The Chief Instructor met with Paul and me to discuss Romi. Paul had spent the most time with Romi, and worked hard and long to get her to solo.
"I see some improvement, but it's marginal," he said.
"She will never solo," I said.
"This is a career school for career pilots, and we need to maintain a minimum standard," the Chief Instructor said. "If you have the aptitude, you should solo in less than 20 hours."
Romi's father came into town, and he and Romi met with the Chief Instructor behind closed doors. When they came out, they had come to an agreement. Romi would fly 10 more hours. If she did not solo, she would be out. Romi asked me to be her instructor.
"You said I have a knack for flying," Romi said. I don't remember saying that, or anything close to it.
I scheduled her to fly with me every day for the next week.
The first day we took off and Romi performed one of her signature take-offs: heading for the weeds. I saved the day and we climbed up, heading for the practice area. I had talked to Paul about her training, and he told me the tactics he had tried. He tried soft. He tried tough. He tried encouraging. He tried scary. He tried a half-dozen other approaches, but nothing seem to move Romi.
I watched her fly. She had no sense of the airplane. I covered the airspeed indicator, artificial horizon, tachometer, and altimeter. We practiced engine settings by how loud the engine was. We practiced airspeed by the sound of the wind and adjusting for pitch. We practiced rudder control by aiming at Mt. Everest and steering using only rudders. There were so many areas she was lacking, I decided to concentrate on one area at a time. First, we would work on the rudders.
We headed back to the airport and flew a couple of low passes over the runway. There was a 10-knot crosswind, so she got a good feel for the rudders. We tried a few landings, and she started to get the idea.
The next few days, the visibility was too low to go out into the practice area, so we stayed in the pattern and did touch and goes. Here they call it "Circuits and landings."
"Stay on the centerline," I told her as we took off. She jammed in too much right rudder and I cringed, thinking about the side loads we were creating. She reacted by jamming in the left rudder, and we careened the other way.
"Forget the centerline," I said. "Just keep the airplane straight." My standards were lowering.
For the next 4 days, we did nothing but touch and goes. I kept the instruments covered. She kept improving. The last day, I got into the airplane and decided to say nothing. I wanted to see what she would do.
Her take-off was actually good. On downwind, she asked, "Add flaps now, ma'am?"
I said nothing.
She thought for a moment and added the flaps. She stopped asking me what to do.
Her landing wasn't great, but for the first time I didn't feel my life was in danger.
That day she did 10 landings and take-offs unassisted. She was ready to solo, but the direct crosswind was around 12 knots - too much for a solo student.
That night I mentioned to the Chief Instructor that Romi was ready to solo. I also informed the Dispatcher, because he had to prepare the paperwork. The news spread like wildfire. The Chief Ground Instructor found out. The Kathmandu office found out. Romi and the other students found out. Romi's father found out. The tower controllers found out.
The next morning, I met Romi at the airport. It was hazy and winds were light. We got in the airplane together so I could make sure she hadn't forgotten how to fly overnight.
She did three passable take-offs and landings. Not great, but not dangerous.
I got out of the airplane and she went up to the tower to file her solo flight plan. After she climbed the four flights of stairs, she found the controllers had all locked themselves in the tower and wouldn't open the door. She persisted, and they finally let her in, accepting her flight plan.
The entire hangar crew were seated on the ramp ready for the show. Paul and the Chief Instructor came to watch. Her fellow students came out to give her support.
I gave her the usual pre-solo advice and told her to make 3 landings to a full stop, and to taxi back to the end of the runway for each take-off.
She started up the airplane like a pro and taxied out.
Her take-offs were all great. Her first landing was OK. Her second landing was perfect (even on the centerline). Her third landing was wobbly. At each landing, her normally timid voice became stronger and louder over the radio as she acknowledged the tower.
I realized I had been holding my breath. My heart rate was going back to normal. Others were chatting in that happy, nervous way they do when averting disaster.
She called me from the airplane.
