing to see anyway. Fred goes back to catch a bug.

 

That entry ended that particular batch of skywrit recordings. Unexplained it could imply something intimate and embarrassing. Actually what it referred to was remote and scientific. The creature to be caught was a micro-organism of the upper air. Fred C. Meier of the Department of Agriculture equipped me with a "sky hook" similar to that carried by colonel Lindbergh in his 1933 Greenland flight. this is a device to obtain in flight samples of air content which are then preserved in sealed aluminum cylinders for microscopic outside of the plane the cylinder is turned so that the slide within it is exposed to the moving air and gathers upon it whatever minute beasties may inhabit the particular stretch of atmosphere just then being flown through.

 

We devised a mechanical refinement for our sky hook. Noonan was too busy to hold it extended through either the cockpit window or the door of the fuselage, had either arrangement been practical. So, at Miami, we had brackets fitted to the side of the ship just behind the fuselage door. when this door was open a couple of inches, which was easily done, the device was clamped in these brackets, and the cylinder manually opened. Then for a period of thirty minutes of so nature took its course. subsequently the cylinder was closed, sealed and the place and time of it exposure recorded.

 

By the time Africa was reached we had a dozen or more such recordings. in the directions given me, Mr. Meier wrote: "This phrase of research was originally opened by Louis Pasteur in classical experiments recorded in 1860 which have since been followed by medical men and botanists of many countries. The results of our new upper air studies bring to light fundamental principles lead to many practical applications, perhaps the most important of which are improved measures of control of diseases of plants and animals." To get the hang of how to handle them we "exposed" a couple of alumimum cylinders before starting. I happened hat Fred coughed upon a slide of one of these. "That's ruined," he said, starting to throw it away. "The collection of germs on that slide would look like a menagerie under a microscope."

 

But I insisted on adding that cylinder to our collection. l thought it would give the laboratory workers something unique to ponder when they came upon its contents among the more innocent bacteria of the equatorial upper airs. Heaven knows what cosmic conclusions Fed's contribution might help them reach! . . . such absurd procedure must be debited to a pilot's perverted sense of humor. At St. Louis are the headquarters of Air France for the trans-Atlantic service, and I was grateful for the field's excellent facilities, which were placed at my disposal. But it is only fair to say that I really had intended to land at Dakar, 163 miles south of St. Louis. The fault was mine.

 

When we first sighted the African coast, thick haze prevailed and for some time no position sight had been possible. My navigator indicated that we should turn south. Had we done so, a half hour would have brought us to Dakar. but a "left turn" seemed to me in order and after fifty miles of lying along the coast we found ourselves at St. Louis, Senegal. Once arrived above the airport it was wiser to sit down rather than retrace our track over a strange country with the sudden darkness of the tropics imminent. the elapsed time across, by the way, was thirteen hours and twelve minutes.

 

Dakar

 

Africa smells. The same smell evades Dakar as St. Louis. to me it seemed a sort of strong human tang of people, quite different from the aromas of South American cities which are those of fruit, fish, meat and growing things - sometimes overgrown! (It happens I am one of those people whose sense of smell is acute. Often I recall the odor of flowers, places and people quite as clearly as i can visualize their appearance. In flying such a sense can sometimes be useful, enjoyable, or the reverse. Examples: Detecting the first pungent scent of overly hot oil or rubber - and doing the right thing about it. Quaffing the fragrance of blooming orchards or orange groves, which often caries to considerable altitudes. Recognizing the unmistakable odors which rise from such places as the grassy marshes around Newark or the stockyards of Chicago!

 

To get the full impact of fresh scenes, a very good way is to fly into them. To drop down, for instance, out of the western skies upon the coast of Africa. In such an approach the traveler has no period of preparation of becoming acclimatized, socially and geographically, as must happen on slow steamer voyages with recurrent stops whereon one filters gradually into new environments whose boundaries perforce become imperceptible, their outlines hazy. with an advent like ours the shift of scene was complete, clear-cut. That is the drama of modern air-voyaging. Last week, Home. Yesterday, south America. today, Africa.

