Around three decades ago, I needed to return from a gig in Durban for another in Jhb. There were cheaper options back then, but SAA was all I could get. I had to bite the bullet and pay the price with a smile on my face. The smile did not last.
The more affordable carriers at the time (Nationwide, Mango, Comair) routinely allowed musicians to keep instruments with them as hand baggage. Not SAA.
THAT WILL GO IN THE HOLD
said the stern, forbidding cabin attendant in her clipped accent.
I put up resistance: I will not bore with total blow by blow, but I did point out that airlines had a bad rap with hand luggage, that my instrument replacement cost was forty times the fare I had paid, and that SAA routinely repudiated all claims. They did, in those days, Because They Could.
Anneline Kruel was having none of it. We stood aside and allowed the 737 to fill up with passnengers while the two of us went at it. Neither of us shouted. Our roles oscillated from Mars to Venus and back again. It was a brittle undertaking. The captain tried to moderate. Kruel sent him packing. Winning was all that counted. Eventually she reached what she thought to be a stunningly humiliating compromise: she would allow me, and my guitarist colleague, Nkaka Kumalo, to supervise the actual loading of our instruments in the hold. I was treated to a schoolmarmish diatribe of how finely trained and competent ACSA loadmasters were.
We traipsed down the steps, around the aircraft toward the right (starboard?) rear cargo hatch. By this time Anneline Kruel (I am reluctant to share blame) had deleayed the flight more than 30 minutes. I only capitulated to her proposal because the entire cabin full of passengers was understandably angry and impatient. She seemed obvlivious to that.
A perspiring loadmaster was waiting. Kruel, after a withering look at the loadmaster, ordered him to be versigting met die goed. The loadmaster wrenched the hollow bodied guitar, in its fabric case, out of Nkaka’s hands, and tossed it onto a pile of lugage, out of his reach. Then, he carefully took my much heavier trombone case, and tossed it onto Nkaka’s guitar. Kruel, Nkaka and I all recoiled in visible shock. The loadmaser got a tongue lashing at 120 dB, one that would definitely not come from a reformed church pulpit. Nkaka and I demanded our instruments back. I explained, I had decided not to fly, for hear of losing my instrument.
“EEEEE. NUFF!” Kruel ordered the loadmaster to exit the load bay, and to close up for takeoff. I reached my hands out to loadmaster. “I can also shout” I said to Kruel.
I reached my hands out to the loadmaster.
GIVE!
His sympathies lay with musicians, not Kruella de Woes. He crawled up the baggage heap, retrieved and returned our instruments. We stomped back to the cabin, cabin attendant’s heels crackling like AK47 reports on the concrete apron.
The captain was waiting at the top of the stairs. I did not shout, but people in the aircraft could hear us. I informed him that I:
personally would not now, or ever, fly with SAA again.
believed that this single incident had started a decline that would see SAA go bust and disappear.
As I asked him to award my seat to someone else, Nkaka squeezed past me and took his seat. He knew me well, and waved a slightly grave farewell with his hand on his heart. I descended the steps with my trombone, started walking but was ordered (International Air Traffic Associton regulations) into a crew van, taken to the terminal building, and sought out the SAA desk. The Indian attendant was diplomatic, but explained he would not take a written complaint. Instead, he gave me the name and address of the official to write to. He did, however, process a refund, awarding me a note with a reference number. “It will take up to 3 months” he said. I pocketed the note, took an airport bus to Durban city, paid for a coach ticket, and sprinted for the coach.
The flight had arrived in Jhb by the time my coach left, but I was happy. The scenery floated by, the “most beautiful hills of all” looked sublime, the Drakensberg also cleat and spectacular. I dozed once we reached the plateau after Harrismith’s Platberg, the site of a short but tough running race.
It was nearly twenty years before I flew SAA again, and then I did only because the ticket was bought for me, and I could not get a refund.
This was not the first time I had manifested super powers. In the 1970, as a factory worker, I found myself supervising a night shift crew of casual workers. They came and went, but at that time the team was nearly all Australians. These were not the famed “Desert Rats” Aussies who gave Rommel a hard time at Tobruk. The odds of 9 (them) to one (me) had become the more favoured Aussie style, and they rounded on me.
Knowing the answer, they asked me if it was true that black South Africans had to pay R200 to get a passport. R200 was a lot of money back then. I said it was true. They wanted to know if I thought that was right. Of course it wasn’t and I said so. I thought that would be it, but they kept at me, possibly because I was the foreman. Aussies love to take the piss, but they are routinely unfond of authority. I understood and liked that, but I was getting bored of it all. I had exiled myself to England to get away from apartheid, but that is my story to tell elsewhere. Our tea break, in the small hours, had ended, but the guys were not keen to get back to work. Their blood was up, and they wanted more.
So, I was forced to take a position. I looked them all squarely eye to eye, and, looking over my shoulder, lowered my voice. With index finger to my lips, said “the walls have ears”.
They inched closer, encircling me. It reminded me of a batsman who once said to a West Indies slip cordon
If you gentlemen do not take a pace backwards, I am going to appeal against the light.
I told them I needed to own up. Bravely, and unflinchinly, I confessed:
In 1948, at age three, I single-handedly invented and implemented apartheid. It was the best I could do at the time. I am sorry.
It did the trick. Nearly. One worker, though, had not had enough.
Yer quite prouda yerself, arncher?
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Yes. Just like you all.
They waited, glancing at one another. Then I asked them if anyone in the group knew what their No 1 tennis women singles player at the time, Yvonne Goolagong, had to do to get a passport. Most seemed not to know, but a couple of workers shuffled their feet uncomfortably, and they remained silent. So, I told them.
She had to apply for her passport in good English, with good handwriting. If a South African black sports person, a victim of Bantu Education, needed a passport, which do you think would be easier: to apply in good handwriting and good (Australian?) English, or to pay R200?
We shuffled back to our work places.
So, there you have it. That’s how powerful I am. I single-handedly brought down SAA, something I am sad about, because they were world famous for their safety record, and even more famous for technical prowess. British Airways (and even the RAF) sometimes had their jetliners serviced and even maintained at then Jan Smuts airport. Coleman Andrews did not start it, I did.
But I wasn’t done yet. In the early 1990s, ashamed of what I had done at three years of age, corrected that by single-handedly kicking apartheid to touch in 1994.
Ok, ok, I lie. I did have help from my family.
About Nkaka’s guitar: it was indeed cracked, and needed repair. It’s funny how things go down. I asked him whether my seat was occupied on the return flight.
Yes. Chris Vernon used it for his baritone sax.
Chris was a northener, a Britsh ex-tank commander baritone sax player. His baritone sax case was nearly twice the size of my trombone case. Go figure.
I did do my civic duty, and complain in writing, using the address given me by the Durban Indian ground crew man. To this day, I have never received either an acknowledement, nor an apology. Was the letter ever received? A phone call confirmed it was.
SAA, I am still waiting. Acknowledge the letter in writing please, please. I don’t expect an apology. I have a long memory, and know you too well. Just acknowledge. You can be great again!