Piet and the Passporto
Old Piet
After Old Piet had got over his initial spate of firing me, I found myself in the dubious position of being his constant co-pilot and bag carrier.
Although this seemed like a fairly permanent arrangement, an air of disharmony always permeated our shared cockpit. I soon learned that he marched to the beat of his own drum. I simply followed, trying to keep in step. This was not easy because I seldom heard the drum—he never told me what was going on. It simply didn’t occur to him that our agenda could be any of my business. Naturally, this led to some difficult moments.
For instance, on our first trip to Lourenço Marques (now Maputo) on Africa’s East coast, as we were descending towards our destination in his 250 Comanche ZS-CWG, he broke a long silence. “Vare is your Passporto?”
“Passporto?” I enquired. I had reason to be perplexed because he hadn’t told me we were going to foreign lands. His mood was not improved because I have an annoying habit of looking like a stunned ox on such occasions.
“Your Pass-bloody-porto.” He repeated loudly.
“Ah. Well now—that would be at home, then.”
This brought on one of his tirades. They invariably started with “Hell’s teeth, Zim, you useless bastard…” He would then go on to mention such topics as my education, my failure to grasp even the simplest of concepts, and, in particular, my ineptitude for anything to do with aviation. It often ended with an appeal to the heavens. “Ye Gods, vhy do you punish me viz zis idiot?”
I eventually became hardened to this form of abuse, so long as it didn’t include the word fired.
Anyhow, once we had agreed that I had no passport or visa to enter Mozambique, he instructed me that, when interrogated by the Passporto Gestapo, I was to employ my stunned ox expression and say nothing. He would handle matters from there on.
On the ground, a moustachioed man with an important hat predicted that I would spend much of my future in a Portuguese jail.
I did the bovine thing, and Piet said he would enjoy a quiet chat with the moustache in a back room. After a short while they emerged, all smiles. The Gestapo stamped a visa into my pilot licence, and we went on our way.
We did many subsequent trips to Mozambique, where we sold a surprisingly large number of aeroplanes. I soon learned that all types of Gestapo invariably smiled when they saw Mr Piet.
Our return to Wonderboom from such trips was always interesting, and often bloody dangerous.
The problem was that most aircraft didn’t have radios. So we would return to find the circuit alive with Cubs, Tigers and Aeroncas, doing their beautifully square training circuits. If Schalk Barnard, the Air Traffic Controller, happened to be on duty in his wooden box on bricks, he would use his Aldis lamp to give signals to the aircraft that didn’t have radios—which was most of them. If Schalk was not on duty, all traffic was left to sort itself out with Mk 1 eyeballs.
Piet’s circuit-joining procedure was somewhat unusual. When we were about five minutes out, he would switch on the Narco Omnigator and allow time for the valves to warm up. He would then dial in 118.1, Wonderboom’s frequency, pull out the whistle-stop, which was used to match the received signal to the transmitted one. There was a coffee-grinder handle on the right-hand side, and you wound this until the thing made a piercing shriek—which confirmed that it was ready to go. All you had to do was get rid of the noise by pushing in the whistle-stop and go ahead with your message.
Piet regarded Wonderboom as his own private airfield. He had actually started it some years previously. The fact that it now belonged to the Municipality did nothing to alter Piet’s impression that all other traffic was there at his pleasure, or displeasure.
He would announce our presence by saying, “Vonderboom, Vonderboom, zis is Charlie Visky Golf. Ve are coming in on 24.”
He gave no information about where we were coming from, or what plan he had for getting on to finals for 24.
The broadcast was delivered in the manner of a benevolent dictator. It was issued as a friendly warning to the controller to get his house in order in preparation for our arrival. Unfortunately, the call was always made at such short notice that the wretched Schalk could only stare in horror as we sailed through his circuit, often against the prevailing traffic. Even if he had time to reply, it would have been useless because Piet invariably switched the radio off as soon as he had delivered his bombshell.
Then he would turn to me and say, “Zim, votch out for cowboys. Zese bastards are going to cause an accident pretty soon.”
His choice of runway was seldom dictated by the wind, or the position of the sun—it was generally the one straight ahead, depending on where we had come from.
Piet’s landings were unbelievably bad. His technique was to throw the whole lot at the ground with such force and determination that a bounce was out of the question.
We came back from Lourenço Marques one afternoon. Piet had spent most of the previous night at the fábrica da cerveja—the MacMahon beer factory—getting himself outside a substantial quantity of their excellent product, and several plates of prawns. He now had the air of one whose central nervous system had been subjected to a Chernobyl-like event.
I was generally only permitted to fly straight and level, but on this occasion he inclined his throbbing head to indicate that I should reduce the noise level and commence the descent. I was further led to believe that it was my privilege to join the circuit and establish us on finals.
Even then he made no move to take command of the proceedings. It seemed that, unbelievably, he was going to give me a landing. “I’ll show the old bastard how to land an aircraft,” I thought. It went perfectly. I had everything rounded out and floating a few inches above the centreline. The nose was coming up smoothly for a greaser on the main wheels. Suddenly there was an explosion in my left ear and the stick was slammed hard forward. “Vot ze hell do you sink you are doing?” he bellowed as the aircraft smashed into the ground in true Piet style. “Are you trying to kill us all?”
As we taxied in he seemed pleased with the results of his quick thinking. “You must votch out for zat sort of sing,” he explained. I could cheerfully have stabbed him in the heart.
Piet claimed to hold the record for short landings—78 yards in an Aztec! When questioned about the circumstances, he would become evasive on the quality of the landing, but insisted that the distance was accurate.
I later learned that on this occasion, he had failed to deploy the undercarriage.
Jim's other passion is writing, which he studied for five years at Rhodes University, SA (BA), and Curtin University, Australia (MA). He has authored two international best-sellers: PPL, a standard text in Australia and SA, and Flight Tests, which has helped thousands pass their reviews worldwide. Jim has also written more than 1000 articles for flying magazines.
Jim loves Harleys, horses and cats.
All his flying books are available at www.jimdavis.co.za and at https://www.pilottrain.com.au
- Piet and the Passporto - October 12, 2026
- The Bug - June 29, 2026
- The Great Court Case - March 18, 2026
Excellent! Thanks
Oh that was fun. Thank you!
I had a crotchety old boss who fired me a few times. I got used to it. Good stuff!
I laughed all the way through this piece, even more than the others. Great job! Loved the story.