The Steel Weight

by Chuck

The shadow streaking across the ground reflected all of the doubts he ever had of himself as an aircrft pilot. Not a flier, but a pilot. A pilot is a technician and being such is by definition self trained for attention to detail of the craft. Now an overly helpful line boy and an interrupted thought process in the cockpit has placed him in the middle of the ultimate “What if sceniaro”.

In 1981 I accepted a job flying DDT on cotton in The Sudan on the continent of Africa.
It was a typical day flying cotton on the banks of the Nile River in Wad Medni, about 100 miles south of Khartoum. Early breakfast at the hooch, which was a leftover villa from the British Era, as were all the lime trees growing unattended now. After a season applying Nitram on Rape and Potatoes in Linconshire, England, Chuck picked up the contract to fly DDT on summer cotton in The Sudan. There was only one catch: He had to fly the aircraft from England to the Sudan. Forty four flying hours and two weeks later his wheels touched down on a lone gravel strip in Wad Medni, about 100 miles south of Khartoum on the western bank of the Nile. The mechs removed the ferry equipment and prepared the aircraft for the task ahead. A few days after arrival he was rearing to go. Out to the aircraft. Some early morning stretching in prep for the 12 hour day hanging in the straps of a C model Pawnee 235. The flying was ideal; great flying weather and few obstructions. What power and telephone lines the British had built were fallen down or otherwise sagging into the non-obstruction category. The fields were 90 acre parcels, all laid out adjacent and end to end and flying them was a cropdusters dream come true. Load up with 100 gallons of DDT and the trick was to takeoff, make a pass through one field and then another and bank into another in a large circle winding back up on final approach for another load just as the last gallon of chemical had been sprayed. It was a challenge keeping track of exactly which track of the field you had just sprayed on the previous run, indeed which field in your self-planned sequence of fields, and then returning to the strip before your partner, otherwise eat his dust on his takeoff. Chuck’s partner was Patty Mckay. Patty was a feisty little Irishman who had flown the length of the Sahara as well as the mountains of Sweden. When they weren’t working they were dog-fighting and Patty knew all the tricks. Trying to get Patty off his tail, Chuck would bank and roll, dive, but always Patty’s “rat tat tat, rat tat tat” over the radio or his infernal landing light blinking. It was hard to shake him. He came out of the sun and before Chuck had a chance to turn it was too late. “Rat tat tat, rat tat tat” . We were like Cato and the Pink Panther. Out of nowhere he would come with that infernal ‘ratt tatt tatt” over the radio. Both were capable duster pilots who could choose which rut they wanted their wheels to hit first on a landing. With over 100 landings a day in a typical season. Yeah. They knew how to fly an ag plane. We flew enough together off of the same strip that season that they didn’t really need a radio. They could read each other just by the tilt of their wing or the attitude of their craft, and the knowledge that neither was going to cut the other any slack flying within the definition of safe. There was one approach where both Patty and Chuck had finished their last gallon and were flying toward the airfield. Chuck from the tank end and Patty from the downwind end of the runway. Ordinarily they would land with the approach starting at the non-tank end of the runway without regard to the wind. This way they could land, swing around beside the chemical tank at the end of the rollout and be in takeoff position after filling another load. Cropdusters usually don’t fly on windy days; not enough control of the application. On this day, in the position Chuck was in he would be landing downwind, then do a 180 and taxi back up to the pump for a refill, all the time preventing Patty from landing because he would be on the strip, he thought. Chuck had Patty beat to the strip and there was no way Patty was going to land first. Yes! Patty would be eating dust this time on Chuck’s takeoff. “ I’m too close. Nothing you can do about it Sucker”! thought Chuck. After Chuck’s downwind landing while he was rolling out Patty flew directly over him in the opposite direction full flaps and short-fielded his aircraft right in front of the pump and was standing on the wing laughing when Chuck rolled up. “Aye Mate. It’ll be a cold day on the Nile before a Yank ever gets the best of Patty Mckay”, he quips. “You never cease to surprise me Patty. It’s a pleasure flying with you, you amazing little leprechon.” Patty taught Chuck to water ski. Water ski on the Nile. Water ski on the Nile while in an aircraft. “You have to lock the wheels Mate or you’ll burn the the wheel bearings out”. Water skiing a tail dragger is quite safe if done correctly. The approach to the water is very shallow, feeling for the surface with speed at around 100 kts. The wheels form an adhesive or hydraulic bond to the water. Needless to say the water surface must be glassy smooth to ski safely. Once the water-rubber bond is formed the pilot can let go of the contols. Low-hour pilots please do not try this at home…pilots with any brains at all please do not try this at home. The answer to the ‘what if’ question of “what if it quits now” is a given. Chuck skied the Nile in formation up and down the river, under bridges, water spraying from the wheels with Per Ane the chief pilot in his Ag Cat, and Patty and Cranley Leigh the Kiwi and the appropriately named Angus the Scot who moved to Sweden “because the language is similar and the girls can get their knickers off quicker” and the rest of the multi-national crew that was flying cotton in Wad Medni that fine summer of 1981.

So it was that one had to look out for oneself amongst these fellows: experienced aviators from the four corners of the globe. Twelve of them there were. Including an Indian who flew with his headset clamped over his turban, two look-a-like blond Swede boys whose every waking moment they got in town they spent entertaining the local ladies of the evening. Australia, Sweden, Ireland, India, New Zealand, and Finland. All natives of their country except Angus the expatriate Scot, whose only allegiance was to which ever female got naked first, and Chuck, the lone American. With only 1200 hours total flying hours logged compared to their 4000 to 12000 hours. Chuck had to be very careful. He was always conscious about being the low hour pilot, but also about representing the good ole USA and not being embarrassed by getting caught doing anything considered unprofessional. Water-skiing the Nile AND losing your engine? Yes. They would have considered that unprofessional. He had to stand alone over the dinner table against the Per Ane questioning his judgement in refusing to fly because of a small oil leak, bearing the silent and wondering stares of the rest of the pilots. His stock went up when, at a loss of anything else to do, Per Ane ordered the mechs to tear down the engine. “That’s the first time I have ever seen a transversal cylinder crack” , he said the next evening. Chuck could hear in his minds ear the pilots at the table that evening finishing what the CP was hesitant to admit: the very likely probability that the engine had less than 5 hours before failure. Good call for the Yank. These thoughts were in the forefront of his mind the next day with his newly repaired engine flying with Patty McKay.