"Please, ma'am, can I do one more?" She didn't want to end on a marginal landing. I said OK.
Recalling my prediction, I swore I would never pre-judge anyone again.
Her approach this time was a little fast, and she landed hard, bouncing 10 feet into the air. At the peak, she added full power and climbed out.
"Good job, Romi," said Paul over the radio. He was proud of her.
"Thank you, sir," we heard her say, no hesitation in her voice.
She came around for one last landing, which went perfect.
It was Valentine's Day, 2008. The day Romi became the first woman to solo an airplane in Nepal.
Friday, February 15, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Romi
Petite, beautiful, and intelligent 23-year old Romi is the female student at our flight school. She was taking a long time to solo. Her instructor was continuing to see improvement with each flight, but after 30 hours, he did not feel she could safely go by herself.
“What’s going on with her?” I asked.
“She doesn’t seem to have any sense of self-preservation,” he said.
We decided I would fly with her to see if I could help.
“Let’s go out to the practice area,” I suggested to Romi, “and then we’ll come back and do touch-and-goes.”
We lined up at the end of the runway for take-off. The tower gave us clearance. Romi added power and began rolling. At the correct airspeed, she yanked back the stick and the airplane leaped into the air nose-high. It was too high for that close to the ground, so I grabbed the stick and lowered the nose, gained airspeed, then climbed out. At about 500 feet above the ground, I gave the airplane back to her.
“That was terrible,” I said. I thought maybe I made her nervous. She said nothing.
In the practice area, she performed all maneuvers well, holding altitude and airspeed. Her stalls and slow-flight were good. I was encouraged.
Back in the pattern, she prepared for landing. The approach was a little fast, but not outrageous. I waited to see what she would do. The runway got closer. Still too fast. Just above the runway I could tell she was not going to flare, so I grabbed the controls and averted disaster.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“OK. Let’s try it again.”
She added power and headed for the left side of the runway.
“Right rudder! Right rudder!” I said. She did not respond and the airplane continued to the edge of the runway. I pushed the right rudder and straightened the airplane as we took off again.
This was going nowhere.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I think I’m afraid of the ground,” she said.
That’s a problem, I thought.
We tried another landing, but it was horrible. She should be much better than this at 30 hours. We called it a day.
“What’s wrong with me?” she asked when we were back at the hangar. If I knew, I would fix it. I asked her about her family and why she wanted to fly.
Her father was an important person in Kathmandu. Her sister had gone to Arizona for flight training, and had gotten her license, so there was a little sisterly competition there. Romi had completed all her ground school classes with top grades, and had aced her written tests, so she was smart. She was raised as a city girl, and never drove a car or rode a bicycle. She had not operated any machinery of any kind in her life before flying.
I took her off the schedule and told her to learn to ride a bicycle. If she could master the coordination it takes to stay upright and on the road, it might help her with her flying. Her classmates helped her learn to ride, by holding the bike for her while she got on, and giving her a push to get her started. Bicycles are prevalent here, and there are many people willing to let her borrow one at any time.
I talked with her some more, and agreed to fly with her if there was time at the end of the day. This actually happens a lot, and the students are alert for extra opportunities to fly. Romi, however, never showed up for those times.
The Chief Instructor talked to her about her goals and options, and it looks like Romi is going to look into another career.
“What’s going on with her?” I asked.
“She doesn’t seem to have any sense of self-preservation,” he said.
We decided I would fly with her to see if I could help.
“Let’s go out to the practice area,” I suggested to Romi, “and then we’ll come back and do touch-and-goes.”
We lined up at the end of the runway for take-off. The tower gave us clearance. Romi added power and began rolling. At the correct airspeed, she yanked back the stick and the airplane leaped into the air nose-high. It was too high for that close to the ground, so I grabbed the stick and lowered the nose, gained airspeed, then climbed out. At about 500 feet above the ground, I gave the airplane back to her.
“That was terrible,” I said. I thought maybe I made her nervous. She said nothing.
