“More Thrills Than Skills - A Half-life in Journalism” Extracts From the Memoirs of Scottish war Correspondent, Paul Harris.

So, Daallo was flying in and out three times a week. Who, you might ask? So did my travel agent. When I eventually got a number from the Eritrean Embassy, in London, I called Daallo in Dubai.

 A jolly-sounding fellow said they would certainly get me to Asmara if I met him behind the potted palm in the Transit Lounge at Dubai airport. Sorry, say that again? Well, we don’t take credit cards, so please have US$500.00 ready in the proverbial brown envelope. Well, you see, we’re not actually supposed to sell tickets in the Transit Lounge.  

Somewhat to my surprise, the transaction worked splendidly. My seat was already efficently reserved against my telephonic order and a boarding pass was duly passed over beside the potted palm. At the gate, the departure indicator suggested a mini-tour of the hellholes of north east Africa: Djibouti (arid desert state of French Foreign Legion fame), war zone Asmara and, then, on to Mogadishu, capital of blighted Somalia.

At Djibouti, Beau Geste’s favourite airport, there wasn’t much parked on the tarmac. A lot of French Foreign Legion helicopters in freshly painted camouflage taking off and landing . .  . and an interesting looking biplane. It was a long time since I’d seen one of these at a commercial airport. I confess to more than a twinge of disappointment when it transpired we were not travelling in the biplane. Instead, we clambered aboard an ancient Tupolev which had just one word painted in capital latters on the fuselage: TAJIKISTAN. Apparently, the sometime personal transport of the president of that benighted country.

As it happened, I sat in so-called business class next to the managing director of Daallo on the flight into Asmara. “This is the first daytime flight, so I though I should be on it.” As an afterthought he added: “The Ethiopians have been threatening to shoot us down so we’ve always gone in at night before.”

Thank you very much for making that clear. Apparently, Daallo took a certain pride in serving the more difficult destinations. They were then serving six locations in Somalia, as well as Somaliland, the newly self-declared republic unrecognised by anybody. The only time I’d ever flown out of Somalia in the past, gunmen fired at the aircraft just for fun. . .

The aircraft which comprised the Daallo fleet were straight out of The Old Curiosity Shop. Today, it’s a Tupolev 154; it must be all of thirty years old. Interestingly, the seats raked both backwards and forwards so some passengers faced one direction, the others the opposite. Some of the seats just collapsed when people sat in them and passengers prostrated themselves on the sedentary debris. I was very lucky. It was just the seatbelt which didn’t work.

The crew, though, were very unobtrusive. The pilot and co-pilot sported T-shirt and shorts. There was none of this boring emergency exit stuff. Out of Dubai, most of the passengers appeared to have brought their suitcases into the cabin with them. They just piled them in the places where there was most room . . . the emergency exits. Mr Daallo went on to tell me that he hired all his aircraft, complete with crews, from Tajikistan. He said the pilots were very good.

“The pilot today used to be Mr Gorbachev’s personal pilot - as well as a test pilot in the Soviet air force. He’s got 15,000 hours but can’t get a job back home.” Apparently, we are in good hands. It did seem, however, that the creaking old crate would never get off the ground from Djibouti.

Actually, the landing was one of the smoothest I can recall in a rather long and varied aeronautical career. All that was left was a taxi-in through a row of neatly parked fighter aircraft. Very reassuring. The $500 flight even seemed rather good value compared with the $3,000 a head paid by the 25 journalists who had flown in on a private charter from Nairobi. 

The last word might go to the barman at Dubai Airport who had politely asked which airline I was flying with. "Daallo," he raised his eyes beseechingly to the sky. "Inshallah Airlines, as we call it around here."

Well, God was willing and I did get there.

Source: http://www.allmediascotland.com