*
* * *
*
Exasperated, my Thai boss, Capt. Yai, put his foot down and insisted the
Vietnamese Civil Aviation Authorities meet him at the aircraft and examine all
the documentation at one time.
Reluctantly they met with Capt. Yai on board the 737, and began wading into
the mountain of paperwork.
When the Vietnamese got down to my U.S. FAA Airline Transport Pilot’s License,
they abruptly called a halt to this exercise.
It was my name that stopped them cold: Clinton Peterson Chisholm.
Okay, dear reader, let’s hit
pause. This is a quirk inflicted by the
Chinese on all of Asia. When listing a
person’s name the family name is always placed first, with the first and middle
name to follow. Ergo the Vietnamese
thought my family name was Clinton, instead of Chisholm.
The
Vietnamese held a brief conference among themselves - then subsequently queried
Capt. Yai, asking, “Is this man any relation to President Clinton?”
Capt. Yai rolled his outsized Yul Brynner-eyes, and replied (lying
through his teeth), “Oh, yes...Captain Pete is a second cousin of President
Clinton.”
Without further ado the Vietnamese produced a huge rubber stamp and
chopped our Operating Certificate “APPROVED.” We were no longer grounded and could start
operating revenue flights, which we did the very next morning to Hanoi.
Once again, dear reader, may I
remind you that President Clinton was attempting to get the Vietnamese embargo
lifted. The Vietnamese apparently didn’t want to risk mucking up Clinton’s
efforts by grounding his “second cousin.”
And while we’re on the subject of paperwork, here’s another
anomaly. In order for me to perform this
flying job, as Captain on the 737, I was required to have no less than four
Airline Transport Pilot’s Licenses.
License #1. Upon completion of Air Atlanta’s ground school at Bangkok,
and simulator training at England, I was issued an Icelandic CAA ATPL. This was for insurance purposes, for TRAC
Aviation was leasing the 737 I was flying from Air Atlanta, based in Iceland.
License #3. Upon arrival at Saigon, and no longer being “grounded,” the
Socialist Republic of Vietnam had their CAAV (Civil Aviation Administration of
Vietnam) issue me an ATPL, as I was now an active 737 Captain for Pacific
Airlines, based at Saigon.
License #4. And all the above licenses were issued to me based on my
United States FAA Airline Transport Pilot’s License with a B-737 type rating.
It was mind-boggling. I had never
started a flying job with so many Airline Transport Pilot’s Licenses required
by a single airline!
Speaking of which, dear reader, may I
impose upon you with the following request. The date on my Socialist Republic
of Vietnam ATPL was 4th January 1993. As far as I can ascertain, I’m the first
American Pilot to be issued an ATPL by the current Communist Government of
Vietnam. Remember, I slipped into
Vietnam at the end of December 1992, well before the American embargo was
lifted. Should you ever discover a Yank
pilot with an earlier date on their Vietnamese ATPL issued by the Communists,
please let me know.
* *
* * *
The city of Saigon (Vietnamese: Sài Gòn), received its name under
French colonization in the 1860’s. Nevertheless,
after the communist takeover of South Vietnam in 1975, a
provisional government renamed the city after Hồ Chí Minh, the late North Vietnamese leader. Even so, the informal name of “Saigon”
remains in daily speech both domestically and internationally.
Pacific Airlines put us up at the Grand Hotel Saigon, 8 Dong Khoi
Street, District One, roughly a block west of the Saigon River.
It
was an older French-owned hotel, a bit on the tired side and in need of
renovation.
The city's location on the river made it a bustling commercial and
passenger port, with a constant stream of cargo ships and passenger boats. I
enjoyed walking down to the river to stretch my legs and watch the water
traffic.
Shortly after moving into the hotel, while lounging on a couch in the
lobby, observing the foot traffic pass outside the picture window, I spotted
the most incredible model of a three-masted Chinese Junk float by. It stood at least three feet tall by three
feet in length with beautiful full sails.
It was being carried on the shoulder of a Vietnamese.
Once again I hit the old conundrum: Should I rush out and buy it? Or
continue to relax on the couch and purchase it at a future date? I had hit this snag before on many layovers
throughout the world - ending up utterly missing the opportunity to purchase a
unique item.
Fuck it, dear reader! That Chinese Junk would look great on display
at the end of the bar in my town house at Phuket.
Kicking myself in the butt, I launched off the couch and chased the
Junk-bearing Vietnamese down Dong Khoi
Street. Using my international “point
and grunt” method, I made it semi-clear to the local that I wanted his Junk,
and to follow me back to the hotel; which he did. Snagging the concierge, I had him act as
interpreter and was told the Junk-bearing local wanted $75 USD for it.
In my mind this was a steal, dear reader! Up close the detail on this huge model was
mind-blowing! The polished wooden ribs
on the deck and hull, the wood blocks and rigging, the canvas sails being
winched up and down, the masts designed to lay flat for storage; all working
exactly as a real full-scale Chinese Junk.
In addition to purchasing the local’s Junk, for an extra $25 USD, I had
him construct a very stout wooden crate for airfreighting the Junk back to
Phuket.
While waiting for the crate, the hotel was more than happy to display
“my Junk” on top of an enormous bookshelf, in the lobby, well out of anybody’s
reach so idle hands couldn’t play with it.
Now let’s flash forward, dear
reader, to the end of our contract in Vietnam.
Capt. Yai, the two Thai First Officers and I arrived at Bangkok’s Don
Mueang International, upon our return to Thailand. We grabbed a humongous baggage trolley and
piled all our suitcases and flight cases on it, with the addition of my 4X2X2-foot
wooden crate containing the Chinese Junk.
Rolling up to Thai Customs with our piled-high trolley, we were
immediately surrounded by a half-dozen Customs Officers. They checked our passports and Customs
Declarations, then pointed at the wooden crate and began a Thai discussion
about it with Capt. Yai, which I couldn’t understand.
Capt. Yai rolled his expressive, oversized Yul Brynner-eyes, and
launched into an elaborate explanation, again leaving me in the dark. When he reached his punch line, all six
Customs Officers took in a sharp breath and stepped back from the trolley. The head officer returned our passports and
waved us through – he wanted us out of there, pronto! Not once did they attempt to open any luggage
or my crate.
Outside, we flagged down a van, loaded up our luggage and the crate, and
climbed aboard. By this time Capt. Yai
and I had become good pals; I held a lot of respect for him. He was fluent in Thai, German and English,
had studied engineering in Hamburg, flown for Thai International, and was a
good boss, always taking the time to be polite – a true gentleman.
Burning up with curiosity, I turned to Capt. Yai, and asked, “W-What in
hell did you say to those c-customs guys?”
Yai laughed, rolled those beautiful eyes, and replied, ”I told customs
we had all gone to Vietnam to look for your American daddy who was MIA during
the war. We found him and he was in the
crate.”
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