In the practice area, she performed all maneuvers well, holding altitude and airspeed. Her stalls and slow-flight were good. I was encouraged.
Back in the pattern, she prepared for landing. The approach was a little fast, but not outrageous. I waited to see what she would do. The runway got closer. Still too fast. Just above the runway I could tell she was not going to flare, so I grabbed the controls and averted disaster.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“OK. Let’s try it again.”
She added power and headed for the left side of the runway.
“Right rudder! Right rudder!” I said. She did not respond and the airplane continued to the edge of the runway. I pushed the right rudder and straightened the airplane as we took off again.
This was going nowhere.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I think I’m afraid of the ground,” she said.
That’s a problem, I thought.
We tried another landing, but it was horrible. She should be much better than this at 30 hours. We called it a day.
“What’s wrong with me?” she asked when we were back at the hangar. If I knew, I would fix it. I asked her about her family and why she wanted to fly.
Her father was an important person in Kathmandu. Her sister had gone to Arizona for flight training, and had gotten her license, so there was a little sisterly competition there. Romi had completed all her ground school classes with top grades, and had aced her written tests, so she was smart. She was raised as a city girl, and never drove a car or rode a bicycle. She had not operated any machinery of any kind in her life before flying.
I took her off the schedule and told her to learn to ride a bicycle. If she could master the coordination it takes to stay upright and on the road, it might help her with her flying. Her classmates helped her learn to ride, by holding the bike for her while she got on, and giving her a push to get her started. Bicycles are prevalent here, and there are many people willing to let her borrow one at any time.
I talked with her some more, and agreed to fly with her if there was time at the end of the day. This actually happens a lot, and the students are alert for extra opportunities to fly. Romi, however, never showed up for those times.
The Chief Instructor talked to her about her goals and options, and it looks like Romi is going to look into another career.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Ram Babu
A striking young man walked into my office. Tall, dark, wide-shoulders, narrow hips – he looked the perfect pilot.
“I am Rambo,” he said softly. He blushed shyly.
I looked at the cover of his logbook and read the name he had written. “Ram Bah Boo,” I said in my American accent.
“Yes, Rammaboo,” he pronounced. “I say ‘Rambo’ because most westerners can’t hear my name. He smiled, showing his perfect white teeth. I was enchanted.
Ram Babu made history when he became the first person to solo an aircraft in Nepal. By the time I arrived, he was ready to start the cross-country phase of his flying. We flew to the airport in Bhairawa, then back to Bharatpur with great success.
One day at the end of teaching, I was ready to go home. My driver was helping to fuel the airplane, so I would have to wait a few minutes. Ram Babu noticed the motorcycle at the back of the hangar that our boss lets us use.
“Take the bike,” he urged.
I thought back to the last time I had ridden a bike, and realized it was about 30 years ago.
“It’s OK,” he said, “You should take the bike.”
How hard can it be, I thought.
“Do you know how to ride,” I asked. He nodded.
I talked him into taking the bike to the student housing area, which was about half-way home, and I would ride on the back. At the student housing, I practiced on the bike in the courtyard.
“Which is the clutch?” I asked.
“This is the clutch and this is the brake,” he said.
I did a couple of donuts, then declared myself ready to go. I headed off for the main road and was on my way. I tried shifting gears, but was unsuccessful. I drove home in first gear.
That’s not as terrible as it might sound. Traffic here is slow, and no one thinks it odd if you are not speeding.
I made it home without incident, feeling good about my minor accomplishment. I need more practice, I realized, and promised myself to try this again.
Ten minutes later, Ram Babu appeared at my door.
“I was worried, ma’am,” he said. “I saw you go off in the wrong direction.” I had taken the long way home, but it was the only route I knew. He had borrowed another motorcycle and had followed my trail, fearing he would find me in a ditch or crashed on the road.
“No, I’m fine,” I said casually. “You taught me well. Now you can sign my logbook – dual instruction on a motorcycle.”
“I am Rambo,” he said softly. He blushed shyly.
