The Mountain Comes to Mohammed
The Spocula, Jimmy Lynch and I are tired as shit. We’ve just completed another bag-drag, delivering hundreds of thousands of pounds of leftover luggage to Islamabad. After eight hours of flying, and three hours on the ground waiting for the
The Saudi’s, always the perfect hosts, want the Hajji’s leftover luggage out of Jeddah. “Just take it anywhere” the Saudia Ops man orders, “Take it to Islamabad!” O.K.
This leftover luggage is actually mostly personal effects, bundled up into prayer rugs or cheap straw bags, and tied up with twine. When the Hajji’s are herded through the Hajj terminal and onto airplanes for their return to Allah-Knows-Where, their luggage either makes it onto the plane, or doesn’t,
A mountain of these leftovers has been growing out on the tarmac, adjacent to the Hajj terminal, as the waves of faithful finish their pilgrimage, and return home.
The only cargo we now have on board is Royal Dalton China, ordered by one of the Saudi Royals, some Saudi Prince.
Now, taxiing to the gate area, it becomes apparent that we have some kind of “Royal Priority.” Someone must have tipped off the tower and ground controllers as to our cargo and its destination. Suddenly all traffic at
We are instructed by ground to proceed to Hajj Terminal, Gate A-1. Approaching the ramp area we are overwhelmed by the looming Everest of bags, rugs and suitcases. Rising from the ground, up higher than the roof of the terminal building, a vast pyramid of personal flotsam now occupies an area the size of a soccer field, on the concrete apron.
Another 747 had just pushed back from the gate we were to occupy. It was just starting to move forward to taxi towards the active runway, as we entered the ramp and turned towards our now vacant gate.
The Saudi ground controller orders the other aircraft to give way to us, that we have priority, because of one fucking box of dishes, for one fucking Saudi Prince, who eats with his fucking fingers. We all realize that there is not enough room for us to taxi past the other aircraft. Spocula says “Tell that ground guy to allow the other plane out, that we’ll wait for him. We can’t fit through that space.”
“Jeddah ground,” I say, “Saudia 806 requests you allow for Saudia 800 to continue its taxi-out first, so that we may,
Bubba’s voice, obviously the captain on Saudia 800, says, “Thanks Keshy.”
The ground control, insisting that we “have royal priority,” orders Bubba’s plane to make a right 360 degree turn to get out of our way, and come up behind us.
A loaded B-747 can weigh up to 830,000 pounds. The amount of power needed to get it rolling straight ahead is pretty impressive. The power needed to ‘unstick’ the same airplane, allowing it to make a tight 360 degree turn, is much greater. Not wanting to damage any ground equipment or vehicles, Bubba tries again:
“Saudia Ground Control, Saudia 800 request taxi straight ahead to runway 36L. We will be out of the way of Saudia 806 in a minute.”
“NO! Saudia 800, immediately make a right 360 degree turn. Allow Saudia 806 to enter gate!” The manager of the ground control staff is now screaming on the radio. He will show us infidels who is in charge of this airport… indeed in charge of this Kingdom!
“Rabbi, do you know how much thrust these Pratt JT9D’s deliver?” Spock asks me.
Of course Spocula knows that we all know the answer to that one, he’s just starting the verbal drum-roll for what we all know is about to happen.
Playing along, I respond, “Well, Captain, I believe each of these four engines is capable of delivering about 45,000 pounds of thrust, about 90,000 horsepower, …a grand total of 180,000 pounds of thrust, or 360,000 horsepower.”
“That’s correct!” agrees Jimmy Lynch, now pushing his face between ours against the windscreen, preparing to see the show.
We all watch as Bubba sets his parking brake on Aircraft 800. We listen as he powers up to near take-off thrust. Our plane is shaking and throbbing in syncopation with the now deafening blast. We all smile, as Bubba releases his brakes. Saudia 800 makes a tight, sweeping, right 360’. As it does, 180,000 pounds of thrust blast into the Himalayan pile of luggage on the ramp. We blink, the mountain of luggage is gone and the apron is spotless.
“Now you see it, now you don’t,” drawls Bubba over ground frequency.
For miles around, hanging from buildings, airplanes, roofs and trucks, bits and pieces of laundry, straw and rugs litter the landscape.
Not one word is heard on the radio from Jeddah ground or Tower control as we taxi into our gate.
“The Mountain has come to Mohammed” announces Spock, as we climb out of the cockpit.
More Ahmed Shithedian
We’ve been months trapped in Jeddah on contract. I’m sitting in the dining room with Herr-Lippi and a flight attendant, and in walks Ahmed, in uniform. We all know that he’s connived a few days home (sucking up to the schedulers everyday), and that he is waiting for the hotel bus to take him to the airport.
Unable to resist rubbing my nose in it, he plunks down at our table, and says, “Steve, I will be home for a few days. Can I do anything for you, should I call on your wife, and tell her ‘hello’ for you?”
No Ahmed, thanks, that won’t be necessary.”
“Oh,” louder now, “so you don’t want me in your home when you’re not there.”
Leaning close, I hold his forearm now, look him in the eye, and say, “No, Ahmed, I don’t want you in my home even when I am there!”
I see the steam exploding from Ahmed’s ears as he jumps up from the table. Watching Ahmed storm from the room, Herr-Lippi shits himself. I grin. The flight attendant seated at our table, not attuned to cockpit politics, is non-plussed.
The tale of this confrontation spreads through our pilot pool with the speed of an Ebola virus in an Zaire infirmary. The story becomes a classic, and I am an instant hero. I’ve made a dangerous enemy, however, and I’m going to have to watch my back carefully, for some time.
Life in Jeddah… The Grand Illusion
My father’s big hand lets me go and I run towards the tank full of boats. Dad has taken my sister Helene and I to a carnival that popped open, mushroom like, in the Bronx.
I climb into a boat, hoping I will be alone at the wheel and in the boat. Before the ride starts, I notice that each boat seems attached to a spoke of metal emanating from a central hub in the vast tub.
The ride starts, gasps of surprised glee from all lucky children in command of our own vessels. I turn the wheel, and the boat doesn’t respond, only going around in circles strapped to the arm of steel. I spin the wheel, madly now, in the opposite direction. No change in course.
The other children in their boats are smiling, happy, playing with their steering wheels, not seeming to mind that the boat goes where it wants to go, without help from you.
I am upset that I have no control. At the age of five or six, I am already wondering if life isn’t like the boat?
“Hey Rabbi, wake up, it’s