A couple of loads into the morning Chuck perceived the engine drone sounding funny, something not right. As a ground hugger, crop dusters trained themselves to be ever mindful of the sound of their engine. There is little forgiveness 5 foot above the ground. Airspeed is one of the Ag Pilots only friends at that altitude. No altitude, no airspeed. “You’re in the water..Sharks in the water?…Oh Danny Boy the..” An engine will talk to the pilot and usually warn him, by sound or vibration, if not on the instruments, of trouble on his path. The mind filters out constant noise but a cropduster listens to each tic and hum of his engine no matter what else he is doing while flying. The engine talks and the pilot listens. It was such a subtle change. Even through the play dough earplugs, Chuck perceived something different. Maybe it was just because the engine had just come out of an oil leak repair. That could have been it. This engine had yet to prove itself and was material for constant suspicion and justified close scrutiny until such a time of dependable performance revealed itself to be a reliable member of the Chuck squadron. Maybe it was the air density that changed that day, but those little bells started tingling. Those little bells, ever so faint at first, that every experienced pilot starts hearing when ever the regular drum roll develops a subtly different tune, regardless of how random. Instrument check. Oil pressure good, temp normal for this outside temp in the Sudan Summer. No strange vibrations, just that little something that has changed. It’s probably because of the engine re-build and he is just noticing it. An exterior walk around and dipstick check revealed nothing unusual.
“Patty, I’m going back and have my engine checked out, something doesn’t sound right”.

The hangar was within site of the spraying strip they were working from that day. In the distance the small but ever familiar pattern of spray planes making their post run pull ups and turns were barely visible in the distance. The sun was bright. Not a cloud in the sky. Chuck flew the 10 miles to the hangar and set up on final for the gravel strip. The gray beaded quarter mile path growing ever larger in his windscreen. At this point sightseeing is over. The pilot is totally focused on the chore before him. Interesting animals copulating beside the runway, fast cars on the highway, pretty girls sunning themselves by their pools have to wait their turn for a change. CCGUMP +W . Cowls, coolers, gas, Undercarriage in this case to include flaps, Mixtures, Props + Wheels, Chuck’s addition to the age-old anagram for Wheels not locked after water-skiing the Nile Dummy! One wheel locked landing was plenty. Good thing the strip was gravel. He had released them on the second bounce with no one the wiser. There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. Ok. But Bob Hoover doesn’t count because he will warp any pilots grading curve. Chuck knows that keeping the senses sharp in a flying environment is a constant chore. When he first started flying Chuck would say aloud to himself: “ I am flying an airplane. I am flying an airplane”, repeating his benediction occasionally throughout the flight. The flying environment demands near perfection and dead pilots cry from their graves: “Near perfection is not good enough”! At its very best it is totally unforgiving of complacency.

The crew on that contract consisted of pilots, mechanics and ground crew who assisted the mechanics and did general chores around the hangar, the line boys. The strip was gravel and the ramp beside the hangar, where the aircraft were parked at night was dirt. An aircraft could no sooner land and shut down before an overly helpful Pakistani was buzzing around opening up the engine cowlings for engine cooling and tying down the aircraft for the evening while enquiring if you had a good day and is there anything wrong with the aircraft. It was their attentiveness that almost sunk him that day. It’s a miracle that no one noticed. Or maybe someone did and became a secret, silent and smiling friend to the Yank that day. If so, salute. They all landed one after the other that evening. All lined up on final. Twelve aircraft slipping on to that gravel and dust strip beside the hangar and taxiing to tie down, greedily timed to coincide exactly with the moment after dusk when low visibility made VFR flying no longer safe. The acre, or hectare paid them, which was a little over 2 acres. Chuck timed it to land last, with a low approach. He taxied up to his parking place, fortuitously on the near end of the parking line. Pivoted the tail around for a perfect position, thinking. “Not a lot of room for error Chuck”. The plan was to jump out on the wing and wait till all of the aircraft were parked on the lee side and then heave the thing as hard as he could.

“Did you have a good day Mister”?

“Anything wrong with the Aircraft Mister?”

The line boy was unlatching the cowlings as the prop swung through its last arc. Except for him, that pesky line boy.

“No nothing wrong I had a good day”, he replied while scanning for other aircraft in the vicinity that could spot him. There were none. They were all down-line and engaged in some degree of bedding their aircraft down for the evening. Chuck exited the aircraft and stood by the cockpit as the line boy ducked to tie down the far wing, grabbed the thing with an adrenalin rush, lifted and heaved with all his might. It landed with a dull thud.

Immediately the line boy’s head appeared from under the leading edge of the right wing. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Chuck questioned.

“That noise, like the engine falling off the aircraft and hitting the bloody ground Mister”

“I didn’t hear anything”.

Blank stare and perplexed look. He swiveled a 270-degree arc and noted nothing out of place so he went back to tieing down the wing. Chuck jumped off the wing and began helping him, making small talk and trying not to sound too relieved before climbing aboard the bus for the ride to the hooch.



There was no weather to speak of. Just the normal beautiful day with a light summer breeze so he saw no need to tie the aircraft down for the short while he would be gone.

“I’m going to the hooch for a minute while you have a look ok”?

He turned to see Heike the Fin mechanic lifting the tail of an aircraft onto two cylinder blocks.

Heike nodded. “I’ve never met a man as strong as that guy. He’s a bull”, thought Chuck to himself.

“I’ll getdoo it as zoon as pozzible Shuck”

“OK Heike, you do zat”, thought Chuck as he started his walk for the house. Heike was a Fin and he had a beautiful blond, and slightly plump wife who he was always showing off with pictures of her standing in front of their idyllic country cottage holding a freshly cooked pastry, somewhere in Finland. Heike spent most of his off hours reading books with pictures full of dead Russians. Heike hated Russians. A great mechanic and a fun fella at the dinner table. He never talked about Russians. Just read books full of gruesome pictures of Russians however dead. All killed and strewn about in horrible final poses. After dinner you could find Heike in his bunk surrounded by books about dead Russians. He would have his nose stuck in one, daring you to interrupt him. He brought a book with him to work and during lunch he was off by himself in the shade; munching his sandwich and just silently reading his book full of pictures of “Ivans no longer wid us Ha Ha”.


“Dere’s nuttn wrong wid da Shuck. I ran it ubtoo vull power for over da minute an da verking fine. Good engine”, says Heike
“Good enough for me Heike. Thanks a bunch” Chuck was yelling over his shoulder as he ran toward his aircraft. It was sitting just as he had left it. The engine was hot from Heike’s runnup and the cowlings were unlatched. Chuck checked the oil out of habit, gave the engine a quick eyeballing and snapped them closed, did a quick cursory walk around and hopped in. Fuel, flaps, Mags on, Starter. The prop swung through two arcs and became a grey circle when the engine fired. Oil pressure check. In the green. Controls free. Good to go, daylights a wasting. Forward on the throttle and toward the strip. The rolling takeoff was normal enough. Nothing unusual. Power, feed in some right rudder to keep her straight, tail wheel up and ease the stick back to assume a take-off angle of attack on the wings. She lifted off.