 

 

1928. Amelia agreed to do this Lucky Strike ad because she wanted to donate the proceeds to Commander Richard Byrd's expedition to Antarctica. The editor of McCall's, Otto Wiese, was so put off by the advertisement that he withdrew his offer of employment, and Amelia went to work for Cosmopolitan.

 

Focused from the kaleidoscopic first impressions, beyond its aromas Africa was to me a riot of human color. An amusing, friendly riot of bright raiment adorning good-natured ebony people. their clothing contrasted gaudily with the neutral background of brown plains, bare hills, parched vegetation and drab dwellings. "Feet here are the most interesting thing Ii have seen." I found that log-book observation written as we hopped over from St. Louis to Dakar. Probably the superlative was out of order but at that the feet of natives seemed extraordinary. Mostly they wear "toe covers," or no shoes at all. when black feet generously proportioned from generations of heavy-loaded use, were encased in hand-me-down European shoes the results were absurd. Around the airport at St. Louis stood primitive huts. Tall black figures endowed with a certain innate dignity went about their own affairs without such concern for their neighbor airplanes. Seeing the majesty of these natives I asked myself what many must have asked before. What have we in the United Sates done to these proud people, so handsome and intelligent in the setting of their own country?

 

The street were tropic comic opera. Mother Hubbards draped from native necks. women carried babies slung haphazardly on their backs or their fronts. They wore headdresses of all types and miraculous conformations and often perched on top wee baskets laden with fruit and much beside. some faces were scarred by tribal slashes. much of the jewelry could have originated with the American Brass Company, the ladies going in heavily for bracelets and massive necklaces. I saw no disfiguring ornamentation like the nostril buttons worn by some in Paramaribo, which, I am told, were to discourage wife-kissing during husbands' absence from home. In the cities I heard no native music. Perhaps that is for villages only. Of all god's children who've "got rhythm," few, I dare say, are blessed with it more basically than true Africans.

 

In the market places there wee mountains of peanuts, somewhat held in place by filled sacks. Incidentally, a bag of peanut very specially fresh roasted was about the only West African export we carried on our way. Subsequently as we munched them Fred and I might have been in the bleachers of a ball-game back home, instead of in the cockpit of a plane spanning remote deserts. Dakar nestles far out on the peninsula of Cape Verde, the most westerly point of the continent. It is the capital of French West Africa and as a jumping-off point for the south Atlantic holds a commanding population, I believe, is about 35,000.

 

On the morning of June 8 we flew the 163 miles from St. Louis. the chief reason I decided to lay over a day at Dakar instead of proceeding east was because my fuelmeter gave out two hours after we left Natal. The very efficient chief mechanic at Dakar discovered that a piece of the shaft was broken. While he worked on that - a difficult job to manage from a blueprint printed in English, which he did not understand, in an aeroplane he did not know - I had a forty-hour check of the engines, probably all they  would need until we reached Karachi.

 

At Dakar again I found my enthusiasm for service given us was rapidly him to tell Jacques de Sibour how especially helpful everyone had been, and how well the arrangements made by Standard Oil had worked out everywhere. We were the guests of Monsieur Marcel de Copper, governor General, at his spacious mansion. There we had a quiet dinner, followed with a reception b he Aero Club which was the trip's only function up to then. at a meeting of military pilots hat afternoon I had to explain that I had only slacks and shirts in which to meet generals, pilots, kings and beggars. The Governor is a delightfully cultivated person whose gracious hospitality I thoroughly enjoyed. With him especially I was ashamed of my illiteracy. But my French is rudimentary, particularly the aviation brand, which is not taught in school. Instead I remember questions about my uncle's health and my aunt's umbrella, about walking in the "jardin" and shutting he "fenetre," none of which helps appreciably. with sign language supplemented by scraps of English and French, we contrived to explain what was what without serious trouble. I found that aeronautic fundamentals are international; indeed, I believe that wind cones, indicators of air direction at flying fields, might be adopted as symbols of world understanding.

