I Married Adventure

by Osa Johnson

  I’m sure that Dot and Trubee were, at first, of the opinion that we were “showing off” our lion friends when, as on many occasions, we drove close to them. We’d been in camp only two weeks, however, when Martin and I came on our guests out on the plain in their car taking pictures of thirteen lions, none of which was more than thirty feet away and some of which were as close as fifteen feet.

  Regretfully, we finally saw the Davisons off. We flew them in Osa’s Ark from Nairobi over the Great Rift Valley and the mountains inland to Kisjumu, on Lake Victoria, where they caught an Imperial Airways flying boat to London.

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  In the months that followed, we established a camp on the slopes of the majestic Mount Kenya. This was on the plateau, six thousand feet above sea level, known as the Nanyuki district, and the space we cleared for our landing field was close to the lovely dwelling and gardens of our friends the Raymond Hooks.

  From here, one bright morning, we set out in the Ark and circled over Mount Kenya peak, which, directly on the equator, rises 17,040 feet above sea level. It was exciting to realize that we were the first people to see Mount Kenya from the sky, and Martin secured some fine photographs, thereby satisfying one of his fondest ambitions and bringing to the public in close-up the detail of those majestic pinnacles of almost terrifying beauty.

  Great snow fields lay beneath us, and slow-moving glaciers. We looked down into deep craters and yawning crevices, while steep, barren peaks seemed within reach of my hand. It was piercingly cold. Below, on the slopes, were patches of color which we knew to be wildflowers: gladioli, red-hot-pokers, violets, a creeper resembling a pansy, everlasting flowers, and scores of blooming trees ranging in color from vermilion to canary-yellow and white. Down lower, we saw the belt of bamboo through which we had once climbed, and lower still, endless forest-covered slopes and foothills that descended into blue shadows and melted into the plains.

  Here and there we spied a frozen lake, and then suddenly, just below us, we saw the mission where both Martin and I had been so desperately ill, and where, but for John Wilshusen, we probably should have died.

  Martin’s pictures and sound effects on this trip were among the most beautiful taken on all our air safaris.

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  There followed a flying expedition to the Belgian Congo over the Ituri forest, and we thought of Stanley’s slow journey through this district, fighting starvation and fever as well as hostile natives. Writing of this journey, Stanley later said: “…for one hundred and sixty days we marched through the forest, bush and jungle without ever having seen a bit of green sward the size of a cottage chamber floor. Nothing but miles and miles, and endless miles of forest.”

  One hundred and sixty days of torture—and we were covering the same route by air in a few hours. Here was another of Martin’s visions of camera conquest finally realized.

  We visited our Ituri forest pygmy friends, registered their fear and surprise at “Mungu [God] drop out of the sky,” and photographed more of their delightful dances and festivals.

  We finally persuaded some of them to ride through the sky in the Ark. Their singing within the closed compartment of the plane was an ear-splitting experience and probably relieved their feelings, even though it did the reverse to mine.

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  Next we chose a campsite on the northern slope of Mount Kilimanjaro. The highest mountain in all Africa, it thrusts its peak 19,324 feet into the sky. My husband wanted to fly over the peak, but Vern, a daring yet cautious pilot, would not risk the down drafts which he knew would exist about the vast ice fields. He did consent, however, to take us above the clouds to circle and photograph for the first time the glittering, snowcapped crest.

  That flight is perhaps my most vivid memory of Africa, for it marked the last safari to that glorious country which my husband and I were to take together.

  My health had given me much secret concern for some time now, and it became necessary for me to return to the States as soon as possible.

  Martin and Vern made a very comfortable bed for me in Osa’s Ark, and after many good-byes to our friends in Nairobi, we headed for Tororo, in Uganda, where, after taking on gas, we left for Juba, in the Sudan.

