Don't Panic - Part 3

Read Part 1 & 2 first.

Matthew and I sat outside the cafe in silence for quite some time, gathering our thoughts. I was wondering whether this trip could get any worse.

Nah – of course not! We’d survived the maiden flight of a couple of untrained kids who had been entrusted with a plane which had the 3rd worst safety record in aviation history. We'd avoided the potential of being shot down by terrorists over the approaches to Bandung and we had come through a dangerous encounter with psychopathic nutters from the Indonesian mafia. What else could go wrong?

After we had regained our composure we wandered into the cafe and asked the waiter to call us a taxi. The old jokey response of; “You’re a taxi” wasn’t forthcoming but the chap obliged by making a phone call to the local cab company.

Ten minutes later the cab arrived and we were relieved to see that it was the same cab and driver that we’d had on the journey from the airport. Sanity prevailed once more.

We arrived back at Bandung airport and strolled into the terminal building. A couple of soldiers were milling about smoking and 4 or 5 of the people who were on the inbound flight with us were also waiting, as were the two lads who had piloted the plane on the outward journey.

I could see the Fokker waiting for us on the tarmac. It occurred to me that that the two trainee flyers had had the opportunity to rack up a few more hours of experience since the morning by way flying back and forth between Jakarta and Bandung in the meantime. So, the chances of an air disaster on the next trip had probably diminished by about 0.0005%. I felt quietly encouraged by this thought.

It was a bright and sunny afternoon with not a cloud in the sky and, without a doubt, perfect flying conditions.

We boarded the plane with about 8 other passengers. The two novices clambered into the cockpit and we were ready to go. This time around there was no danger of being vaporised by a thermo-nuclear explosion and the cockpit door was firmly closed. In just over an hour’s time we’ll be back at the Borobudur supping cocktails or splashing about in the pool. Bliss!

The take off was smooth and controlled – no dramas. The boys up front had clearly got to grips with the take off aspect of commercial air travel. Moreover, the journey to back to Jakarta was going so well that I was beginning to think that I’d been a bit harsh on the lads in my earlier mental critique of their aviation skills.

We’d been flying for about 40 minutes in beautiful blue skies. Then a few clouds began to build. The big fluffy white stuff gradually started to morph into big not-so-fluffy grey stuff and the flight became a bit bumpy from mild turbulence. The grey clouds suddenly became darker and darker and the slight bumpiness became lumpy-bumpiness.

Then the dark clouds became BLACK clouds. It was only about 5pm but it was as black as night outside. The black clouds were firing forks of lightening at the plane and heavy rain was bouncing off the wings and windows. We could hear thunder above the noise of the plane’s engines. We were in the centre of a major, angry, tropical storm – an electric storm that was taking its anger out on us. The Fokker was being tossed about in the sky left, right, up and down. The effect of this extreme turbulence was indescribable. I could hardly breathe from the fear. I was seriously petrified and so was everyone else on board. I have never been so frightened before or since.

Then the captain made an announcement over the PA system. It was in Indonesian first and then broken English. The Indonesian part started with something like; “Barang, barang a porn, porn” – Indon/Malay for “Ladies and gentlemen”. After our captain had finished this part of the announcement, the stewardess immediately started crying, went into the crash position and prayed. I looked around at the other passengers and they too had their heads between their knees and were jabbering away to Allah.

The broken-English part of the skipper’s announcement was basically:

“We’re flying through the middle of the mother-fucker of all storms and it’s impossible to land at Jakarta, In fact, it’s impossible to land anywhere and we’ll have to flying around in circles inside this sucker until we either die or are able to attempt a landing. Best wishes, your dedicated Captain”. He then added the killer; “Please don’t panic”.

Now, I don’t know about you, but when someone says; “Please don’t panic” in a scenario in which panic is a perfectly justified option, the urge to panic is a strong one and it’s normally preceded by the loosening of the bowels and screaming at the top of one’s voice.

We flew around in circles inside the storm for 35 minutes. It was shear hell. I can’t really describe the darkness, the lightening, the thunder and crazy turbulence.

Anyone who has experienced a tropical storm, hurricane or typhoon from the ground will have an idea of the power that these things can unleash. To be several thousand feet up in the air and right in the middle of it is another matter altogether. I was seriously crapping myself and I wasn’t the only one.

Ultimately, we survived, of course. The black clouds reverted to grey. The turbulence abated to a level which was just about tolerable and the plane made its approach into Jakarta. After a bumpy, bouncing descent through the rain clouds for about 15 minutes we made it to the runway and safety. The relief of everyone onboard was palpable. We were too shocked to cheer or applaud the crew.

As we taxied to our station I looked out the window. The rain was incredible – big heavy rain, stair-rod straight and as thick as macaroni.

The plane stopped about 400 yards from the terminal building and we waited for the bus/truck to arrive to transport back to the shed. This was another forlorn hope. The door of the fuselage flew open, steps were placed alongside and we were instructed to disembark.

It was pointless running the 400 yards or so in order to stay dry. You might as well have stood under a power shower with the power turned up to Number 11, or jumped into a swimming pool fully clothed for all the good it would do. Accept the inevitable – you’re gonna get soaking wet. After the events of the last 10 hours I couldn’t give a shit.

Matthew and I sauntered across the tarmac to the shed, through the throng of clove smoking locals and across the terminal to the door that led to the taxi rank.

By the time we reached the exit door the rain had stopped and, in that weird way that the tropics work, the rain had stopped the sky was blue and the sun was beating down once more.

We stood in line waiting for a cab, our clothes dripping wet. Within 2 minutes our clothes were emitting clouds of steam. People were looking at us, incredulous. After another couple of minutes in the intense heat of the sun our clothes were bone dry and our hair was a mad mess of curly, frizzy, fuzz. And we were knackered beyond belief.

I can’t remember anything about the cab journey from the airport back to the hotel, nor can I remember much about the rest of the evening. I do recall, however, going straight to the hotel bar and ordering a large, extra dry, martini (chilled, stirred and with a twist), followed by another. What followed is a complete blur.

I’m not sure what the moral of this story is, but panic was an option.

The End!