 

The French, I have always heard, have a genius for colonization. Certainly they seemed miraculously at home in this particular far corner of the world. IO suspect wherever they may be they live well. Where Frenchmen are, there also is good food. Certainly at Natal the meals were delicious, an especially alluring dish being the small reddish fish called "rouget." Colonel Tavera of the Air Force was generous with information and maps concerning the route easterly, while the air France officials at St. Louis, Dakar and Natal wee extraordinarily helpful. Incidentally, all the advance fuss about passport, permission, medical certificates and such, apparently was love's labor lost. Up to Dakar no one had asked for a passport. there were no custom examinations, no inspections. About the only formality was signing the police register in St. Louis. Officialdom expected us, knew our plans, and that our papers wee in order. so why be troublesome? Altogether an understanding attitude.

 

The Dakar airport is excellent, picturesquely situated on a jutting point of land with the pink city nearby. I am finishing this account of the flight to date, writing in the hangar while he good mechanics of air France work. Every inch of the plane has been scrubbed with soap and water. The Electra's periodic face-washings were performed by natives. i must say the aspect of the African grease monkies was sometimes considerably simian. it was not only oily when we arrived but thee was a curious pattern from dust and rain made b the airflow over the wings.

 

Tomorrow, if all goes well, we start the long air route across Africa. Exactly what course we will fly will be determined as we progress. Extremely hot weather is creating unfavorable conditions in the interior. I am warned of tornadoes to the south and sandstorms to the north. So I must try to squeeze between. So far our journey has been along established air lanes. From Miami to Natal I followed the regular route of Pan American Airways. From Natal to Dakar we were "in the groove" of the long-established trans-ocean service. Now we turn the nose of the Electra into regions where planes fly frequently but not on schedule.  

 

Central Africa

 

When I was a little girl in Kansas, the adventures of travel fascinated me. with my sister and my cousins I gratified my ambitions by make-believe. That was in a barn behind our house in Atchison. there, in an old abandoned carriage, we made imaginary journeys full of fabulous perils.

 

Early we discovered the special joys of geography. the maps of far places that fell into our clutches supplemented the hair-raising experiences of the decrepit carriage. Map-travelling took its place beside window-shopping as an accepted diversion. the map of Africa was a favorite. The very word meant mystery. Blithely we rolled on our tongues such names as Senegal, Timbuctu, Ngami, El Fasher, and Kartoum. We weighted the advantages of the River Niger and the Nile, the comparative ferociousness of the Tauregs and Swahili. No Livingstone, Stanley or Rhodes explored with more enthusiasm than we. As the girl grew older, the inclination did not mind. Indeed, as flying brought far places closer, the horizon, and what lay beyond it, gained added lure.

 

More than once the Electra's pilot, who had been that little girl, thought of those early flights of fancy in the old carriage as she herself flew almost straight across Central Africa from the Atlantic to the red Sea. For me the dreams of long ago and come true. Only, back in Atchison, our imaginary African treks were on camels or elephants. then airplanes were of another day. Weather reports at the Dakar air field were not altogether encouraging. Thee wee barometric lows threatening tornadoes, or their local equivalent, in the Sudanese region through which our route lay. So, instead of going to Niamey as at first planned, on the advice o colonel Tabera, I decided to shift the course slightly to the north, making our objective Gao on the upper reaches of the River Niger. Just before six o'clock we were in the air and seven hours and fifty minutes later came down at Gao in the French Sudan.

 

Amelia Earhart Last Flight - Part 4

 

Subscribe!

Please enter your email address for your free Pacific Islands Radio Newsletter!

Pacific Islands Radio Stations

 

(E-mail: jane@janeresture.com -- Rev. 18th November 2009)