And Thank You For Watching

by Mark Austin

  Sure enough, by the time I reached Johannesburg to meet the guys and then transferred to Maputo, capital of Mozambique, the floods had actually eased and the story was losing its appeal. I will never forget arriving at the lovely Polana Serena Hotel early in the afternoon, just in time to see Ben Brown and his BBC crew heading off to the airport to fly back to London. ‘Bit late?’ was Ben’s passing comment as we lugged our equipment into the foyer. It was not a great feeling.

  I mumbled something about coming to do a feature on the aftermath and the economic cost to Mozambique. He didn’t seem convinced. And neither, frankly, was I.

  Somewhat deflated, we regrouped in the bar to plan what to do. The first problem was logistical. It was simply impossible to reach the worst-affected areas by land. Much of the infrastructure was damaged and many bridges were down. We needed a helicopter. Glenda decided the best bet was to bring one up from South Africa, and within a few hours we had a chopper at Maputo airport and a pilot, Mike Pingo, sitting with us having dinner at the Polana. It was to prove the best decision we made.

  The floods were a cruel blow to Mozambique, one of the poorest countries in the world, which at the time was just starting to get back on its feet after a devastating fifteen-year civil war that left a million people dead and the country broken, hopelessly underdeveloped and littered with landmines. The rebel movement, the Mozambican National Resistance (or Renamo), had waged a long campaign, backed by South Africa’s apartheid regime, against the ruling Marxist Frelimo government. But a peace agreement in 1992 offered the country much-needed hope and a more optimistic future. Then the floods came.

  So, in 2000, it was a country without the resources or the infrastructure to withstand a catastrophe of this magnitude. We decided to do a broader story about a country’s struggle through a manmade disaster and now one inflicted upon it by nature. A bit high-minded maybe, but a plan nevertheless. We went off to bed with an agreement to be up in the air by 7 a.m. Pingo toddled off with a beer to plot a route up to a place called Beira, which had been struck by the full ferocity of a slow-moving and long-lasting tropical storm, Cyclone Eline. It seemed as good a place as any to begin.

  Despite the comforts of the colonial-era hotel, I didn’t sleep well, and at around 5 a.m. I made my way down to reception to try to find some bottled water. It was there that I met Michele Quintaglie of the UN World Food programme, or rather heard Michele Quintaglie, on her mobile phone, gasping with horror and trying, apparently without success, to hear what someone was trying to tell her. ‘When? … No! … Really! How bad?’ she was asking. Clutching my bottle of water, I waited in shorts and T-shirt for her to end the conversation.

  ‘Good God,’ she said, trying desperately to reach a colleague on her phone. ‘An entire town is underwater. Suddenly, in the middle of the night. Thousands of people are at risk right now. The Limpopo has burst its banks and inundated the place.’

  It turned out that upstream in Zimbabwe they had released huge amounts of water from a dam at bursting point, with no thought for the consequences. The effect of that and another torrential storm was that the river had risen six metres in a matter of hours. It was catastrophic for the town of Chokwe. The entire population was under threat, people had already drowned in their beds in the dead of night, others were crowded on roofs, on top of vehicles, had climbed trees or were simply crammed with whatever belongings they could salvage on any area of high ground they could find. There wasn’t much of it. In short, Chokwe was submerged. There was fear and panic. And there was no one to rescue them.

  I immediately phoned Pingo’s room, woke him up and asked him how soon we could be airborne. ‘First light,’ he said. ‘Around forty-five minutes.’ I then called Andy. By 6.30 a.m. we were lifting off. Pingo was on the radio changing the routing from Beira to Chokwe, and an hour or so later we were flying over one the most extraordinary scenes I have ever witnessed. The waters were still rising, people were desperate and stranded, and the arrival of our helicopter gave them the cruellest of false hopes. They thought we had come to rescue them. We hadn’t and we couldn’t.

  They waved from roofs, from the tops of cars and trucks and buses and trailers, and from trees. They waved with items of bright clothing, with towels, with scarves, with anything they had. They implored us to come down and rescue them. They were obviously screaming up at us but the helicopter rotors drowned out their shouts. We couldn’t hear their desperation, but we could see it. Andy remarked that it was like arriving on the set of a Hollywood disaster movie.

  People were crowded onto corrugated iron roofs that looked as if they could collapse at any moment. A lone man on the roof of a straw hut pointed to his mouth and rubbed his stomach. He obviously thought we were there to drop food. We didn’t have any. A woman perched high in a tree gestured to her young children gathered precariously on the lower branches. There were four or five of them. All very young. Then we noticed in the mother’s arms was a baby wrapped in a blanket.

  It was a harrowing scene. Andy was filming from the now-open door of the helicopter. Pingo couldn’t believe there were no rescue helicopters several hours into what was by now a very serious humanitarian emergency. ‘I can’t see many of these people surviving this,’ he said.

  I couldn’t either. Below us were thousands of people who went to bed last night with no sign of water whatsoever in their town. Chokwe had not been affected thus far by the flooding. Now it was fast disappearing beneath the waters. Most of the houses were completely submerged, and it was mainly the larger civic buildings that were above water. It was those roofs that supported the most people. Too many people, we thought. The structures would not withstand such weight for long.

