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SAUDIA assigned me a notorious Saudi: Captain Korban.
Airline gossip had already reached me concerning this gentleman - implanting in me a feeling of impending doom.
Before I continue with the gossip, let me give you a physical description of Korban. No doubt all are familiar with the Star Wars classic: “Return of the Jedi.” In one episode there is a scene where Princess Leia (Carrie Fisher) is dancing with a chain attached to a collar on her neck, in a hot, scantily-clad outfit, which, in her words, ”You could see all the way to Miami!” Holding, and jerking, this chain was the crime lord Jabba the Hutt. A huge, green, obese individual with enormous almond-shaped eyes and an inordinately slimy tongue – which he reeled out frequently to lick his grotesquely thick lips.
Jabba the Hutt, Capt. Korban’s twin – Princess Leia looking just as unhappy as me.
When I first laid eyes on Capt. Korban, I was literally thunderstruck! Except for lacking the green tint, I had stumbled across Jabba the Hutt’s twin; especially when he reeled out that lecherous tongue to wet his lips. With his obese girth and outsized almond-shaped eyes, the resemblance was so stunning; I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him!
And why on earth would I use the adjective “lecherous,” dear reader, in my description of Capt. Korban? Bend over and grab your socks. Here comes the airline gossip.
Last year Korban was on a layover in London. Having had a bit of a snoot full, it was late when he stumbled out of a pub and flagged down a taxi.
After heaving his five-foot-eleven corpulent girth onto the taxi’s backseat, the driver asked, “Where to, mate?”
To which Korban drunkenly replied, “Take me to where I can buy little boys to fuck.”
The London cabby had a sense of humor, so after stifling a laugh, he said, “That’s funny, mate. Seriously...where do you want to go?”
Korban reached in his pocket, pulled out a fistful of pounds sterling, drunkenly threw them at the cabby, and responded, “I told you, dammit. I want English boys!”
Coming to the realization he was actually serious, the cabby calmly collected the pounds, stuffed them away, put the taxi in gear, and mumbled, “Okay, mate. We’re on our way.”
After traveling a few miles, the taxi parked in front of a rather austere, drab building. The cabby told Korban to stay put, and that he’d be right back. The cabby left.
The cabby who “dropped a dime” on Capt. Korban.
Five minutes later the cabby returned with two bobbies in tow.
The policemen took Korban into custody and he spent the night in jail. It turns out, the English don’t take too kindly to foreigners expressing a desire to sexually abuse their rosy-cheeked children. The cabby had taken Korban to a police station, where he filed a complaint.
The next day Korban was escorted to Heathrow by the police and, after immigration stamped “persona non grata” in his passport, he was unceremoniously dumped on the next SAUDIA flight back to Jeddah.
Now I learn SAUDIA has assigned Captain Pedophile – er, excuse me, dear reader, I mean Captain Korban – to me as my Line Training Captain. Oh joy of joys. A solid month of flying with lecherous Jabba the Hutt!
In the words of Admiral Tarrant (Fredric March) from the movie The Bridges at Toko-Ri: “Where do we get such men?”
It turns out that my fear and trepidation were unfounded. Jabba the Hutt and I got along quite well. Perhaps it was due to the fact he wasn’t the sharpest scimitar in the airline - allowing me to stay three steps ahead of him. Therefore, whenever he interrogated me regarding emergency procedures, rules and regulations, en route procedures and company policy, I had done my homework and was always ready and waiting with the right answers.
In addition to the above, SAUDIA had issued each pilot his own set of Jeppesen Instrument Flight Manuals; which we were responsible to keep current, with endless amounts of revisions we’d find in our company mailbox (what a colossal pain in the ass). They were bound in genuine green leather with gold trim – each weighing a ton. One contained all our instrument en route charts, another all our instrument approach plates, and a third, the J-Aid, possessed loads and loads of superfluous information for operating airliners worldwide. In between trips, and on layovers, I’d pour over this information. So that when I flew our trips, I knew exactly what charts and plates we’d need – old friends I had memorized - holding no hidden surprises for me.
Me with one of the heavy as hell Jepp Flight Manuals – plus a philosophy to live by.