  Here we came upon a spectacle which seemed to us to be both a fitting conclusion to our long work among the elephants and a reward for the years of patience with them. Thousands of the great beasts were moving in the bush below. We circled them and saw more and more on every hand. Martin, beside himself with excitement, hurriedly set up his cameras and, as Vern flew again and again over their backs, as low as he dared in that treacherous terrain, Martin spun out thousands of feet of what we concluded to be a migration, and one of the greatest and most dramatic we had ever seen.

  As the totos scurried under their mothers legs and the families ran together for protection, the big bulls lashed at us, showing their magnificent ivory and their equally magnificent courage.

  Noon of the next day found us in the horrible heat of Malakal, and that night we slept in Khartoum. In ten hours we had covered a distance that, with Mr. Eastman only a few years before, had taken us seventeen days by Nile boat.

  The following day saw us flying over the ancient temples of Egypt and the Valley of the Kings. We spent the night in the sumptuous hotel at Luxor, and the next day we took to the air again for Cairo. Here we were forced to remain a week to obtain the necessary permits to fly over the Italian and French colonies in North Africa.

  Wherever we stopped we were required to go through the same tiresome maze of red tape, answer the same questions, and submit to the same inspection by officials. At Mersa Matruh we were even asked if we had any coffins aboard!

  We skimmed along North Africa, stopping at Bengasi, Tripoli, and Tunis, where we were required to fly a weird and complicated course to avoid seeing their fortifications. Winging our way across the Mediterranean, we touched Sardinia, Cannes, Lyons, and at last Paris, and then crossed the Channel to London.

  After only six days in the English metropolis we were aboard the S.S. Manhattan with our planes, bound for New York.

  We had flown more than sixty thousand miles over African jungles, and thanks to Vern Carstens, his flying skill, and the care he gave our planes, we made the entire trip without mishap.

  Chapter 31

  The next few months in New York had a shadow over them. I was only just out of the operating room when word came of my father’s death. He had been killed in his engine cab on what was to have been the last run before his retirement.

  My grief, together with my somewhat slow convalescence, weighed upon my husband, and I insisted, finally, that he go to Medical Center for a thorough physical checkup. He had been in the hospital for only a day when I saw that a checkup was not what he needed.

  “I’ll tell you what we could do,” I said. “We could go to Borneo.”

  “Borneo!” he shouted. “That’s the idea! With our new cameras and sound equipment, and with one of our planes—why, that’ll be great!”

  “That’s just it! With one of our planes, we’ll be able to land on the rivers way back in the interior and get the most wonderful pictures we’ve ever made!”

  Martin’s eagerness grew by the moment. “You’re right, Osa! Why, with our plane we’ll even be able to move in on the proboscis monkey and his whole family and photograph him right where he lives!”

  “Yes, and maybe we can fly over Mount Kinabalu—the highest peak in Borneo! Nobody’s ever done that!”

  “Absolutely, and think what we’ll be able to get with our sound equipment, all the noises in that thick green jungle, the language of the natives, the music!” He was thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder,” he said, “what effect British discipline has had on the headhunters since we were there?”

  “We’ll go and find out,” I said with mounting exci
tement.

  “That’s what we’ll do,” my husband said. “This time we’ll be able to fly to the headwaters of the Kinabatangan River. Won’t that old chief be surprised to have us drop in on him from the air!”

  My husband left the hospital on the spot.

  There followed several months of busy preparation and then, once more, we were headed for the open sea.

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  —

  I think my most cherished possession is Martin’s diary of this trip. In it, among other things, he wrote: “Osa and I were now all excited…we were on the last lap of our journey…Sandakan only a few hours away…our home for the next year.