  Then, after about forty-five minutes, we heard a South African voice on the helicopter radio. Then another. And another. They were pilots heading across the border towards Chokwe, said Pingo, ‘The cavalry is on its way, thank God.’

  And then we saw them on the horizon. Five Chinook-style transport choppers heading straight for us. It was the South African Defence Force (SADF), and they arrived just in time. For the next hour we filmed as the pilots manoeuvred skilfully under power lines to hover over the crammed roofs. We filmed them winching people to safety. Children first, then the elderly and then women. We filmed scores of people wading through the floodwaters towards one of the helicopters that was hovering as close to the surface as possible. People rushed to clamber aboard. Pushing, shoving, splashing and waving frantically. We filmed another chopper plucking the mother and her children from the tree. This was flying of supreme judgement, extraordinary precision and great courage.

  In the water were several dead animals. I saw only one human body, but it was impossible that dozens had not been swept away in the initial deluge. A pilot was manoeuvring close to the roof of a bus. Another was hovering next to a truckload of people, the wheels of the helicopter actually in the water as the people scrambled across. The chopper taking on people wading through the water was overloaded. The winchman was shouting at people still fighting to clamber aboard. He was pushing people away. The pilot was frantically gesturing to him to get people clear. He needed to get out of there, and couldn’t without risking lives. Eventually, he had no choice. We filmed as he finally lifted off, the downdraught battering the people still in the water. One man was clinging to the underside of the helicopter as it swung away to dry land.

  It was an incredibly dramatic scene. But then Pingo told us he too had to head off, as we were running dangerously low on fuel. We landed in the same field being used by the South African helicopters to put down the rescued. Andy and I decided to try to board one of the empty ones and film some rescues from the actual helicopter. The winchman grabbed Andy’s camera and hauled us both aboard almost as the pilot was getting airborne.

  I saw Pingo swing south towards Maputo to refuel. It was still only about 10 a.m. We were gathering amazing footage and I realized we were the only camera on the scene. It is a very rare thing to happen, and I don’
t mind admitting that even in the midst of such tragedy and desperation, I felt an exhilaration that we had a story of such visual strength to ourselves. It was exclusively ours. And it felt great. I know that will sound unfeeling and selfish and self-absorbed. But it is the truth.

  Within minutes, we were back over Chokwe. This time in a helicopter with a life-saving job to do. Before we knew it, the pilot had lowered the aircraft to about twenty or thirty feet above an almost completely submerged vehicle. On its roof were three boys, struggling to hold on to the car in the downdraught. The winchman made his way down towards them. Andy filmed as he reached out to one of the boys, who grabbed his arm. He beckoned the other two boys to try to grab hold of him. It was very apparent he had one opportunity to rescue these boys and one opportunity only.

  The second boy clung on to him, and then, after a precarious few seconds, so did the third. The winchman was struggling to keep hold of them as he was raised back towards the helicopter door. I was convinced one or more of the boys would plunge back into the floodwaters. When they reached level with the helicopter door, Andy put down his camera and we both helped haul the boys in. They sat there drenched, petrified, shaking… but safe. It was a wonderful moment.

  The pilot had now moved on to a woman stranded on the partially collapsed roof of a straw hut. She was hanging on for dear life. Somehow the pilot hovered between two trees and managed to lower the helicopter level with the woman, who managed to scramble across. We picked up about a dozen more from another roof before we were full, and the pilot swung away and headed off. There were people left behind. They would have to wait.

  The waters were still rising. It dawned on me that Andy and I were occupying precious space in the helicopter. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but I knew these images would be seen right around the world and would have an impact on viewers and on governments. I figured that alone could justify the space we were taking up. I am convinced to this day it was the right thing to do. It will become clear why later.

  We returned to the field where the survivors were being dropped off. By now a makeshift hospital had been set up in a farm building. Crew members were carrying young children to the medics. We filmed the rows of patients lying on the floor inside. A mother holding a baby attached to a drip. A young girl, seemingly all alone, wiping tears from her eyes. SADF doctors working busily and skilfully on the injured.

  We had more pictures than we could ever have imagined. Dramatic footage. We could cut a twelve-minute piece, I thought, which is a very long piece for a news bulletin. And then I realized it was a Sunday. ITV News bulletins at weekends are hopelessly short; usually a maximum of around fifteen minutes. I felt deflated. We had a remarkable story to tell with immensely powerful pictures and it was all our own.

  I noticed Michele Quintaglie from the World Food programme boarding one of the rescue helicopters. We jumped on with her. I wanted to do an interview while the chopper was above Chokwe.

  ‘We desperately need more helicopters,’ she said. ‘Chokwe is only one town that has been inundated. There are several more and there is no one rescuing anybody in those places… Are we just going to let them die? Or are we going to help save them? The world must do more, and fast.

  ‘The last trip I went on we pulled a baby just one month old from the arms of a man on a roof. He wanted to stay until the rest of his family could be rescued. We are finding people in very high water and they have to get out now. I am afraid hundreds will die in this area.’