“Hmm. Funny. Lots of forward stick. Didn’t he check the trim before takeoff. The trim indicator showed zero. Right in the middle where it should be. He cranked the trim handle on the left bulkhead until the pressure began coming off the palm of his hand. The handle wouldn’t turn anymore and he was still holding forward pressure. A quick glance revealed the trim indicator showing full forward trim. The aircraft is aft loaded for sure, but flyable. He began a gentle bank toward his destination. “I’ve got full forward trim and still holding forward pressure on the stick. Have to get this sorted out”, he thought. She is flying. Minding the pilots first rule of survival that he has drilled into himself since stepping into his first cockpit solo. “Still no problem the strip is available if I have to set her down. But what is causing the aft loading”. The friendly face of his overly-helpful line boy faded into view from his subconscious. “ Oh NO! “ He maneuvered the aircraft so its rippling shadow was in full view as it bee-lined heedless of fences and crop rows across the desert floor.

His first thoughts were how to remedy the situation without getting found out. That was the absolute first thing that entered his mind. Survival. Not that the taxi and takeoff were so normal that he hadn’t noticed. Not that despite 500 hours in the Pawnee, it occurred to him that the distinct possibility existed that he was a ham-handed Bozo who had no sensitivity for handling his aircraft. The aircraft was flyable. Not workable but it was flying within its operational envelope and there was no immediate danger of loss of control. There was an immediate danger of having to buy grease paint and a poka dot suit and a red wig to fit his new image if anyone notices what he had done.

“No need to land at the strip. I’ll just continue on and see if I can sneak in while Patty is away from the field.”, he thought. “If I land back at the hangar they will all wonder what is wrong and my goose will be cooked for sure”. He eased the throttle forward for 5 more knots of airspeed. Scanning the horizon, he could make out some aircraft in their typical working patterns; mere specs but visible. Their pilots were too far away and too involved in their back and forths, ups and downs to notice him.

But where is Patty? Patty is the immediate danger. Patty might not let the cat out of the bag, but that is a chance not worth a bet. Even with odds. The chances of becoming reduced to foreign accented dinner table conversation froze him with horror. He could hear the laughter. Like a dream where all you can remember is in pastels. They were all slapping their thighs, tossing their food to keep from choking and laughing, laughing out loud in foreign accents. Oh God! Foreign accents; and the “Yank” ..Clarabel.

As he approached the strip he noticed Patty working a field a few miles away. He wouldn’t be that far away from the pump if he were anywhere done. He jammed the throttle forward to max power. “The sooner I get there the better off I will be”, he said to himself. He knew that he would have to land hot. Hot means at a speed greater than normally necessary. No sense taking a chance on a hi-speed stall on approach. The strip was long enough to handle the roll out and he maneuvered for an up wind final. Keeping an eye on Patty, before he disappeared in the haze or the distant horizon. Speed and efficiency was of the utmost necessity if he were to secure his embarrassment from view before Patty showed up on final. No sooner had his wheels touched that he judged the distance from the pump so he could cut the engine. As he approached the pump the prop had swung through its last arc. He jumped out.

“What is that Mister? That what you are doing”. Chuck hid it behind the wheel of the chemical tank.
“Just keep it here and don’t tell Patty. It’s a surprise” I will pick it up at the end of the day”
Everything went according to plan with no one the wiser. In retrospect he could have done it differently, but he chose to carry it back to the base strip rather than taking the chance of having it missed and eventually discovered on the field strip, or worse, the loading master appearing in front of everyone and saying something like: “Captain Chuck! You forgot your surprise”. At the end of the day he waited and maneuvered so that Patty left for the hangar strip first. In the distance he counted aircraft heading toward the strip in the dusk. If he timed it right he would arrive just after all of the other pilots had parked and headed back to the villa. He saw the Land Rover, with Angus running behind as usual, turning the bushy corner on the dusty road just as he was on short final for the strip. The weight of the thing was such that he thought it would go through the floor on touchdown. As he taxxied up to his tiedown point the line boy ran to meet the aircraft. Damn! He was shutdown and out on the wing as the lineboy opened the cowels. As soon as the lineboy turned to duck under the nose for the otherside he lifted the weight and heaved it as hard as he could toward the tail of the aircraft.

"What was that Captain?' The lineboy's head was poking up at him from under the left side of the nose.

"What was what?" "That sound like a thud".

"Harrumph!" he replied.

Its been too many years to remember why they used huge hunks of scrap iron as anchors for aircraft tie downs on that strip. Maybe they had no other proper anchors available. The overly helpful line boys resist forgetting though. Especially the one that chained the tail of the aircraft down while Chuck had gone to the hooch. No. He’ll never forget him, and never stop remembering him in his prayers for the lesson he taught him.

All Aboard for the Sudan with stopover in Hell

My trip flying a cropduster from England to The Sudan in 1981

by Chuck Michael

In l981 and I'd just finished a season of spraying summer wheat in Linconshire, England. I flew a "D" model Piper Pawanee from a grass strip in Boston; the namesake of the town in Massachusets. The "D" model was the one with the wing tip fuel tanks, and while they did possibly minimize the likelyhood of a post crash fire in the pilots immediate vicinity, their weight out there on the end of the wings caused the aircraft to handle like a cement truck. It could be got over, but it took a monumental effort to stand it on its wings, and once there it wanted to stay there and a monumental effort was then required to level it off again. At 50 turns an hour from daylight to dark trying to fly the thing became a bit of a chore and one tended to give up when the tanks were full and simply drive it-- like a cement truck.

The "C" model was a flier. It had its tank buried in the fuselage just ahead of the pilot, just forward of the center of gravity. Light as a feather she was; up and out of the field, clear the obstacles, then back on the stick and point the nose into space and let her slow to just above a stall, but not close enough so that she complained, pick the spot over the shoulder and nudge her with a little rudder and neutralize the stick and she would fall into a sweeping arc back toward the field. Dusk always came too quickly in a "C" model.

Not even a "Cat" was as much fun to fly, and the Pawnee being one of the most common ag planes used in the U.K. at the time assured me that I would be having a lot of fun in the type.

The Cotton Season on the banks of the Nile in the Sudan, East Africa had begun earlier in the summer and one day early in August I received a call inquiring as to whether I would be interested. The pay was better than what I was used to at 06 pence per feddan only because they needed me to fill in for 60,000 feddans(2.1 acres=1 feddan). ...and a "C" model was waiting for me in Headcorn, Kent. That was the good news.

