Spanish historian Paco Rivas has come through again with some fascinating background on the film "Bolero" mentioned in Brian Karli's story below. Google translate was used to render the article into English and I have attempted to fix up the few obvious errors it produced. There are probably more though :)
From Paco:
As the World is really round, I know the pilot who flew the EC-DAO in the film “Bolero”!. His name is Carlos Valle, now President of the Fundación Infante de Orleans. I was speaking with him last Sunday and he has sent me this magazine report, called “Los nómadas del aire (Nomads of the air)”, relating the background of the filming. Published in the Spanish magazine “Aventura” in 1984 , I think it could be an interesting report about the participation of this Jungmann.
The Nomads of the Air
Crossing mountain ranges, seas, and deserts in a normal airplane is an odyssey that must be considered very seriously. But when a flight of this kind has to be made in an old wooden and fabric biplane, then only a pilot with a deep passion for flying and extensive training will embark on this adventure.
The pilots of the "José Luis Aresti" aerobatic flying club possess neither (all?) of these qualities, and indeed, they didn't hesitate for a moment to point the nose of one of their Buckers toward Marrakech to film scenes for the movie Bolero.
At 10:00 in the morning we were still unwrapping the freshly painted Bücker, and the first problems began to arise. My plane's radio transmitted but received nothing, and the Cessna's battery was dead. Despite having checked everything meticulously the day before, flights in small planes seemed to be cursed by some mischievous imp who messed everything up from the moment you climb any higher in the aircraft. We couldn't waste any time. We decided to take off, me without a radio, and with a less than promising weather forecast. A low-pressure system had settled in the Gulf of Cádiz, sending one front after another across the Strait. The news that the British navy, after staging a pointless diplomatic incident, had to suspend maneuvers in Gibraltar due to the bad weather, certainly didn't help to calm our spirits
The first leg (Cuatro Vientos-Córdoba) unfolds without major difficulties. Low clouds, cold, the occasional shower, and radio silence are minor inconveniences when I consider what lies ahead. After a quick refueling in Córdoba, we continue to Jerez. Once there, new problems arise. Due to the situation in the Strait, the traffic officer refuses to approve the flight plans to Tangier, our objective for the day. We wanted to take the risk because we thought the situation would improve rapidly to the south, but today nothing can be done
The next morning surprised us at seven-thirty in the field, but our imp had gotten up earlier. The Cessna wouldn't start. That battery, or the alternator, definitely wasn't charging. My radio was useless. Now it received but didn't transmit. I decided to forget about it from now on. Mid-morning, they got us a battery with its corresponding charger as "spare" equipment. We were ready to leave. New difficulties with the weather and the traffic officers delayed our departure even further. An Orion took off and then another. Everyone took off except us. But finally, after a convincing intervention by Angel on the radio in which we assumed full responsibility, authorization arrived and we left.
In the middle of the strait, visibility became minimal. Minutes after takeoff, moments before crossing the Atlantic, I notice a strange vibration coming from the engine. Those who have flown the Bücker know its quirks, like coughing, clearing its throat, and sometimes stalling. It always gives warning, though. It's a plane you fly with your backside and ears. These two "sensory organs," aeronautically speaking, can reveal a great deal.
