Back in the late 1950s, before jet aircraft were in service, I worked for Pan American Airways, which flew twice a week from Joburg to New York via Leopoldville and the West African cities of Accra, Monrovia, Dakar and, finally, Lisbon in Portugal, using propeller-driven Douglas DC-6B aircraft.
"Bit of a hopscotch," said my sister when she heard I was travelling on my 10% staff fare to Lisbon, then hitching a freebie on a sister airline, after which I would be travelling by train to an Austrian village where I was booked into a ski school.
Everything fell apart in Accra, where I was told the flight was full and there was a waiting list. I promptly burst into tears. The sympathetic station manager had a chat with the cabin crew and, bless them, they allowed me aboard provided I sat on the toilet's emergency-buckled seat for takeoffs and landings. I hopped aboard and strapped in. Then the long hours of weary footslogging began.
To keep out of the crew's way, I helped with handing out blankets and glasses of water. In this way, apart from one "cheat" when we all sat on the galley floor with feet braced against the opposite cupboards for a landing, I literally walked as long as it took to fly from Accra to Dakar, chatting to passengers along the way.
An African-American family with interesting stories to tell was returning from a visit to Monrovia to research slave ancestors. Their somewhat confused elderly mother started undressing, thinking she was getting ready for bed, and I alerted her son to the problem.
A seaman returning to his ship had ear pain due to changes in altitude, so I was able to help him with some chewing gum.
I chatted for a while with a frightened little girl on her first flight alone ... and so my long walk continued.
When I finally reached Paris, I thankfully sat down and spent most of my few remaining francs on a meal at the station while waiting for my train, then dragged my aching legs to the platform for Innsbruck.
Here I hit a roadblock in the form of an aggressive French porter, who tried to wrest my bag from my firm clutch. I resisted as I only had roughly the equivalent of 15 South African cents left in tip money, but he was stronger and triumphantly managed to get his paws on it. I gave up.
After he had hoisted my bag on board, I gave him all I had left in French cash. He stood there, looking at his open hand, mouth agape, while I whisked myself out of earshot. As the train pulled out, my final view was of the porter goggling unbelievingly at the pitiful sum in his open hand. I smiled, despite my aching legs.
Inevitably, I had a minor accident on the slopes on my last day skiing and headed home, limping, with a heavily bandaged, bended knee. Bless the Pan Am crew again — they hustled me into first class and sat me sideways on a full double seat so I could rest my aching leg, and I flew home in style, thankfully not having to trudge once more for all those weary hours (and kilometres) across West Africa.
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