This story begins with the bad news: I had to fly it to The Sudan myself. There was 3000 miles of foreign lands, empty horizons, mountains and deserts and non-existent weather reports between me and my 60,000 feddans; additionally the route was through the airspace of countries whose VFR rules were totally strange. As I was shortly to learn that was the very least of my problems.

Headcorn is (or was) a small grass strip just outside of a delictable English village in Kent by the name of Tunbridge Wells. If I had money I would live the life of a country squire in Kent. I would live anywhere in England with the exception of the appropriately named Southend, but especially anywhere south of London, and Tunbridge Wells is one of those places. Out in the country in England, as anyone who has been there will surely agree, is always closer to a pub than the countryside here, as any southerner living in a dry county will also testify.. I'll always treasure the years that I lived in the British Isles, impoverished as they were. I'm comfortable now but never as content as then. To me it was a fantasy land, full of new and exciting discoveries every day. The people, the pubs, the castles,churches, villages, fences, landscape,cars, trains, canals and boat trips through them, and for five years I was paid (not much, mind) to fly all over the place below 500 feet.. It was Camelot and poor as I was I hardly ever noticed. As time passed I occasionally left on vacation, short skiing and hiking jaunts to France and Italy, but they wern't exciting like England.

Now I was embarking on another great adventure, and the challenge of the trip to Africa peaked my interest. There were going to be lots of firsts. A Channel crossing, through France, the Alps, the Medeterranian,thousands of miles of Sahara. I entertained a myriad of details as I approached the aircraft for the first time at Headcorn that cloudy afternoon. Little did I know just how many other
firsts lied in wait in the weeks to come.

The pre-flight of an aircraft begins some distance from it and the thought that this particular aircraft would need a thorough going over was becoming abundantly clear as I plodded through the wet grass with my new employer. Doug assured me that everything was in order and explained the ferry tank lash up to me. I remember looking down and kicking a clump of earth around thoughtlessly as he spoke. "UhHuh", I mumbled. Due to the large distances involved across snow, sharks and draught, and the fact that airports were anything but ubiquitous in Africa the aircraft was fitted with an auxiliary fuel pump that was controlled by a cockpit switch and when energized would pump fuel out of the 100 gallon chemical hopper / gas tank and into the main tank to be subsequently burned by the motor. Great idea! Twelve hours endurance. Unfortunately, I was so engrossed in learning my new fuel system that I paid much more attention to learning its operation than to the installation of the system itself. I was to live (by the skin of my teeth) to
regret that oversight, and a few others a week or so later.

I began my journey by flying to an airport on the east coast of southern England which served the British admirably during the Battle of Britain and which, since then, has been shut down and opened back up only slightly less often than a hikers packet of crisps. Lydd was the controlling station for all VFR Channel traffic, so I was required to drop in and pay the necessary fees that they charge for their services and their navigational aids, and their writing down your crossing altitude. They also collect a healthy (probably healthier now) landing fee of 15 sterling for landing on their field; no phone calls accpted; you have to clear in person; as if they are keeping track and holding grudges against anyone who would leave England to fly to France.

So I paid my fees and drank their tea and rechecked my craft and recounted what was left of my expense money and headed up the almost invisible line between the beach and the sea toward the designated VFR (a stretch of the imagination by any standard) crossing point, turned right at 3000 feet and prayed for the coast of France. The fun had begun.

France does not permit VFR flying outside of its airways. At least not for transient aircraft. I was to maintain radio contact at all times. It would have been a blessing to be completely without a radio. We heard each other occasionally, barely. His static sounded French and was so accented that it would not have made any difference if I was carrying an interpreter in my lap. I gave up after a while and turned the radio off. He upset me, shouting like he was, very distracting.

The French countryside glided by 3000 feet below and it was quite different than English landscape, what was visible through the murk. The colors are more subtle in France, like the country is painted in pastels, but then again maybe it was just the fog..

There was a warm front stretched across the country that I thought, upon leaving England, that I would try to negotiate VFR, but saw the futility of it after the countryside turned from pastel to completely white. Circling lower and lower I began surveying the landscape with the thought of landing in someones cow pasture. The ability to land anywhere was a talent that I sorely missed when I began flying larger aircraft with mail and passengers a few years later.The weather was becoming worse; the rain had began a steady patter on the windscreen. It was time to land. There were no aerodromes marked on the chart that I could see, but there were really two there. Neither were marked and that is why I thought that I had made a tremendous navigation blunder when the the black asphalt of a very large strip loomed up out of the wet. Shiny and black it was. The thought escaped me for a moment, that strips 150 meters wide and two miles long with instrument markings aren't usually found in the middle of nowhere. "What luck!" I thought, but only until the "OH No" followed it. I began swivelling my head wildly looking for what I knew would be inevitable, but neither saw or heard any other aircraft. It wasn't DeGaulle or Orly. They were too far away, and as ominous as this runway was, what was even more so was the absence of any building larger than a farmhouse; there weren't even any buildings visible in the vicinity of the strip. What the hell is this place that has a strip this size and isn't on the chart? I circled twice and landed.

In the distance to the right of the strip was a mound of earth. It looked familiar, almost like an ammunition bunker I had seen on Army posts in childhood. Not being all that confident about where I was, it looked to be a good spot in which to be insignificant; so I taxied over and parked, cracked the vent, whipped out my book and snuggled down into the cockpit for a good read.

Movement. Movement in the country side out of the corner of my eye. Looks like a column of Ants, I thought; at least they were the same color, but too far in the distance to really tell exactly. They weren't moving very fast."Wonder where they are going? Probably some farmers.", and returned to the book.

They seemed to be getting bigger."No, they must be lost. They can't drive over here; not on a runway like this. Against the law.( ?)" "They are sort of coming this way. Oh No! They look like Army trucks, and they definitely are getting bigger. Probably out on maneuvers. Probably won't notice me through the murk." And I felt safe again. But they kept getting closer, and then they were headed across the tarmac directly for me.

"Gee, I hope I'm not in the way of their maneuvers."

The trucks and jeeps circled the me and men with green uniforms and machine guns jumped off of the trucks and circled the aircraft, standing at port arms looking my way with predetermined expressions.

"They have definitely spotted me.", I mumbled to myself. I flipped the latch handle and opened the door for the lieutenant who was walking from his jeep at a marked pace, as if I was the only thing on his mind.

"Guud Merning, Missuer, the wether, she is not so guud tuday no?

No, It isn't, I replied. "Not a good day for maneuvers today lieutenant."
"Yu are zee reaison for zee maneuvers thees merning, Missuer."
May I see zee papiers fer yu and yu'er flying machine Missuer?"