Apprehensions, I tell myself. After all, Tangier is right there, and it'll be time to take a look at what's happening in the nose. The important thing now is not to stray too far from the Cessna; visibility is decreasing due to the squalls, and it's no time to turn back. A half-sunken oil tanker near the Port of Santa Maria reminds me, in case I'd forgotten, that I'm over the sea and that we've passed the point of no return. Subconsciously, I adjust the straps of my life vest The engine vibration still worries me. Flying over water always involves risk. But doing it in this devilish weather, in an old Bücker, and with a fault warning isn't pleasant. I figure if I have to make an emergency landing, I can try it next to one of the many boats that ply these waters. Almost jumping from one to another, the minutes pass and the African coast draws closer. The vibration has decreased until it's almost imperceptible. Tangier is clear and the Cessna, lacking a radio, guides me to the runway threshold. Complicated customs and police procedures. They search absolutely everything, toothpaste included. And I thought this would be on the way back. A glance at the engine and we don't notice anything abnormal. The traffic officer doesn't take his eyes off us. He's realized the radio trick and tells us verbatim:
-The Cessna can continue. The Bücker cannot
We adopted our most cynical expressions and assured everyone that we had solved all our radio problems. Once in the planes, the voices from the Cessna switched to speak for me, and we used the lights with an agreed-upon code for taxiing, aligning, and takeoff. We managed to get off to a flying start and continue to Kenitra, our next stop. We gained altitude in anticipation of an engine failure
The Tangier-Kenitra stretch is kilometers and kilometers of sand, dunes, beaches, the solitude of the Maghreb, and the shadow of the Bücker a few feet below. Everything is going perfectly until, suddenly, the vibration reappears. I check the instruments, everything is fine, and after a moment the problem disappears as suddenly as it came. In any case, the possibility of landing on the sand worries me much less than touching down on the water. Since I can't do anything, I simply climb a little higher in anticipation of an engine failure. All that remains is to hope that the fault doesn't recur
Kenitra appears on the horizon, and we quickly locate the field, a semi-abandoned flying club where a sinister black Volkswagen awaits us. Mohammed appears, an enigmatic character who claims to be responsible for Moroccan production, and immediately leads us to a beach where, he insists, I must land the Bücker. We inspect the beach, beautiful indeed, but I tell him it won't be possible. Even at low tide, it's not suitable for landing; the Bücker's thin tail skid is the problem. We explain to Mohammed the need to prepare a small runway if we are to taxi on this beach, but our enigmatic friend is like the Sphinx: he pretends, says he understands, and that's all.
We continue towards Casablanca. This time, the engine vibration accompanies me the whole time, while the coast becomes steeper and rockier. We begin to feel the fatigue of two days of flying with constant problems,
The Cessna drops me off at the head of the runway, and after only the time needed to refuel, we take off at full speed to reach Marrakech before sunset. By then I've already noticed that the Bücker is starting to leak oil, although the amount isn't alarming at the moment. We leave the coast and head inland, making our way towards the gateway to the desert. A couple of passes to read signs at the train stations and identify villages prove fruitless. Dusk is approaching. I observe some pilgrims prostrate towards Mecca. The direction of their prayers confirms my course like a pious compass. We're very close now.
We had dinner. We landed in Marrakech with the last rays of the sun, and that night, while we were having dinner, we met Jeff, in charge of the acronyms in the production. Very British phlegm, a Biafran appetite, a goatee, and manners that lean towards the countryside. The first meeting, however, wasn't all bad.
The next day, we went to inspect the makeshift runway where we would be filming the following day. Beside the walls enclosing the Aguedal gardens, with the Atlas Mountains in the background, the scenery was truly cinematic. The runway seemed short, but we gave it the go-ahead. From there, we went to the airport. We were going to thoroughly inspect the Bücker. We were concerned about the oil leak, which was already becoming quite noticeable. In the end, what we feared was true. The electric starter motor had cracked the rear crankcase. Now I understand the vibrations. First serious problem. The Bücker had to fly, and not just for the film. It had to be returned safe and sound to Spain. We had to move quickly. Call Madrid, mobilize our friends at the Club, and get the necessary parts to Casablanca, if possible, on the same day.
