Autobiography - The Galindo Group

Ram Galindo THE MAKING OF AN AMERICAN Page 105
was like a refrigerator. The meat was unloaded safely upon landing in the high and cold
cities of the Andes.
Cochabamba was the main base of operations for these planes. By the late 1960s they
were literally decrepit. They flew only because of the uncanny improvising ability of their
mechanics. New spare parts were virtually unknown but every plane that went down, if
found, was totally cannibalized. The pilots flew them entirely by the seat of their pants
and took great pride in their almost suicidal efforts. In fact, in the mid-fiftys their life
expectancy as pilots was counted in months. By 1970 the flying climate was safer, but
the fly-boy culture was still common among the adventurous meat-plane pilots.
Cochabamba’s bountiful land and superb climate have always made this sunny valleytown
the preferred living area of Bolivia. The town is built in a very large valley ringed by
mountains of the Tunari range of the Andes. The airport is located very near the center
of town and, since the Germans’ time, it houses most of the airplane maintenance
facilities of the country. The view on take-off or landing is astonishing. The mountain
ring rises all around like a gigantic fence containing a green valley within. The twin
Tunari peaks soar well above 16,500 feet above sea level while the mean elevation of
the valley bowl is 8,600 feet.
One day in 1970 my Trinidad office radioed advising me of a problem that required my
urgent attention. It related to the sinking of a barge containing critical electric generators
our contractor was shipping in. Scheduled commercial flights operated only two or
three times a week and I had to get there right then. The meat planes waited to take-off
until the last minute of the day that would still provide daylight for landing at their
destination. I found one that would leave that evening and was willing to take me as a
“passenger.” It was an overloaded Curtis C46 carrying kerosene refrigerators tied to the
ribs of the frame. I stood up holding on to the door opening in the bulkhead separating
the pilot’s cabin from the cargo compartment. The poorly secured refrigerators were
rattling on my back. The stench of dead meat and dried blood was sickening. It was
even worse when I noticed that I was stepping on pieces of rotting cow flesh.
The pilot, an acquaintance, reminded me that he had been flying for more than eight
years and that he was the oldest surviving captain of this rag-tag fleet. His safety record
was enviable! When the underpowered engines finally stopped spewing fire and began
droning comfortably, he announced that we were ready for take-off. I then noticed that
most of the instruments didn’t work and that many had a red light on. When I pointed
this out to him he alleviated my discomfort by turning them off completely. As we started
to taxi, the vibrations caused some of the gages to fall off their openings and dangle by
their electric wires. He stopped any questions by quickly pushing them back in place
and tightening them with paper shimmies. The bare aluminum interior of the plane was
not very comfortable, to say the least. Later in the flight I realized that lose rivets in the
skin allowed cold wind and sunlight to come in. Ultraviolet rays and cold air were helpful
Autobiography.doc 105 of 239