I began digging out the papers thinking how lucky I was so far, although the laconic machine guns facing me were a bit unnerving.

"What sert of aircraft is ziss, Missuer?"

"Have I done anything wrong, Sir, I asked"

"It is wrong to land here, Missuer Ziss is a Fransch Nuclear

Weapons Base. Please follow me Missuer."

We wound our way back to headquarters; six trucks and a jeep in the middle. It was becoming clear what all the shouting was about before I shut my radio off an hour before. The French Lieutenant inspected all of my papers, which took about six hours, asked me all of the routine questions, inspected the aircraft, decided that I was indeed a cropduster on the way to Khartoum, seemed positively eccstatic that I was American and not English, and called the local Police.

"Not tu worry, Missuer. Zee Gendarmes weel simply escort yu and yoeur aircraft off of zee base tu ze village airstrip."
There was a small grass strip a few miles away and I hadn't spotted it because of the weather. The Gendarmes showed up looking serious and spoke at length with the lieutenant . Glancing toward me occasionally, they left little doubt in my mind who was, the subject of their conversation. After a lengthy and animated conversation with many furtive looks one of the Gendarmes broke loose and walked over to the aircraft.
" Where is zee other zeet,Missuer?"

"What other seat is that, Sir?"

"Why zee zeet zat I am to ride in to accompany you to zee village airfield."

After explaining that there was no other seat he looked throughout the aircraft as if I was indeed hiding the other seat so he couldn't ride. Satisfied as to the number of seats he told me that I was to follow him, he in his car and me in the air over to the airfield. I turned lots of circles following him as he motored along the winding road to the village, but as soon as I spotted the airfield I left him and landed. We met at the club house. He became engaged in conversation with the locals and from the looks I imagine that he was telling them the story of my landing at the Nuclear Missele Base. I offered to buy him a drink. And there we sat answering all of their questions and accommodating all of their slaps on the back and gaffaws and kidding, most of which were not interpreted, but I laughed along anyway, and kept on buying drinks. The kindly, and by now inebriated Gendarme found me a hotel in town and happily bid me adieu, driving away chuckling and shaking his head. Thanks for happy drunks.

The next morning I left for Cannes, circled up to 12,000' to hop the Alps, but didn't make it, at least not on the first landing anyway. The boss warned me before I left about mistaking an airfield down the coast for Cannes, and I did. It was dark by the time I had bedded down the airplane and left to find a hotel. The only one with any vacancies was quite expensive. I didn't care. It had been a tiring day and I was whacked. The room had a giant tub with a Jacuzzi and to my surprise a refrigerator full of liquor. I sat in the tub and drained my poor tired body of its aches, along with three quarters of the refrigerator. The next morning at the reception desk I was given an expensive lesson in hotel living when I learned that each of those little bottles in the reefer had a price tag on it. Se la vie. Off to Bastia,Corscia. Napoleon's birthplace.

Bastia is a delightful town with lots of interesting restaurants and a statue of the Emperor in the middle of the town square. The first thing the girl at the desk did after checking me in was introduce me to her girlfriend. What a friendly place, I said to myself. I was to spend 12 days there due to the weather. It took me about 9 of those days to figure out that the 'girlfriend' was the town whore. Every time I would ask her out the time she said she could spend with me got shorter and shorter. It finally dawned on me when she announced that she had 15 minutes to spare for me between midnight and two am.

Every day I would wake and look out the window and If I could see no line between the water and the sky I went back to bed. I began to learn a little French through necessity. No one that I could find spoke any English, or pretended not to. I was at a bit of a disadvantage and began looking around for a French English dictionary. On the seventh day I decided to call the boss in England, who I was sure, was wondering where the hell I was.

The Phone Company there has a central office full of telephone books for countries all over the world. They are stacked neatly on bookcases that wrap around the room, punctuated by telephone booths. I looked for England. It was number 44. Let me see, 30's 40's, 42,43,45...I tried to make it clear to the lady behind the glass in the booth that I wanted to call England. She spoke only French and had not an idea in the world as to what I was talking about. The French and the English aren't the best of chums, and by the absence of the phone book England didn't entertain a lot of consciousness in the French mind. I mean there wasn't even a space for it. I gave up and decided to look for a bookstore. All of the dictionaries in the book store were written for the French and not a one was English=French. There were books on how to learn English, but nothing that I could understand on how to learn French. Why would anyone want to learn French? Everyone here already speaks it. On the way back to the hotel I passed a barber shop. Besides getting one of the best haircuts I have ever had in my life in that little back-alley barbershop, I found a way to start learning French. While waiting my turn I picked up a comic book from the table beside me. It was a simple comic book and inside the front cover was a picture of a fish with an apron on, standing beside her stove, holding up a spoon. Inside the bubble coming out of her mouth were the words: "Pierre, Il le heur de la suppe." Holy Cow! Its dinner time I surmised. Well, that means dinner time for sure and I bought all of the barber's comic books. After I started trying some of my new found tongue out on the locals they became more receptive and little by little I increased my conversation vocabulary. It was all lost on the girl behind the glass booth though and on the tenth day I was stumbling clumsily through a menu, trying to order a meal. After a couple of minutes the waitress chimed in" We can speak English if you like." During the course of the meal she told me that she used to go with an American Sailor stationed in Marsilles. The next day I bought her a drink and trotted her down to the phone company to help me with the girl in the glass booth.

Bob Stark, the Chief Pilot, showed up in Bastia later in the week. I was watching him from the observation balcony as he de-planed, smiling up at me as he walked toward the terminal,confidently patting the box that he carried under his arm.

Typically English in his taste for bland food, he interrupted our French Dinner that night to go out into the alley and throw up. The next day at the airport Bob opened the box and proudly displayed the artificial horizon that, when installed in my aircraft, would allow me to continue my journey toward Africa despite the poor visibility. There were no instructions, but only two unmarked wires protruding from the rear of the round, black case. Bob, not knowing a lot about electricity, said: "We'll hook it up one way and if it doesn't work then we'll reverse the polarity." I insisted over his protestations that we were taking a big chance on ruining the unit and convinced him that we should open the case and then make a decision. Upon opening the case we discovered that most of the components there-in were toasted to a crisp. I looked at Bob with that all knowing "You used your troubleshooting skills to test this unit before you left England, didn't you Bob." He returned my gaze in that silence that spoke : "Gosh. I suppose maybe I hooked it up backwards while I was testing it before I left England. The only thing left was to rent an airplane and fly to Cannes in order to buy a new one. We did that and the next day before I left with my new gyro installed Bob displayed a standard compass in order to calibrate mine because I had noticed that it was eight degrees off and was causing some trouble in navigation at times--what with the little nav assistance that I had anyway. Instead of doing a proper job Bob simply gave me the true headings to fly for the four cardinal points on the compass. We were in a hurry for me to get away and I didn't argue with him much, but expressed a thought that his calibration was compensating my compass in the wrong direction. " Believe me, I've been doing this for years.",was his reply. I waved and took off into the haze toward the coast of Italy.