We took advantage of the afternoon to explore Marrakech a little. We went straight to Jemaa el-Fna Square. There were the seller of human teeth, the reciters of the Quran, acrobats, chatterboxes, a crowd of idlers and vendors of everything, where if there is anything staged for commerce, like in a flea market, the attention and astonishment of the children imbue with authenticity all that great representation of hustling and bartering
Another early start. We went up to the airport early and prepared the Bücker, waiting for the agreed-upon signal to take off and head to the set. Meanwhile, in the distance, we observed that the Cessna still hadn't started. Time was passing, and Jose María should have already taken off for Casablanca. Something's wrong, I told myself. Indeed, shortly afterward, Jeff and Angel appeared, both looking dejected: at the last minute, the military wouldn't authorize flying over the filming area; the gardens behind the wall belonged to H.M. Hassan II, and, what's worse, the Cessna's electrical system was seriously damaged.
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Once again, we had to move quickly. Frantic calls to Madrid, and the friends at the Club mobilized all their resources to position the necessary new spare parts in Casablanca: battery, battery relay, a portable radio... At 5 a.m., Angel and José María leave for Casablanca by car, of course. At 9:30, finally with permission, I take off for the airstrip next to the wall. The morning is radiant. It's not hard for me to identify the field. A small crowd of unemployed people, extras, camels, donkeys, and the film crew with all their equipment, are gathered around the tiny airstrip.
On the ground it looked bigger. From the air it's miniature. A first reconnaissance pass and off I go. I put the wheels at the lowest speed right on the edge, and stop the Bücker at the other end. Well, applying a little more brakes, it's not too difficult. I roll to the runway, stop the plane, and an attractive young woman rushes towards me; She takes off my helmet and goggles and dresses me up as an Arab Sheikh before I can even say good morning. This is going fast. Bo and John Derek approach. Bo slaps a cap and scarf on Juan and tells him that from now on he is her. Juan's face expresses a comical perplexity. The idea is to do several take-offs and landings with Juan in front doubling for Bo. With my best arguments, I explain to John the impossibility of taking off and landing with two people on board in such a short space. John looks at me dismayed while Jeff, who had promised a mannequin, shirks his responsibility.
We filmed the sequences with the front seat empty. Really, the distant placement of the camera didn't make it necessary.
While the flight sequences were being filmed, I had the opportunity to take a look at the gardens behind the wall. As a backdrop, the Atlas Mountains, snow-capped and imposing, like a mirage. After a brief rest at the hotel, we headed back to the airport to attend to our broken-down planes. The Bücker turned out to be easy. We disassembled the starter and sealed the crack through which the oil insisted on leaking out. The Cessna is another story.
The damage is more extensive than we thought. We mobilized to get cables, washers, and everything necessary from Air Maroc to apply current directly to the starter motor. Night fell upon us, and on one of our trips back and forth asking for things, I surprised the traffic officer alone in his office, deep in prayer. Truly, the Maghreb is different. It's almost midnight when everything is finished. With bated breath, we apply power to the cables that brazenly protrude from the hood of the Cessna. And it doesn't turn. Juan's face reflects dismay. It's his responsibility to start the damned plane, and now he's baffled. The propeller remains stubbornly motionless. Discouragement spreads. A second attempt and finally! The propeller moves. We set up magnetos and now, yes: the 200 Lycoming horsepower engines are whirling around again with all their might.
The next day we left for Kenitra. Using the usual radio tricks, we managed to leave Marrakech without being too noticeable. Upon arriving in Kenitra, our fears were confirmed. They were setting up all the scenery, tents, camels, extras, and all the trimmings, but no sign of the runway. Moreover, low tide coincided with sunset, which ruled out any possibility of landing in the less soft area, next to the water. Meanwhile, Jeff began to display a certain sarcasm that started to make me uncomfortable. We sensed what was coming. With vague promises, he said goodbye until the next day
Another visit to the beach. Everything is the same, and Jeff is slowly wearing down our patience by dropping hints of inconveniences that are clearly aimed at us. He shows us a mock track made of reeds and covered with a thin layer of sand. The reeds provide a seemingly firm surface, but I'm worried about the possibility of slipping and the impossibility of using the brakes. I suppress my urge to tell everyone to go to hell and agree to try it the next day
The discussion gets more heated, and Jeff ends with an unfortunate comment about the Spanish. It's the last straw. I decide to cut my losses. I urgently call Marrakech. I speak with John and explain the situation on the beach and my decision to leave immediately for Spain. John begs me to wait for him at the flying club the next day. At 3:00, John and Bo arrive. In front of them, I measure that botched job again and again: 320 of my paces, and I calculate 300 meters. This isn't what was promised. Jeff appears with a beatific expression, as if nothing's wrong here. Another altercation. I apologize to Bo, who can barely contain her laughter at my bad manners. I'm starting to enjoy teasing her. Our conditions: 400 meters of firm runway, and we'll stay one more day.