  She was right. In the event, more than seven hundred people perished, but not through any lack of effort or skill from the South African pilots. It was an unbelievable display of skill, bravery and resolve in the most trying of circumstances. It was extraordinary to witness.

  We had our story, and it was early afternoon. We now had to get back to Maputo to edit and send the piece to London. But where was Pingo? And how could we get hold of him? We could have the best story in the world, but if we couldn’t get it back to London we might as well not have it.

  I asked Andy for the satellite phone he carried in his camera bag and called the news desk. All they knew is that we had headed off at first light. They had no idea what we had got.

  The programme editor couldn’t believe it when I asked for ten minutes. ‘The bloody programme is only thirteen minutes,’ he said. ‘Can you do it in four?’

  I was stunned. He seemed so underwhelmed by what I was describing to him. I was furious, and decided to phone the editor, Nigel Dacre, at home. His suggestion was that we kept it until the Monday, when we could have much more time. I was totally against that idea. More cameras would surely arrive by tomorrow, and here we were now with a genuine world exclusive on a hugely dramatic story.

  In the end, Nigel phoned the controller of ITV News, Steve Anderson, and told him what we had and that it was exclusive. He agreed to extend the programme by two minutes, and gave me six minutes for the piece. We reluctantly decided to keep some of the stuff back for a much longer piece on Monday’s Evening News. We had to get cracking with the edit.

  However, there was still no sign of Pingo. The flooding was now threatening the field where more than three thousand rescued people were gathered. We all had to start walking away from the oncoming deluge.

  Police officers were panicking, shouting at the crowds. People began running in different directions. It was chaos. Andy filmed some more, and then he and I had to get out. There were few vehicles around but we managed to jump on the back of a water truck, which dropped us on a small patch of high land; a kind of mound that would soon be lost to the floodwaters. I began to fear the worst. How would Pingo find us? And even if he did, would he be able to land? And if he could land, would the helicopter be mobbed by people desperate to escape the flood?

  I had tried several times to reach Pingo from our satellite phone, but he never answered. By now he should be almost back from Maputo. Three hours had elapsed since he left for fuel. Andy called Glenda in Maputo and tried to explain where we were for her to inform air traffic control, who could, perhaps, reach Pingo. Glenda had a map and tried to put together some coordinates to pass on. It was all speculative, we were stranded, Pingo was nowhere to be seen and I could see my world exclusive slipping away. Andy sat down, leaned against his camera bag and had a kip. Nothing much bothered him. He had an African insouciance that I envied.

  By now it was 4 p.m. – 2 p.m. in London – and we had four hours to get back, edit six minutes and feed the piece to London. And there I was standing on a spit of land, with floodwaters rapidly encroaching, staring at a grey sky with no sign of Pingo.

  I phoned London to say we may well not make the early evening news. After making such a fuss about the story, I felt stupid, nauseous and incredibly fed up. Then we heard the distant clatter of a helicopter and I saw a speck in the sky that was getting bigger by the minute. It must be Pingo. Would he know where we were?

  As it approached it became clear it was not our helicopter. Even worse, it was another civilian helicopter with the unmistakeable figure of a man with a TV camera filming through the open door. Things were not going well.

  Fortunately for us, though not for the thousands still stranded in Chokwe, the South African rescue helicopters had headed off to Maputo to refuel. It was too late to return so they wouldn’t be back until first light. The cameraman had missed the real story. We still had an exclusive, if only we could get it back to London.

  And then, there he was. Pingo circling above us, straining to look left and right and trying to locate us. We waved and shouted and beckoned him down. By now there was precious little space for him to land. But down he came, on we climbed and away we went. We had three and a half hours until the programme.

  Pingo was showing off, flying low and fast along the deserted but spectacular beaches on the Mozambique coastline. We were back in an hour. By the time we got to the hotel I had written most of the script, Andy knew exactly which pictures he wanted in the piece and Glenda had set up the edit su
ite in a hotel room.

  It was relatively simple. The amazing images required few words. Sometimes it is best in television news to simply let the drama unfold, with natural sound and sparing script. This was one such occasion. ‘Dawn in Mozambique, and the people of Chokwe awoke to a deluge,’ was how it began, and then Andy’s extraordinary images told the story. All I did was nudge it along with a few lines of voiceover.

  We sent the piece off with time to spare. It made for powerful television and was to have precisely the impact I had hoped for. Before it aired, I called Michele to find out the latest situation. She told me she thought that around five hundred people had died, but many more were believed to be missing. It was turning into a terrible tragedy. A natural disaster this poor country could do without. We resolved to return at first light.

  By now, it became clear that the cameraman we had seen in the other helicopter worked for the news agency Reuters, who provided their material to TV news organizations around the world who subscribed to their service. Among them the BBC. Our rivals would be getting some pictures but nothing like we had gathered, and, of course, they had no reporter there. We were well ahead on a big story. We ate and had a few beers. It felt good. But there was more to do.

  Our story that Sunday evening was seen by our rivals and by government ministers. There was pressure for the UK to act. Relief agencies and rescue charities were mobilized. Downing Street asked the British High Commission in Maputo to find helicopters locally. It would take too long to fly military Chinooks in from Britain.