I was to fly the 1000 miles down the coast of Italy, cross at the ankle, head toward Brendizi VOR and from there fly across the Adriatic toward on the island of Corfu.Because of possible intrusion of Rome's TCA I was to fly at no more than 1000 feet and twenty miles off the coast. This I did almost completely IFR and without radio contact with anyone. The difficulties started when I turned inland, climbed to cross the mountains and saw that the late afternoon convective was beginning to form thunder clouds. Before departure Bob had briefed me that under no circumstances was I to land in Italy, the authorities being what they are there I would have great difficulty continuing the journey within a reasonable period of time. I had to beat those clouds. With anxiety I pulled my straps tighter and banked toward the mountains in a climbing turn. With much vectoring and turning to avoid rising clouds I managed to evade most of the cloud, but there was one that was rising faster than I could climb at 11,000 feet so I decided to penetrate it. Really, it did not look that formidable. What resulted was the ride of my life and I finally punched through the other side more upside down than right side up. The mountains were closing fast and I managed to pull off the power and get the ship straight before ending the journey right there on a sunny afternoon smeared on the side of a granite face. At that time I had not had that much instrument flying experience and in retrospect I feel fortunate indeed to have survived that one. My level of skill at that time, was such that I could fly for hours keeping straight and level in smooth air using my gyro horizon, but I decided never again, no matter what to bet my life on an outcome that I wasn't reasonably sure of. It is the way a pilot grows--feeling his way along slowly. Flying, like life is a series of small mistakes that can eventually be digested into learning experiences, but unlike life flying never forgives a serious mistake I had tried to follow my re- calibrated compass heading but soon found myself, because of it, wandering around in the instep of the boot looking for Brendizi, and wondering if the Adriatic was indeed that small that I could see the coast of Albania through the haze across the water. After much study of the map I got my bearings and set a new course for the East coast of Southern Italy. Over Brendizi I had not yet decided if my compass was mis calibrated or whether I had just made an error in navigation so I set a course for Corfu using Bob's calibration. I noted the time and tried to judge the wind by the ripples on the water and smoke trails on the ground and headed out.

An hour later land was no where in sight. Just more water. Yes, compass was wrong and I must be travelling more south than east. They had warned me before leaving that I was to go no where near the coast of Albania. "They will shoot you down". Naturally I was a little hesitant about making any land fall in that area and that may have been why I was flying down the middle of the Sea instead of across it, south east to Corfu. Maybe the VOR would give me a clue if I were close enough. I climbed a couple of thousand feet and tuned in the VOR. The TO/From needle still wasn't working but there was certainly no question of what part of the Earth I was flying. I wasn't that lost. The VOR needle centered at 270 and then
again at 090. I looked out to my left at my 9 O'clock and saw orthographic lifting in the hazy distance. BINGO!

The VOR is on the southern tip of the island and I don't know why I turned south over the station rather than north, but I did and became lost and very scared because Albania's coast is less than two miles from the island of Corfu. The visibility was terrible. The tower couldn't hear me but fortunately a helpful British Pilot flying for Dan Air heard my call for help and relayed my messages to the tower. I made no bones about being lost and disoriented and I'm sure that every pilot flying in that part of the world on that frequency heard me. Part of initial training emphasizes the necessity of overcoming the embarrassment of being lost and communicate the situation to whoever will listen. There is a mnemonic for it: Climb, communicate, confess, comply. The "Four C's" The four C's provided me with expert guidance through the murk to the airport and to a safe landing.

Some airports use the same frequency for tower and ground control. After all of the confusion I hadn't thought of extracting the ground frequency from the chart and ended up taxxing off the runway and ready to change frequencies without the benefit of knowing which frequency to change to. Since everyone on the ramp had been on their radios to me anyway I chanced a call in the blind and asked for the
frequency. What followed has stuck in my memory as if put there with a branding Iron. It wasn't the content of the message as much as the tone of voice that was so upsetting. A clipped British Accent replied in the most condescending tone possible: "There-is-no-ground-control." I left no doubt in his mind as to my nationality when I replied in my best Southern Drawl. "You don't say Pardner. Well kisssss my ass."

Later, on reflection I vowed that I would never, under any circumstances discourage someone from asking for help over the radio by criticizing the courage it takes to "confess" their predicament. The pilot that said that, whoever he is, possibly considers himself above making mistakes, but human he is and it would be joy itself if God would let me be present to witness that pilot's eventual cry for help and before coming to his assistance, whisper evenly into his ear: "There-is-no-ground-control." Unfortunately, chances of sweet revenge such as that seldom materialize, but I thank him for teaching me something while I'm waiting.

I won't say a lot about Greek taxi-drivers. If there is one thing that is predictably uniform in motivation from Greece to Saudi Arabia to anywhere else you care to mention it is taxi drivers, and especially those predatory types that hang out at airports. Suffice it to say that I got a good tour of the city accompanied by an interminable and graphic homily on his sexual exploits with vacationing English Women.

The next leg would take me across the Greek Isles and halfway across the Mediterranean to the Island of Crete. Getting there was only half the fun. Like a fool I turned the radio on and before I turned south across the Med tried earnestly to understand why Athens Approach control kept shouting at me. Apparently I was getting close to their airspace and they seemed to threaten everything but shoot me down. I don't know if I ever encroached on the Athens TCA; I don't think I did. Anyway I turned the radio off and kept it off. It seemed that when it was on someone was always shouting at me.

