Iranian Interlude

By Blair Quickfall.

Kiwi pilot Blair Quickfall has spent time flying in some of the world’s most “interesting” places. His story and photos give a bit of an idea of aviating in a place that many would consider one of the least desirable places on earth to reside at the moment—Iran.

As I sit at the desk and programme the GPS for the next day’s flight, a roaring gas flare outside the hangar throws dancing orange shadows across the wall and the ocean wind pushes its smoky debris away to become some other country’s problem. Kuwait lies 120 miles to the west, a further 30 miles north is Iraq, and just to the east outside my door is Iran. Scattered in between are roving coalition warships and aircraft on high alert. It pays to know where you are.

I’ve been flying in Iran for the past year and exploring the region during my time off. Iran has a small number of foreign pilots flying in support of its offshore oil industry and right now, I’m based on Kharg Island in the northern Persian Gulf, flying some UAE-owned Bell 212s with another couple of ex-pats.

It’s 40 degrees today—pleasantly cool on the island compared to the sweltering heat of the mainland. The helicopters are lethargic in the superheated air; we’ve got to be smooth in these conditions and fly as if at high altitude, maintaining a decision point and escape route as we approach the oil rigs we fly to. The heavy blades of the 212 slap every ounce of lift from the air, predictable and stable—the perfect machine for this hot and heavy climate.

Our flights routinely take us to the coast through Bushehr, home of Iran’s nuclear programme, and likely waypoint for the increasingly impatient Israelis. We all have Kuwait city saved in our GPSs and keep the machines filled with enough fuel to get there—just in case.

Taxiing down Bushehr’s twin 16,000 ft runways, we pass a twenty-foot long, dark green, sinister-looking missile—actually visible on Google Earth. Near the end of the runways are twenty or so hardened aircraft shelters housing a mix of American and Russian noisy goodies.

I was recently shut down at the airport when the president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad quietly arrived with an entourage of Chinooks, Bell 214s, Bell 205 gunships, F4 Phantoms and a couple of F14 Tomcats. This guy knows how to make an appearance.
A little while later, his local speech was proudly booming live from every television, taxi, shop doorway and transistor radio as the town ground to a halt, with people gathering to listen in a scene reminiscent of the first moon landing. “Blah blah blah George Bush! Blah blah blah America! Blah blah blah”—with all the fire and brimstone of a southern evangelist priest.

They take their security pretty seriously here. One of the guys was lucky recently to just have his camera confiscated on arrival to an island from an international flight. A month earlier, two German tourists were taking photos in Tehran and happened—by chance—to take a shot that had a police station in the background. They felt a tap on the shoulder and now have a three year jail sentence to look forward to. Be very careful with cameras in Iran!

A friend was recently flying on a different contract and was relaxing in an apartment in Bushehr when a huge explosion rocked the city. Car alarms were screeching and lots of excited chatter was rising up from the street when he heard the word “nuclear”. Doh! Half an hour later, his local copilot rang him with the story. An Iranian Air Force Phantom had been in the circuit when one of its engines failed and its pilot had panicked. Instead of releasing the fuel drop-tank, he had accidentally loosed off an air-to-ground missile into a hillside. The “official” explanation for the explosion in the next day’s newspaper was that a road crew had been blasting some rocks 200 miles away!

The flying itself is pretty straightforward—move 13 Iranians at a time around the offshore oilfields without getting shot at. We carry an Iranian copilot, whose official job is to act as an interpreter, but whose apparent job is lunch inspector. These guys are all veteran pilots from the Iran–Iraq war and have more important things on their minds nowadays—like sleeping during flight.

Most days, we’ll get challenged on 121.5 MHz by a US warship and the Americans like to hear a Western voice reply when they interrogate the Iranian registered aircraft. Often, it’s an aircraft carrier—rarely seen in visibility that can drop to less than two miles. “Unidentified aircraft in position 29 degrees 13.5’ north, 49 degrees 58.4’ east, flying heading 270 degrees at speed 120 knots, altitude 2,500 feet, you are approaching a United States warship operating in international waters. Request you remain clear and state your intentions.”…Click.

