After an hour or so we crossed the border into
Ethiopia and were in contact with Addis Ababa Centre. As you'll have seen from the maps above, we then crossed briefly back into Sudan, before
Kenya. Off on our port side was
Lake Turkana, which I could
just make out in the darkness:
On night flights like this aircrew always hope that all the passengers will do the sensible thing and just try to sleep. Unfortunately, on that particular occasion, not a bit of it. Not only did they all stay wide awake, but worse, some of them started causing trouble. Jackie came and told me about it.
'Oh, Captain Roggeveen, you'll heff to deal with this, I simply can't menage,' she said, sounding very like Olivia, well-known daughter of our 'plane's designer, Geoffrey de Havilland. 'It's the, um, coloured gentlemen, you know, those Effrican lawyers; they've UPSET another of the pessengers.'
'Well, what have they done? Lawyers are often fairly irritating, but surely they haven't started getting legal with anybody at 29000 feet?'
'Please go and speak with them; they won't listen to reason!'
So I left Tony (and George) in charge and went to investigate.
Jackie told me they were called Mr Oliver and Mr Nelson, so I walked down the aisle and introduced myself. They were sitting quietly, having a smoke (as everyone did in those days), pouring over a lot of typed documents. Obviously they had brought plenty of work with them. Oliver was a small man with eyeglasses and a receeding hairline, but Mr Nelson was rather younger, with a parting in his thick hair, smartly-dressed (as everyone who went in aeroplanes always was in those days), well-built and very strong - as I found out when I shook his hand.
'You seem more like a boxer than a lawyer,' I ventured.
'Ha, ha, it's funny you should say that Captain, I do, indeed, box; but only in an amateur capacity. Most of my real fighting is done in the courtroom.'
'And what seems to be the trouble, gentlemen? My stewardess tells me that you have been involved in some sort of, er, altercation?'
'Oh, that,' said Mr Oliver, 'It is not us. It is that awful Boer over there. Oh, sorry, of course you must be an Afrikaaner yourself with a name like...'
'Don't worry; I'm Dutch, but no insult taken. I'll go and have a word with him.'
The person they had indicated was a stocky, rather scowling older white man sitting with a very pretty blonde who I knew to be his secretary, if not also his mistress. (But he was
een echt Afrikaaner, a real Boer, so he probably spent his spare time rummaging through a Bible rather than her pantyhose.) It later occurred to me that I should have addressed him in Dutch, but perhaps because I was captaining a British aircraft, we both spoke English.
'It's not me, it's those Kaffirs!' he spat. 'Why 'aven't they got
siperate toilets?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, they're Kaffirs. Must 'ave siperate toilets. I'm not sharing a toilet with any Kaffirs!'
'You don't have to use it at the same time as anybody else. Actually the British Overseas Air Corporation takes a very dim view of that sort of thing, Mr Du Toit. As for 'separate toilets', we are pleased to offer a separate Gentlemen's Valeting Chamber and a Ladies' Powder Room. This is a British aeroplane and no distinction is made as to the races. In fact, everyone on this jet-engined Speedbird service flies First Class!' And I turned on my heel and stalked back to the flightdeck before he could add anything else offensive.
When I sat down and strapped myself back in, Tony told me that we were now over
Uganda (except that it's flag, and that of Kenya, was, of course, still the

at the time).