One Friday afternoon, two venerable Douglas DC-3 airliners started their engines at Lanseria Airport and taxied out for takeoff.
This was in the pre ‘bantustan’ era when legal gambling was prohibited in South Africa. Instead, local gamblers were obliged to journey to one of the neighbouring countries such as Botswana, Swaziland or Lesotho, to enjoy a legal casino weekend with accommodation, ala carte cuisine, and also the possibility of attending strip shows, or a locally banned movie.
Immigration formalities completed, 56 passengers comprising mostly men with a few wives and other sundry ladies boarded two Daks for the weekend jaunt to a foreign land.
I was in the cockpit of the lead Dak, with the second aircraft a few minutes behind us. Once airborne we both turned east for the green hills of Swaziland. Reaching nine thousand feet, each aircraft levelled off and reduced to cruising power.
The Highveld summer afternoon weather was clear, and the unpressurised Dakotas bumped occasionally as they surfed the warm air thermals, cruising at a stately 135 knots.
Approaching Witbank, snacks and drinks were served. While I was eating an egg sandwich, a short middle-aged chap entered the cockpit clutching an open beer can. Cockpit visitors were commonplace in those days, as the only aircraft being hijacked seemed to journey to Cuba, which was well beyond our range capability.
I greeted him cordially, and he looked at the instrument panel and said, “There are a lot of gauges.”
I agreed, “Yes, and we even know what they are all for.” This seemed to please him and he took a swig of his beer. Then he looked at his watch, and asked, “What time will be landing at Maseru?”
I looked at the other pilot, raised my eyebrows and said to the man; “We’re going to Matsapa in Swaziland, not to Maseru. That’s in Lesotho.”
He said, “No, were going to the Maseru Holiday Inn for two nights. My daughter and her husband have already left by car to meet us there.”
I got onto the radio frequency tuned to the other Dakota, and spoke to the co-pilot; “Please ask our Chief Pilot, and multiple Dakota owner; Captain Fantastic, who took the booking for today’s flight? We have a passenger in the cockpit that is adamant that our destination should be Maseru. Specifically, the Holiday Inn there.”
There was a few moments silence, and the chief pilot, and aircraft owner replied, “I’ll ask my wife. She took the booking.”
This was in pre-GPS days, so we started scrabbling for aviation charts, a protractor, and a low altitude Jespersen radio navigation chart.
The Chief Pilot’s wife was the cabin attendant on the second Dak and she came on the radio and said, “Matsapa, Maseru. What’s the difference? Aren’t they the same place?”
“No” I replied. “They’re totally different towns – a great distance apart.”
There was a lengthy silence, then she meekly said “Oh, sorry.” Then Captain Fantastic came on and said. “Won’t you give me a heading, and tell ATC we are going to alter course for Maseru?”
I said, “No, I’m too embarrassed. You do it, your wife took the booking, and it’s just as well we filled right up with fuel. But stand by for a heading. It’s probably going to be over ninety degrees to the right, and we may have to change altitude for semi-circular compliance.”
I heard him call ‘Smuts ATC’ and the dialogue generated caused considerable mirth among the listening airborne fraternity.
I turned to the male passenger and said, “Would you mind leaving the cockpit now, we’re going to be a bit busy sorting this out. We have to look at maps, and work out a new heading and ETA, so won’t have time to chat.
He smirked and replied; “Lucky I came up here to talk to you guys.”
I nodded in agreement, then unfurled a one in a million scale aviation chart that included Lesotho. Shortly thereafter we found a plastic Jeppsen scale ruler which we applied to the low altitude Jepp radio chart, which gave us the new distance and heading. Then spinning my trusty metal aviation prayer wheel computer I came up with an ETA for Maseru.
I relayed these to Capt. Fantastic and his Co-pilot, who then spoke to ATC. Once on the new course, I ate the other half of my egg sandwich.
Then, as we had no working PA system, the other pilot went back into the cabin and told our lady cabin attendant to advise the pax of our new arrival time, some 45 minutes later than expected in Maseru, and to apologise for the incorrect booking, and ply them with more free alcohol.
The gamblers took the news with good cheer, and a little nervous laughter, as our cockpit visitor had already advised them that “we were lost, going the wrong way, but that he had saved us from landing at the wrong airport in the wrong country.”
I was glad this wasn’t a business flight where forthcoming appointments might have been missed, leading to angst and written repercussions.
In late afternoon sunlight we landed at the old Maseru Airport in good weather, with over an hour of daylight remaining. After completing immigration and customs formalities, we boarded the buses supplied by the Holiday Inn and transferred to the almost new hotel.
After breakfast the next morning, we noticed a poster displayed in reception advertising the showing of a banned film “Deep Throat.” It would be screened in one of the conference rooms at 11.00.
Unsurprisingly, with time on our hands, and not having this form of risqué entertainment available to us in Johannesburg, we male crew members elected to attend.
At the due time several of us sat down in the back row of seats. This lightweight row of seats was connected to each other at floor level and had been moved into the room as a single portable unit.
The film started, and we were disappointed to note that the thin closed curtains in the function room were a poor fit. Eager volunteers tugged them this way and that to try and block out the bright, invasive Lesotho morning light, with little success.