  “We followed the course of the Papar River to its headwaters, the Crocker range of mountains, and were flying at about eight thousand feet…at our north we passed the desolate peaks of Mt. Alab, now we were in jungle country entirely…no signs of huts or villages…. We had been so engrossed in the marvelous scenery below that we failed to notice the approach of a long line of storm coming in from the direction of Sandakan…big black clouds started forming about us…for minutes at a time we were flying blind from cloud to cloud…the sky became darker and darker, a long stream of lightning forked from the clouds ahead and we could hear the report of thunder above the hum of our engine…and in a moment we were closed in…rain beat on our windshields, we could not see the tips of our wings…. Jim turned our nose upwards to be on the safe side in case there were any mountain tops in our way. Gosh! what a feeling, here we were over the heart of Borneo jungles in a storm…flying blind, no place to land with a desolate broken country below us and mountains on all sides.

  “Two hours from the time we left Labuan we sighted the waters of Sandakan Bay…. Jim brought the plane down on the smooth surface…and we were home.”

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  —

  Fourteen months were spent in the land of rivers and jungles, and once more we returned to the States. We had been back nearly three months, and there was still a good tan on Martin’s face and hands, and he was lean and buoyant and strong. More, there was a deep happiness in him, for the critics everywhere were hailing the photography of his new Borneo picture as quite the best of his career. The explorer in Martin had long ago been satisfied; the artist, until now, had not.

  “You know?” he said smiling, “I think you and I are just about the two luckiest people in the whole world.”

  “Anyhow, I know I am,” I said. He was being general while I was being specific, which is so often the way of a woman.

  We had flown to Salt Lake City from the East the night before. It was a bright, crisp winter afternoon, and we were taking a cab at the hotel for the Mormon Tabernacle, where we were to lecture with the Borneo picture.

  Martin fumbled at his tie as we rolled through the city’s wide, clean streets.

  “Do I look all right?” he asked anxiously.

  “You look wonderful,” I said firmly, re-straightening his tie. “You always do.”

  He chuckled. “Something about lecturing before kids always reminds me of that time I pulled a boner in the high school at Independence.”

  “You mean you’re nervous?”

  “Well, kind of. Can you believe it,” he said, a little awed, “that we have an eighty-seven-thousand-dollar lecture schedule ahead of us?”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” I replied.

  The cab pulled up at the side entrance of the beautiful Tabernacle. Entering the anteroom, we could already hear, even beyond the closed doors, the buzz of children’s voices. Nine thousand, we were told.

  “Nine thousand!” Martin gasped. “Gosh, I hope they can all see the picture.” Then he added quickly, “Osa, since this is our first lecture—when you’ve finished your part, what do you think of going out and sitting with the children and listening to their comments? We’ll find out that way what they like best.”

  An organ prelude suddenly surged through the Tabernacle and out to the anteroom where we stood ready to go on the platform. I was so happy I shivered a little. When the music was over, my husband took my hand and led me out on the platform. The faces of nine thousand schoolchildren looked at us as we were introduced. I made my introductory address and then Martin began to talk in the lovely, simple way he had.

  “When Mrs. Johnson and I first went to Borneo seventeen years ago,” he said, “our photographic equipment was old and clumsy and the heavy expenses soon wore a big hole in our pocketbook. You can imagine,” he confided, “what a sad condition that was for a pair of ambitious young camera-explorers.”

  Our audience of youngsters laughed, sympathetically.

  “As a matter of fact, about all we got with our poor old camera on that first trip was a picture of some elephants. We probably wouldn’t have got that if the big fellows hadn’t chased us up a tree. Oh, yes, some buffalo charged us.” He paused to think a moment. “These, and a lot of crocodiles, and some natives clear up at the headwaters of the Kinabatangan River, just about completed our film record of Borneo on our first trip. The beauty of Borneo we could not capture with the cameras of those days, and so you see,” he said, looking thoughtfully out at his audience, “we had to go back.”

  Our picture now appeared on the screen.

  “There’s the boat on which we sailed from New York,” my husband explained. “A Dutch cargo steamer named Kota Pinang. A nice little boat. That was August thirteenth, 1935, and we had with us the finest camera equipment, and our pocketbook,” he chuckled, “was strong and fairly well filled.”