As a result, when it was my leg and I was in command, Korban was impressed by how smoothly I operated. On the other hand, when it was Korban’s leg, things could get sporadic and behind the curve. Korban obviously hadn’t done his homework. Not to worry, I’d rush in with the right info and help him salvage his departure or approach.
This was tricky, dear reader, because if I didn’t handle him with kid gloves, he’d lose face. Causing me no end of grief. Sometimes, I wondered who was training who? With all this political bullshit going on in the cockpit, is it any wonder why pilots get distracted, miss really important stuff, and crash airplanes? When next you travel, may I suggest the car, bus, train or boat? Just a thought.
On the plus side, the 747 would be taking me to exotic locations I had dreamt of visiting when merely a pimply-faced teenager: Karachi, Delhi, Bombay, Seoul, Bangkok, Singapore and Manila.
The Boeing 747SP (Special Purpose) for really long hauls.
Then there was the food on the 747. As flight crew, when mealtime occurred, we had a choice. If we were exceedingly hungry, we could immediately receive a coach meal (dog food), or a business class meal (better dog food), or wait until first class service was finished and get a first class meal (people food).
SAUDIA did not pinch riyals when it came to first class cuisine, it was utterly the best, we even had a chef aboard to slice and serve tender cuts of roast beef and lamb.
And, speaking of the chef, reminds me of the first time I visited Seoul, South Korea, on 10th April, 1983, while still in line training with Korban. We had operated a B-747SP from Jeddah to Riyadh, at an hour and thirty minutes, then another ten hours nonstop to Seoul – making it a long day.
For me this day was a milestone, dear reader. Why? On account of Golden West Airlines, the commuter out of LAX – my first actual airline job – went tits-up and closed their doors on this day.
All those great pilots I had flown with were currently out of work. As for me, I’d gone from flying a little Twin Otter to a monstrous 747 – in all truth and honesty the airline business is nuts!
We were billeted at the five-star Shilla Hotel in central Seoul, on top of a hill in 23 acres of beautiful, privately-wooded parkland, overlooking the city’s commercial district.
After dinner that night I hooked up with my crew in the hotel’s basement, which contained a live-wire disco – loaded with locals – and lots of attractive, young Korean women being “on the game.”
However our crew contained 16 flight attendants (three male – 13 female) plus the male Saudi Chef. As luck would have it, a couple of the flight attendants were Singaporean girls whom I previously had over to my flat for parties. They were both in their early twenties - cute as a button - so I latched onto them and, taking turns, began dancing the night away.
My Singaporean “buddies” with a Brit Flight Attendant.
Around midnight, the “old man” got winded, so I decided to sit this one out with my Singaporeans and have another G&T.
Remember, dear reader, last October I had cleared forty. So cut me some slack. What exactly is a midlife crisis anyway?
While I was cooling down from my dancing efforts – and catching my breath – somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Turning round, I discovered a tall, slender, attractive Saudi male, in his early twenties, possessing large cow eyes – which gave me the impression he was in love.
I’m certain you’re familiar with that “cow-eyed look,” dear reader, when someone appears smitten.
Since he was in civvies, and not his chef’s uniform, it took me a moment to recognize him. The chef placed his feminine hand on my shoulder, rolled those immense, liquid-brown eyes towards the dance floor, and asked, “May I have this dance?”
At once I had this flashback, dear reader, and remembered every girl I had ever asked to dance and was turned down. What were their excuses? Oh, yeah: “I have a headache.” “I’m feeling nauseous.” “I’m having my period.” “I’m pregnant.” “My boyfriend will get jealous.” “My husband will beat the crap outta you.”
Trying to select the right excuse to suit this occasion, I glanced down to the head of the table, where sat Capt. Korban. That was my way out. Gazing up at the chef, I smiled, then gestured towards Korban, and said, “T-Thank you very much. B-But as I’m in line training, I belong to Captain Korban. I’m afraid of making him j-jealous.”
The young Saudi Chef nodded his understanding – sighed – then melted away inside the dancing crowd.
To this day, dear reader, I possess a twinge of quilt for breaking this poor kid’s heart. Do women ever genuinely feel this way? It’s not easy flying a 747.
After completing a trip to Manila on 25th April, 1983, Capt. Korban signed me off for a check-ride.
I took my check-ride with Check-Captain Kamal – a quick round trip to Cairo – on 3rd May, 1983, and became line qualified.
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