Everything's ready, they assure me. I take off early and head for the beach. Good, there are my 320 steps waiting to welcome our delicate Bücker. Fortunately, the wind is blowing strong and straight ahead. I see Angel waving his jacket on the green side. It's the agreed-upon signal. Here I go. I put the wheels on the edge and don't even use half the runway. As soon as the tail drops under its weight, it gets caught in the reeds and the Bücker gets stuck in just a few meters. Now I'm only thinking about how we're going to take off. John gives in to the evidence and agrees with us 100%.
The first thing is to get the poor Bücker out of there. Amid the understandable anticipation, we make preparations for takeoff. José María and Juan keep the tail up while I go full throttle. They help me taxi the first few meters. Juan falls, but José María holds on for a few more meters, and finally the plane taxis on its own with the tail up. I feel the tail wanting to dig in again. But immediately, the Bücker's wings begin to lift, and with a little help from the elevator, I'm airborne. Skimming the waves, I head towards the flying club. I count three dead cows and two sunken boats, but sunk in the sand. I pick up Juan, who, this time, will fly in front with his cap and bandana, just like Bo Derek herself. Back to the beach, and we make as many passes as requested
How the Bucker flies! I've always been a fervent admirer of this incomparable aircraft. With any other plane, it wouldn't have been possible to film these sequences. The Pitts is too fast and doesn't give the impression of an old-fashioned plane; besides, it doesn't easily "grip" in the air.
Thus ended our work. One last pass, in which we dropped our costumes, a farewell barrel roll, warm greetings, and set course for Tangier.
The return journey seems endless. There's still a way to go to Tangier, and a perfectly defined squall line runs along the coast. The sea turns emerald and gray, heralding the storm. Gusts of turbulence appear on its surface, and the first showers begin. Visibility decreases, and I hug the Cessna. I can see better than they do; that's the advantage of flying in the open. It's raining hard, but we're not too worried. We know we're very close. The runway is right next to the coast, and as long as visibility is reduced by showers, we don't mind. The problem is the low clouds. Besides we no longer have the time or fuel to return to Kenitra
Finally, the antennas. The runway must be very close. There it is, immense and welcoming, and the instant I bank to attract the Cessna's attention, it turns to the right. They've seen it too. We land in the rain and considerable darkness. Grave faces await us at the traffic office. We've arrived without a flight plan and in the worst possible weather conditions.
However, the initially tense atmosphere quickly transformed into a friendly chat about everything that had happened and the incidents of the flight.
We took off for the last time from Moroccan territory at 10:00, and from the Bücker, I cast my last glance at Cape Esportel and the African coast. We crossed the Strait for the second time and headed back to Jerez. The rest falls squarely into the realm of the everyday: customs, refueling...
To conclude, I invite all the owners of old Bückers in Spain to decide to take flight with increasingly distant goals. Always flying above the dovecote deprives us of contemplating unusual landscapes from the backs of our mounts.
The Bücker is an old biplane, beautiful and docile. Flying on its old ribs still has a hint of adventure. That said, one must be patient with its ailments. It has endured many pilots for years, righting wrongs on its back. Those who have flown and fly in Bückers share my admiration for such a venerable mount.