Adding to this, the quality of the film was so poor, that portions of it were barely discernible, and the star Ms Lovelace was sometimes almost invisible. This was a considerable disappointment to us.
Anyway, we pilots had had a few too many drinks in the bar the night before, and as the abysmal quality of the film and intrusive sunlight rendered the apparently classic blue movie unwatchable, I lost interest, and dozed off. To be awoken a little later to a rhythmic rocking motion of our row of attached seats. I thought it was caused by an earth tremor, but moments later, to shouts of dismay, our entire row of connected seats fell backwards, and I found myself gazing at the bland ceiling.
We gingerly extracted ourselves from the prone row of seats, and one of our number claimed to have glimpsed a deviant male rushing out the door. His animations had doubtless induced our dangerous imbalance, Disappointed, we abandoned the unwatchable movie. Then, as I massaged my sore back, we all headed once again for the bar.
It was a memorable weekend for me in other ways as well. I was having lunch alone as my colleagues had gone off to a market. An attractive brunette lady, also dining solo, sat at an adjacent table and kept looking at me, which triggered the memory of an unusual event.
One long distant night, a young fellow aviator and I had attended a séance at a Parktown house. I had heard and read a little of these activities where ostensibly psychic individuals sat around a table with a Ouija board. They would induce a trance and invite discarnate spirits to move an upturned glass over a letter board to spell out messages from “the other side.”
This particular séance was Ouija board free, but we all sat around an oval table anyway, in very dim lighting, as the ensemble took turns trying to attract discarnate spirits. Every now and then a participant would affect an unnaturally deep voice and start an incoherent muttering. Hearing this, one of the other mediums would intone the phrase “Welcome friend.” Thereafter the mumbling spirit would start relating a tale in a strange voice, not associated with their usual speech pattern.
Most of the visitors who “came through “claimed to be nobles of high birth. Cleopatra was one. Strangely, another was Sitting Bull, a long dead Red Indian Chief. None of the other visiting spirits seemed to be of a lower order. There were no deceased electricians, scullery maids, or others of that category present.
Anyway, my fellow pilot friend and I soon became bored, and quietly slipped out of the room. While closing the door, a large grey cat started rubbing itself against my legs. With the impetuosity of youth, I picked up the cat, walked quietly back into the room and gently placed the cat onto the table, and said in my deepest voice; “Welcome Pussy.” Then I closed the door.
Moments later the cat set up a loud caterwauling, then people started screaming, and all hell broke loose. We raced for the car, and sped away, never to be invited back.
I thought the lady at the next dining room table had been one of the participants at the séance, so I went over and asked, “Didn’t we meet at a séance in Parktown some time ago? I think you channelled Cleopatra.”
She gave me a withering look and replied; “Certainly not! I believe in God. Do you?”
I replied, “I’m sure you were playing Cleopatra that evening, and in fact you still look like her.”
A look of utter disdain crossed her face. She shrieked “Philistine!” at me and kept repeating that epithet with rising hysteria. I abandoned my desert and walked quickly out the dining room.
That evening, we were back in the dining room, which was packed with gamblers, we crew enjoyed a good meal while a three piece band and a female singer entertained us.
In my pre-professional pilot days I had been a musician, and then a cabaret stand-up comedian. So during a band break I struck up a conversation with the female vocalist. We established a rapport, and talked of the many excellent musicians we knew and some of the exclusive clubs where they had played in a more sophisticated era. I mentioned a friend called Johnny, a world class modern jazz musician.
After the band returned and started playing, the lady vocalist sang a tuneful ballad, and when the polite applause had died down, she looked directly at our table, picked up the mike, and said; “Jeff, that song was for Johnny. This one’s for you!” Then she sang a Diana Ross number; “Upside down you’re turning me, you’re giving love instinctively….” It’s a really swinging, up-tempo number, and she had a good voice. So I had to dance.
The air hostess from our plane joined me and we excelled ourselves. After the number everyone applauded loudly. Even now, I remember that event being one of those rare, larger than life ‘peak experiences’.
When I sat down at our table, Captain Fantastic remarked “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I replied, “That’s because you’re such an extrovert, you’re always grabbing centre stage and talking about yourself, so no one else can get a word in edgewise.”
That took the wind out of his sails. The other pilots thought of applauding, but not having been paid for the trip yet, thought better of it.
After a memorable evening I was invited to the lady vocalist’s staff flat. She had a hi-fi and we played music we enjoyed and discussed musicians we knew. It was a refreshing change from the usual banal pilot talk of, flaps and flight levels, tailwinds, and the recanting of fearsome thunderstorms we’d avoided.
The next morning I was happily late for breakfast. During that Sunday morning, Capt. Fantastic attended a Persian carpet auction at the hotel and purchased several of them.
Mid-afternoon we boarded the passengers into the two Dakotas, some of whom looked pretty rueful, doubtless contemplating their unmentioned losses.
Then both aircraft holds were almost filled with Persian carpets. We flew back to Lanseria without incident, nor any turbulence induced passenger illness. Sadly, the aircraft owner and chief pilot’s gambling excesses, together with his Persian Carpet purchases had left him short of funds. So, we freelance pilots didn’t get paid for that flight for a further three weeks.