One never listens to an engine like one learns to listen to the cadence of each ignition in its cylinders while transiting a large body of water. It is surprising what can be heard, or maybe put another way: what one learns to listen for what he doesn't want to hear out of site of land. That flight over the first half of the Med from Milo VOR to Herakilon was my first flying out of site of land. It was a little disconcerting, but after the first hours of the engine's constant hum my anxiety waned and my mind wandered. "Well, there certainly isn't any worry about picking a landing spot in case it fails.", I told myself. I looked down to the waves barely visible at my altitude and pictured the aircraft tail up and gasping its last while I rowed away in my rubber dingy. There wasn't a boat in sight. I had spotted a ship that was either a cruise ship or a ferry about an hour out and it occurred to me that in case of a ditching I might be rowing around out there for quite a while before being rescued, if at all. I reached down and felt the gallon of water that I had stowed in a plastic jug on the floor. Before much longer I spotted some orthographic lifting and my interest in seeing land again peaked and I turned the radio on. That was fun, I thought. I felt like the Danger Ranger. After I had arrived in the Sudan and began dusting I learned what a dangerous stretch of water I had uneventfully crossed. A Scot there who was a whizz with the ladies and appropriately named Angus told me of his crossing that part of the Med a few years before. The weather closed in on him about two hours out, and being without even a gyro or any instrument at all to use as a reference to keep the wings level, became disoriented in the low visibility due to the absence of a horizon. He said he thought that he could feel his way through, but then he would hear the engine begin to speed up and the altimiter would begin to unwind. Although he couldn't feel anything what little instrumentation he had told him that he was losing altitude and the nose was pointed downhill. He flew for two hours completely disoriented at times. Every time his altimiter would unwind and his engine speeded up he would pull back the power and begin looking for water. There was no way of telling where it would appear. Upon seeing the water he would recover and climb and try to fly straight and level again. After a while his engine rpm would increase or decrease and he would pull back or push forward on the stick as he thought appropriate.He never knew if he was upside down or not. All he could do was watch for the water. A few times he found it up above him or so he initially thought, but of course he was upside down. He would again recover wings level and try to keep the magnetic compass steady. He said that seemed to work for a while, but then it would start swinging wildly and he would start looking for water again. The fog was spotty and fortunately for him there were enough holes in it for him to keep reorienting himself. He said he was fit to be caged by the time he reached Crete.

We had fun in Crete that night. The ferry pilots that I had met in Corfu were there and we drank Oosu and beer until two in the morning. My plan the next morning was to fly to Sita VOR on the east end of the island and follow a prelaid bearing off of that station and DR it to El Dabar on the north coast of Egypt. I was ready for takeoff when I noticed that the ferry pilots weren't in a great hurry to leave. "Are you going to Cairo?" I inquired. "We can finish our party there." I said. No. They said that they had filed direct to Jeddah and were waiting for a clearance. "Why not go to Cairo?" I said. "You've never flown into Cairo? They asked.
"Why no." I replied.
One of them developed an interest in a distant cloud and said offhandedly after a few moments:
"Well, I suppose everyone should fly into Cairo once."
I didn't hang around to ask him for explanations...I should have.
I took off out of Irhalklan heading East along the hills, planning to get a good shot at Sitka VOR from the South for the flight to El Daba on the North African Coast. Granted, Africa is hard to miss, but I wanted to hit it accurately. The Sahara is too large and dry to leave navigation to thumbnail sketches. As it turned out I had lots of time to think about the journey, because 50 miles out of Irhaklan oil began seeping out of the oil filler cap. I remember tightening the cap explicitly, but with a ten hour journey over water and desert ahead I thought it would be best to turn back. Actually I should have landed on the beach instead of returning to the airfield, but the Greeks were upset enough at me for violating their airspace in Athens. They don't like unauthorized landings and that would be all I would need is to get caught on the ground when I'm on a flight plan, finally, out of their airspace. That would have been enough to detain me for hours on end of endless questioning like the French did. It was a false alarm. Just a little spillage around the filler cap. Just the same, it was good judgement to turn around, even though it made for a late start in an already delayed journey.

So far I had been 7 days en-route and my employers wanted me there in five. I hadn't contacted anyone in England or Khartoum since leaving Corsica. Maybe I will hear something from someone in Cairo. If I get there I thought. Would it be better if the engine quit during the four hour trip over the Med or during the six hour journey over the desert? Would it be more comfortable floating around in my liferaft or landing in the desert. After a while of pondering that I decided that with only a gallon of water if it survived the landing, one was as good as the other. How comforting. Not a lot of things to think of during a boring flight with nothing but engine noise for company. Nothing but a slow trudge through the Sahara with my gallon of water or dieing slowly bobbing around in my lifevest. The engine purred a warm sound.Just about four hours and fifteen minutes of uninterrupted, not even by an occasional ferry, Ad Daba passed under the nose and my heading across the Med substantiated I took another one for a landmark deep in the Sahara. Cairo won't let VFR traffic make straight for the airport. I was to head south and then turn Eastbound and call them. With the boat anchor I had for a radio, over the desert, this proved an interesting scenario. I listened for a while and when I was absolutely certain that I was lost I called them with an estimated position. "Are you in sight of the Pyramids?"

"Negative. Lots of sand, but no pyramids."

"Say again, Are you in sight of the pyramids?

"Negative! Negative Pyramids!, I say again: Negative

Pyramids"

"Roger. ETA pyramids:
Jesus. how did I know. There were no landmarks. This desert flying was going to be fun. I had over 1500 miles further to go to Khartoum and so far I couldn't even estimate Cairo.
"Estimate Pyramids in 15 minutes." I guessed.

"Say again G----."

"Estimate Pyramids in 15 minutes."

G----- You are unreadable, call over the Pyramids."

Great. Unreadable. He wasn't much better.

A half an hour later I caught sight of three pyramids in the distance and called the pyramids. They were just three pyramids in the middle of the desert. Nothing else.No Spinx Having been to the Giza Pyramids previously on vacation from a job in Saudi Arabia I knew that the Giza Pyramids were just outside of Cairo.

"Not in sight yet G---, are landing lights turned on?

"Landing lights on" I yelled into the mike.

"G---Turn landing lights on" Cairo repeated.

"LANDING LIGHTS BLOODY ON GODDAMMIT! "I was hot and sweaty and tired of yelling and had to piss like a race horse.

"Landing lights on indeed" I thought. As if that little twerp could see me flying out here in absolute nothingness. Not a thing insight that didn't look like every other thing in sight. I kept my heading. That was all I had. Just me and my heading. I might be hot and tired and lost, but I hadn't forgotten how to navigate. I was at least headed East and bloody East is where the Nile river is and that is going to be hard to miss.

"G---do you have the airport in sight?"

"He's gotta be shitting me, all I got in sight is his three lonely pyramids. Just me and the pyramids I thought,,,and my heading.

"g---NEGATIVE" I replied

"G----The airport is just south of the Pyramids. Report

airport in sight."

I turned my head to the South. "Hah! I thought. How far south. For now I'd settle for the City.

"G---fly to Hotel Sierra and hold"

Oh sure. Hotel Sierra. From the two letter identifier I knew that it was an am navigation beacon and I didn't have an adf aboard. What did he think I was flying around up here? British Airways?

"Negative ADF, G---"

"G--- Proceed to Hotel Sierra."

"G---Negative ADF. Just a wing and a prayer here Sir."

The Cairo traffic sharing the approach control frequency must have been having a good time listening to this conversation. Good thing they don't know who I am. I'm going to avoid all of the pilot type bars in Cairo, if I ever land there, I thought.