I looked at the cover of his logbook and read the name he had written. “Ram Bah Boo,” I said in my American accent.
“Yes, Rammaboo,” he pronounced. “I say ‘Rambo’ because most westerners can’t hear my name. He smiled, showing his perfect white teeth. I was enchanted.
Ram Babu made history when he became the first person to solo an aircraft in Nepal. By the time I arrived, he was ready to start the cross-country phase of his flying. We flew to the airport in Bhairawa, then back to Bharatpur with great success.
One day at the end of teaching, I was ready to go home. My driver was helping to fuel the airplane, so I would have to wait a few minutes. Ram Babu noticed the motorcycle at the back of the hangar that our boss lets us use.
“Take the bike,” he urged.
I thought back to the last time I had ridden a bike, and realized it was about 30 years ago.
“It’s OK,” he said, “You should take the bike.”
How hard can it be, I thought.
“Do you know how to ride,” I asked. He nodded.
I talked him into taking the bike to the student housing area, which was about half-way home, and I would ride on the back. At the student housing, I practiced on the bike in the courtyard.
“Which is the clutch?” I asked.
“This is the clutch and this is the brake,” he said.
I did a couple of donuts, then declared myself ready to go. I headed off for the main road and was on my way. I tried shifting gears, but was unsuccessful. I drove home in first gear.
That’s not as terrible as it might sound. Traffic here is slow, and no one thinks it odd if you are not speeding.
I made it home without incident, feeling good about my minor accomplishment. I need more practice, I realized, and promised myself to try this again.
Ten minutes later, Ram Babu appeared at my door.
“I was worried, ma’am,” he said. “I saw you go off in the wrong direction.” I had taken the long way home, but it was the only route I knew. He had borrowed another motorcycle and had followed my trail, fearing he would find me in a ditch or crashed on the road.
“No, I’m fine,” I said casually. “You taught me well. Now you can sign my logbook – dual instruction on a motorcycle.”
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Flying
Our flight school currently has 8 students. This is the first school in Nepal, which has created some unique problems. The government does not know what to do with a flight school as far as regulations go, so they require our school to follow the same regulations the airlines use. We have a Director of Maintenance, a Scheduling Manager, a Ground Crew Chief and several ground crew, a Chief Trainer, a Chief Flight Instructor, and many other staff members. And one airplane.
Our students (affectionately known as ‘the first batch’) are young, intelligent, and eager to fly.
The weather has been hazy or foggy for the past 2 months. Our airport does not have an instrument approach nor does it have runway lighting. This means we can’t go out when the weather is bad and we can’t land at night. If the tower guys can see the hills off one end of the runway, and the trees off the other, the airport is open. Of course, if you are an airline, the airport is always open. To us, the flight school, the airport is often closed.
The haze has not been good for ground reference maneuvers, but is great for instrument practice. So we created our own instrument approach, using the GPS, complete with procedure turn. The students love this. We go up when the tower allows, practice holding patterns, and come in using our instrument approach. They feel like they are really flying.
Most of them are ready for their Private Pilot check ride, except for their long cross-country. We are waiting for the weather to break before we let them do that. We are told that will be soon. We can only hope. Meanwhile, they are getting instrument training, and will soon get their Commercial training. When our twin-engine Seneca arrives, they will get multi-engine training. For their final flight before their final check-ride, they will take the Seneca into Kathmandu.
Our students (affectionately known as ‘the first batch’) are young, intelligent, and eager to fly.
The weather has been hazy or foggy for the past 2 months. Our airport does not have an instrument approach nor does it have runway lighting. This means we can’t go out when the weather is bad and we can’t land at night. If the tower guys can see the hills off one end of the runway, and the trees off the other, the airport is open. Of course, if you are an airline, the airport is always open. To us, the flight school, the airport is often closed.
The haze has not been good for ground reference maneuvers, but is great for instrument practice. So we created our own instrument approach, using the GPS, complete with procedure turn. The students love this. We go up when the tower allows, practice holding patterns, and come in using our instrument approach. They feel like they are really flying.