  Martin glanced off at me and smiled, and then continued: “That chap you see standing near the gangplank is Jim Laneri, a Hartford lad and one of the best pilots in the world.

  “Oh, yes, I meant to tell you. The plane we took with us was the Spirit of Africa. We added and Borneo to her name and painted a Chinese ‘eye’ on her prow for safe passage. Along with Osa’s Ark, she took us over sixty thousand miles of African plains, mountains, and jungles. There she is now, all crated and being hoisted aboard.”

  My husband was turned a little toward the screen; the light from it flickered across his face.

  “On September twenty-sixth,” he went on, “we docked at Balawan, on the northeastern tip of Sumatra, and flew the rest of the way to Sandakan, in British North Borneo. Sometimes Osa took the stick; sometimes I did.”

  Martin then highlighted the picture by telling of our plane trip across the Malaccas to Port Swettenham, from there down to Singapore, and then east across the China Sea, escorted by a Royal Air Force flying boat. He told, too, of our dropping down at Kuching for much-needed gas; of our meeting with the Rajah and Ranee Brooke of Sarawak, and of our tilt with two converging thunderstorms when we attempted to fly overland from Kimanis Bay to Sandakan.

  Borneo, in all its wild beauty, was there on the screen for all those quiet, eager children to see.

  “That,” my husband said to them, “is Mount Kinabalu, the highest peak in British North Borneo. In a moment we shall fly over her. The natives call her the ‘Chinese Widow.’ On the day we photographed her, she wore, as you shall see, a ruff of white clouds around her throat.”

  Next, Sandakan Bay, as we saw it from the air, was spread upon the screen, a rich panorama of sea, mountains, rivers, jungle, and cloud-banked sky.

  An astonished little “ohhh” went up from the boys and girls in the audience when they saw the jungle camp which we had built deep in the interior of Borneo. Covering a cleared space the size of four city blocks, it comprised twenty houses and cabins, a laboratory, and a hangar for the plane.

  Flowering trees overhung the river nearby, and the jungle all about us was alive with brightly plumaged birds, monkeys, and apes.

  “It was like living in a great zoo,” Martin said with a sort of wistful reflectiveness. “Oh, and those white flowers,” he added. “This will interest you girls: They are orchids, and Mrs. Johnson counted
five hundred blooms on one spray.”

  Ecstatic “ohs” and “ahs” went up from the feminine portion of our audience.

  My husband laughed then. “Don’t get it into your heads that life in the jungle is all orchids,” he said. “There are millions of insects, most of which bite, scorpions, centipedes, and every kind of snake you can think of—bad ones. Why, there’s even a snake that flies. Oh, yes, and in a minute you’ll see a tree-climbing fish. Oysters grow on trees in this fantastic country, too,” he added.

  Some more “ahs” went up from our audience when the picture showed Borneo’s sun bear, a little black fellow with a whitish-gold horseshoe on his chest. They also loved the droll, fluggy lorises, or “night apes.” Owl-eyed and stump-tailed, lorises looked for all the world like living toy gnomes.

  Martin paused and grinned at me, then addressed his big audience again. His manner was that of a person talking to just two or three little neighborhood boys and girls.

  “Now, I know you’re going to laugh when we come to the pictures of the proboscis monkey,” he said, “for even when he’s sad, this fellow with the long nose has a comical look.”

  A shout went up from the youngsters when the long-snouted monkey and his family appeared.

  “The way you see him there,” my husband went on, “the whole business of moving into his home, and photographing him, appears very simple. But he is a shy fellow and you’d never guess that we spent four months winning him and his family over.” He smiled. “I give Osa credit for most of that,” he said.

  The picture ran to its close, presently, by showing us and our plane back at Singapore as the guests of the sultan of Johore.

  Then the houselights went on, and the children rose and applauded. My husband took my hand and drew me to the center of the stage, and we bowed together. He looked very, very happy.