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So early the next morning, 22nd
November 1995, I got the first flight out of Phuket for Bangkok in my Patong
Beach uniform (T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops).
Changing into my airline uniform at Bangkok, I then patiently waited for
the Lao Aviation B-737, which ultimately rolled into gate #34 at 3 P.M.
Sliding into the left seat, I introduced
myself and then took command. Capt. Dave
began my “Line Training” from the right seat, as I flew the 737 north up to
Vientiane for the fifty-minute flight; covering the 277 NM (318.5 SM) using
airways W-21 and R-474.
Employing full-flaps (Flaps 40) at Wattay Airfield, which gave us a smooth, short landing run; Dave mentioned he always used flaps 30, as it was less challenging.
Even so, after landing, then taxiing in and shutting down, Capt. Dave
turned to me and said, “God damn! Am I
ever glad to see you!” Indicating I had
completed and passed my “Line Training.”
“Terry
and the Pirates,” here we go again! In
more ways than one, dear reader, for two months later I subsequently learned,
from the gossiping Laotians, what had happed to the Swedish Captain. In retrospect, I’m happy Capt. Dave remained
mum about this event; otherwise, similar to the Swedish First Officer, I would
have been tempted to bail out on Dave that first day at Bangkok.
Unfortunately the
Swedish Captain fancied himself a bit of a “Romeo,” and romanced both a local
hostess at an upmarket restaurant, plus the guest relations officer at The
Belvedere Hotel where the airline had us flight crew billeted. Evidently he had promised these two beautiful
Laotian ladies the moon; marriage and a home in Sweden.
Do
they allow bigamy in Sweden, dear reader?
Being an ignorant, insensitive Swede, this
arrogant captain had set himself up for disaster; never bothering to find out
that both of these young women were from the same village outside Vientiane. Naturally they’d eventually go home, bump
into each other, and compare notes. Then
run, crying their eyes out, to the village headman, demanding restitution.
For
you see, dear reader, the girls had lost their virginity, and any chance of
marrying into a respectable Laotian family. In Laotian society this was a serious setback
for both women.
Our lying Swedish Captain had the habit of
riding his expensive French racing bicycle, wearing his skin-tight racing togs,
after work in the late afternoon for exercise.
Frankly,
dear reader, this in itself was nuts, for the dusty roads of Vientiane were generally
clogged with all manner of traffic at this time of day.
A couple of days
before I arrived, while wading through the dust-choked, jammed-up traffic on
his bicycle, the Swede failed to notice a battered pickup truck tailing
him. The traffic opened up, and the truck
made its move, running the Swede over!
Then stopped, shifted into reverse, and backed over him! After which, just to make sure, it drove over
him again! By this time both Swede and
bike were thoroughly mashed together!
Two local men jumped out of the truck,
snatched up the conjoined Swede with his bike and tossed them into the pickup’s
bed; hiding this appalling mess with a canvas tarp. They re-entered the truck’s cab, and the
pickup vanished into the clouds of dust and traffic. Nobody paid any attention. It had all happened so fast.
That evening the Swedish First Officer conducted
a frantic search for his buddy, the Swedish Captain. They were supposed to have dinner, but the
captain had disappeared without a trace.
As a last resort, the Swedish First Officer began checking with the
police and the hospitals. At the final hospital
he checked, the Swedish First Officer was crossing a parking lot, and, as he
passed a pickup truck, a gust of wind dislodged the corner of a tarp. The Swede continued walking, however, his
mind registered something familiar: the brake grip on a racing bicycle’s handle
bar.
Returning to the tarpaulin, the Swede
lifted it and discovered his mangled captain!
Resulting in this Swedish First Officer’s burning desire to flee the
beautiful country of Laos ASAP!
As for the Swedish Captain, his body was claimed by the Swedish Embassy and shipped back to Sweden. I assume after prying him out of his expensive French racing bicycle. The battered pickup truck was stolen, and the local cops wrote the entire event off as a “Traffic Accident.” The perpetrators were never found.
Morale
of the story, dear reader: Don’t screw around with the local, native women, for
fear they may have a village headman hidden up their sleeve. As for
me, I must admit this had to be the strangest experience I’ve ever encountered in
landing a flying job.
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