I swear I can hear the guy cock his Smith & Wesson in the background just for the hell of it.

“US warship, gidday— this is EP-NAH, a civilian helicopter operating in the Foruzan oilfield. We have you on radar and will remain clear,” (and put that damn gun away…).

We had a similar chat recently, during which the Americans stated that they were conducting flight operations. They asked us to alter course by 30 degrees to remain clear. Obligingly, we changed course. Less than a minute later, we were called by Tehran Radar with the following exact call: “EP-NAH, are the Americans causing problems for you?” Somewhere in a dark bunker, a MiG-29 pilot hoped we’d say yes.

Two days ago, we had a medivac flight to take a guy with head injuries from an offshore island to the mainland. As we landed on the apron near the terminal and I wound the Bell 212 back to ground idle, the controller in the tower asked me if I had permission to reduce RPM. Apparently nothing is done here without permission! The ambulance soon arrived—a 30-year-old Mitsubishi ute with a canopy—and reversed up to the helicopter. As the back door opened, I was suddenly very grateful to the “Road Gods” for allowing my girlfriend and me safe passage through this country by motorbike two months earlier. I wouldn’t have put my dog in the back of this thing; it was that filthy. It was suddenly apparent how misspent the vast oil monies of this country are.

Last month, I had a free day in Tehran and the rare privilege of a glimpse of this ancient city—closely watched by a company guide, of course. We visited a four-storey carpet bazaar, the National Jewels Treasury deep underground beneath Bank Markazi, and made a rare trip to the abandoned US Embassy where encryption machines and recovered transcripts are proudly displayed; a turning point from 28 years ago that would eventually lead to this current freeze in Western relations.

Visitors to this country are treated with curiosity and genuine hospitality by most people. While motorcycling through Iran, we regularly got free meals, free internet, even a free hotel room, and we got continual thanks from people for visiting their country. No one would take money from us; instead, we were welcomed as family. As a tourist, Iran is the most hospitable nation you can visit. However, working and living there slowly reveals that beneath this extreme courtesy lies the cautious realisation that every move is being watched from Tehran.

During the Shah’s regime (up until the late 1970s), Iran had a strong alliance with the US (with military spending of US$20 billion) and built of a huge helicopter factory in Esfahan, which is still in production today.

However, as a result of the deteriorating relationship with the West, it’s now difficult to get anything more than a seven-day tourist visa, during which time a visitor’s every move will be watched.

The issue of an Iranian pilots licence involves a trip to Tehran and an interview with the Director of the Civil Aviation Organisation. As I walked in the doors of the CAO the several scarfed women behind the counter rose and bowed. I smiled politely and, curious, pretended to have forgotten something back out in the foyer. As I turned and walked past their counter again, they rose and bowed again. I turned around to walk back to the office again and they rose once more—this time with a look that said, “Don’t push your luck, son.”

After greeting the director in Farsi, drinking countless cups of chai tea, and with a satisfactory explanation of a few chart symbols from the AIP map, I left Tehran with a shiny new Iranian ATPL. CAO will issue a validation based on a foreign licence, but it’s only valid for six months—their way of keeping an eye on things again.

It’s humbling to be up here and a privilege to witness history unfold. It is also fascinating to see how a nation lives so differently from what we know. Although I’m living and working overseas permanently (as oil prices rise and the Vietnam era guys retire, the international demand for helicopter pilots just keeps growing), it’s very refreshing to holiday back to New Zealand now and again, and to instruct in Rotorua at what I consider to be the best flight school on the planet, Astral Helicopters. It’s a pleasure for me to be able to pass on the tricks I’ve learned from flying in areas like the Middle East, Africa and Asia to those new pilots looking to grab their passport to adventure.