"G---Cairo Approach. Which Pyramids are you over?"

Oh Shit. Wrong Pyramids. I knew it.

How do I explain which pyramids I'm over when he can't even

understand "negative". I tried.

"They are three small pyramids, lined up east to west.

Uniformly shaped and equally spaced. There is nothing else

around. "

"G---I say again. Describe the pyramids."

"WELL FUCK IT, AND FUCK YOUR PYRAMIDS AND FUCK YOU YOU

DEAF LITTLE MONKEY YOU. WHEN I GET ON THE GROUND IM GOING TO

WRING YOUR LITTLE NECK LIKE A CHICKEN" I thought out loud before answering calmly as I could manage.

"Cairo in Sight, Estimate airport in twenty minutes."

"Roger G---, Call airport in sight."

The ragged edge of a city and the glint of a north south watery ribbon had just turned above the horizon's rim.

"G---Cairo, cleared to land 28 right."

Cleared to land. I can't even see the city very clearly much less the airport.

"Cairo, G--- I estimate the City in Twenty."

"G---Cairo, You must land immediately, you called the airport in sight and I clear you to land 28 right. Call finals."

I was flabbergasted. What did he want me to do? Land immediately in the middle of a sand box.?

"Cairo this is 345 Heavy. Be advised G---never called Airport in sight."

Well thanks for small favors. They were listening. At least they managed to stop laughing long enough to give a guy a hand.

"Cairo, 345 Heavy, contact approach."

"345 heavy Cairo, Negative. You are to continue holding. G---

is on final approach and is not a good pilot and I am leading
him by the hand.
" G---say position."

I made a straight in to the runway. The air got choppy as I came on short final.

"G---Cairo, is that you?"

"G---is that you on final approach?"

"Aircraft on final approach, this is Cairo. Identify yourself."

I had all I could do, tired as I was, to manoeuvre the aircraft through the chop toward the runway threshold and I wasn't about to let go of the stick and power in order to answer a tower controller who obviously had lost control of himself.

"Cairo, G---is on the ground." I said quietly after three calls from the tower.



I received instructions from ground and taxied over to the general aviation area and tied her down, removing my liferaft and chaining the doors shut with the locking apparatus Doug gave me before leaving.


Big Idea! Since I had the misfortune of already vacationing in Cairo while working in Jeddah I decided that, since I was departing the next day, I would save myself and everyone else much trouble and strife and stay in the Airport Hotel. Sounds swanky doesn't it? Big mistake. BIIIgggg Mistake.

After 10 hours of hot sweaty flying from Crete during which I managed to piss allover myself and spray the entire cockpit on the third hour I was really looking forward to a hot bath and rushed through the fueling and postflight, eager to check in. The large, unshaven guard eyed the packaged liferaft I was carrying and stopped me from entering the terminal with his AK-47. "Bomb", he said. That didn't sound
like a question. It was around an hour and a half later before I had convinced his supervisors that the compressed air bottle attached to the liferaft wasn't filled with TNT. The intelligent one checked me in, took my passport and waved me toward the hotel. The AK 47 at the hotel entrance stopped me at the door, gestured toward the liferaft and said "Bomb". After 15 minutes of fast talking I stood a chance of getting through because he finally said "OK", but then he said "papers". "Papers? I gave my papers to that fat guy over there." "Go get papers", said the guard. Back I went and with a wave he signaled the guard that I was OK to pass. Great! I strutted through the door on my way to the receptionist desk. Turned the corner and there was another door, with another guard holding an ammo belt and another machine gun.

"Papers!" I did make it to the hotel room that night, really I did. The elevator was the last obstacle. Have you ever been in a three man elevator on a hot day with 12 Egyptians? We started up and between the second and third floors the lights went out and the elevator stopped. I really was wondering if these days were the beginning of the end of my life, a slow and sweaty death I would suffer in an Egyptian lift. Shortly someone struck a match and moments later, unbelievably one of the passengers reached out of the elevator, through the cage and fingered a wire bundle hanging down the shaft, pressed two of the wires together , the lights sprang back to life and we were on our way again. I am not making this up.

The hall is full of Koreans. Workers bound for the roads and construction sites of Saudi Arabia. So much for my swanky Hotel. I reached the room, fell inside and shut the door. Finally! The luggage and travel bag remained by the door and the rest of the clothes I was wearing formed a trail on the floor leading into the shower. I turned the tap like a desert Bedouin approaching an Oasis. No water. Not a drop._

After the desk clerk assured me that the water would be back on inside of An hour and a half I decided to have a cigarette. Pat, pat, pat, no matches. Half way down the hallway I met a cleaning lady and asked her for a match. She promptly displayed a book of paper matches and offered to sell me
One. Oh Yes! It all made sense to me now. Why, when asking the ferry pilot In Crete why he was filing for a straight-through to Jeddah instead of overnighting In Cairo. He asked me if I had ever flown into Cairo before. His distant response when I replied in the negative: “Well, I suppose everyone needs to fly into Cairo once in their Life”. Yes. It all made sense to me now.

Fun's not over yet. With an hour till shower I decided to go down to the restaurant and get something to eat. I was famished. I picked out a table and waited for the waiter to show up. There was a man in a filthy apron and a food cart three booths down. Eventually he showed up at my table, placed a plate in front of me and dipped his ladle into the food cart.
"Hold on there. Where's the menu?, I said.
"This is the menu". SPLAT.
"Fifteen Pounds Sir" I looked up and he was standing there, unshaven by his dripping cart, in his dirty apron and his hand out.
"I will have to get some money changed before I pay you" , I replied
"YOU PAY NOW IN BRITISH POUNDS. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DO IF I TAKE EGYPTIAN POUNDS?"
"What?" I inquired.
"THEY CUT OFF MY ARM! I CANNOT ACCEPT EGYPTIAN POUNDS!"
Truly, I had never seen any one look more serious in my life.
I paid him 15 pounds sterling, greedily slurped up my slop and headed for my room.
I almost made it through the lobby.
"YOU ARE A SPY"!
"HUH?"
Before I knew what hit me a guard grabbed me by the arm and ushered me into an office where an official man in a uniform instructed me to sit down.
"You are a CIA spy!" After 1/2 hour of vehement denials he relented that maybe I wasn't a spy, became very friendly, slapped me on the back and said I was free to go.

To this day I wonder if the entire experience wasn't some kind of Allen Funt Candid Camera thing where the twist was that they were so serious in their charade game that they never let on. From the deaf tower controllers to the guards sending me back and forth, the lady with the matches, no water, this is the menu, you are a spy. . It was like some sort of evil game show. If there's ever a next time, and there won't be. I'm filing straight through to Jeddah.