Most of them are ready for their Private Pilot check ride, except for their long cross-country. We are waiting for the weather to break before we let them do that. We are told that will be soon. We can only hope. Meanwhile, they are getting instrument training, and will soon get their Commercial training. When our twin-engine Seneca arrives, they will get multi-engine training. For their final flight before their final check-ride, they will take the Seneca into Kathmandu.
Monday, February 4, 2008
It’s Good to be 84
Shaven invited us to his house for dinner the other day. “I’m having a few friends over,” he said.
We arrived around 5:30 to find the street in front of his house lined with dozens of people waiting to get in. The front of his house was open, and there was a tent erected, full of small brass cups, an ornate religious paintings, and purple flower petals covering everything. Scarlet red silk cloth decorated with gold thread further decorated the scene.
It was his father’s 84th birthday. It is their custom that when a person turns 84, every blessing he gives comes true. People started lining up at dawn to give the old man gifts and to receive a blessing.
The old man was seated against one wall of the tent, surrounded by several women dressed in matching scarlet red and gold silk. Each guest would kneel before the man, presenting his gift and a couple pieces of fruit. One of the women would take the gift (usually a scarf, shawl, or pillow) and place it in a large duffle bag. Another woman would take the fruit and place it in a large bowl. The guest would take some Tikah (red vermillion paste) from a bowl on the floor, and place in on the old man’s forehead. One of the other women would take a piece of fruit from the bowl (often the same fruit the guest had brought), wrap it in an empty envelope and hand it to the old man. He in turn would give it to the guest, then place the Tikah on the guest’s forehead while giving his blessing. This went on all day, with no break. The old man looked as if he could do this for a few more days.
Shaven then took us around to the back of the house. About fifty plastic patio chairs were lined up, and people were eating. We went to the buffet line and had a terrific Nepali meal. I don’t know what we ate, but it was all very good: some spicy, some sweet, some vegetables I don’t recognize, some kind of rice. I ate a little of everything. The caterers had been at it since about 11:00 and were going strong, expecting to be there for a few more hours. They served the meal on metal plates – no paper plates here. The only thing to drink was filtered water.
We were introduced to some of Shaven’s friends and relatives, including his brother who used to be in the Nepali Congress.
We arrived around 5:30 to find the street in front of his house lined with dozens of people waiting to get in. The front of his house was open, and there was a tent erected, full of small brass cups, an ornate religious paintings, and purple flower petals covering everything. Scarlet red silk cloth decorated with gold thread further decorated the scene.
It was his father’s 84th birthday. It is their custom that when a person turns 84, every blessing he gives comes true. People started lining up at dawn to give the old man gifts and to receive a blessing.
The old man was seated against one wall of the tent, surrounded by several women dressed in matching scarlet red and gold silk. Each guest would kneel before the man, presenting his gift and a couple pieces of fruit. One of the women would take the gift (usually a scarf, shawl, or pillow) and place it in a large duffle bag. Another woman would take the fruit and place it in a large bowl. The guest would take some Tikah (red vermillion paste) from a bowl on the floor, and place in on the old man’s forehead. One of the other women would take a piece of fruit from the bowl (often the same fruit the guest had brought), wrap it in an empty envelope and hand it to the old man. He in turn would give it to the guest, then place the Tikah on the guest’s forehead while giving his blessing. This went on all day, with no break. The old man looked as if he could do this for a few more days.
Shaven then took us around to the back of the house. About fifty plastic patio chairs were lined up, and people were eating. We went to the buffet line and had a terrific Nepali meal. I don’t know what we ate, but it was all very good: some spicy, some sweet, some vegetables I don’t recognize, some kind of rice. I ate a little of everything. The caterers had been at it since about 11:00 and were going strong, expecting to be there for a few more hours. They served the meal on metal plates – no paper plates here. The only thing to drink was filtered water.
We were introduced to some of Shaven’s friends and relatives, including his brother who used to be in the Nepali Congress.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)