Dick Whittingtons to Vancouver-by Capt Elmo Jayawardena
Source:Island
It was time to start engines to fly from Seoul to Vancouver. The aeroplane had come from Singapore and more than 200 passengers were transiting to continue their journey to Canada. Another lot had boarded from Seoul filling the Megatop 747 to the brim, totalling around 400 passengers, all ready to cross the Pacific.
The airport ground staff rushed to the flight-deck and gave the bad news. When doing a random check of passenger passports looking for valid visas, they had hit the jackpot. Two young Indians were the offenders. Let alone visas, they had no passports.
“Captain, no passports, cannot go!” The ground man blurted.
“Must off load!” he rattled off in excitement. “No passports, no visas and cannot even speak English!”
This was a new one on me, passengers travelling without passports and flying across continents. I went down to have a look.
Two young turbaned Sikh men were standing near the entrance to the economy class, eyes downcast. It did not need much imagination to figure out what their story was all about. These were the modern day Dick Whittingtons, going to any place possible to pick gold from the streets as fabled. No other way to cross continents and get to their dreamland except by resorting to some desperate gimmick that could hoodwink the airlines to dump them at their imaginary heaven’s gate.
These were people who collected all their dreams and packed them together and took the giant leap to reach a distant land to seek refugee status. A familiar story. The Indian subcontinent was notorious for producing such all or nothing adventurers who pawned every possible belonging to make the journey to a first world country, hoping to bring some meaning to a mere existence that they called life.
When spoken to, the two offenders semi-rotated their heads to imply, “We don’t understand.” Of course, they were lying. There are no trouser-clad Indians who cannot understand at least a smidgen of English. They had worked out their game plan well. Get into the aeroplane, throw the passports away and get off in Vancouver and claim refugee status. Only one miscalculation – the random spot checking by the Airport ground staff.
An interpreter was sought, and a large enthusiastic group of Indians raised their hands. The Station Manager selected one. The selected expert took his job very seriously and did the questions and answers like a ping-pong ball between me and the two Sikhs.
Well! There was nothing to ask, nothing to say; an open and shut case so to speak and the only decision to make at this stage was to offload the two Dick Whittingtons with their bundled hopes and send them to whatever hell that awaited them in Seoul.
Simple solution – a norm in the airline world.
It was a hard call. I too have eaten salt and bread in my younger days and have known the feeling of despair that propagates such acts of desperation. These young men were boldly seeking a new life in a better world. They were not going to Canada to go snowboarding in the Whistler Mountain or to discuss how the ozone layer should be protected while camping at Stanley Park. Nor were they going to participate in discussions of Quebec’s separation from the mainland. The most they hoped for was to find some hovel somewhere to call home and if lucky drive a yellow cab and save money to send home to their families in some obscure village in India. That was the sum total of their travel plan.
“You should offload these two, that’s for sure,” I agreed with the Station Staff. “But, the safety of this aircraft and its passengers are my primary considerations,”
I added. “We have to be careful in these critical times. How could we know that these two have not planted a bomb somewhere in this aeroplane?
“Remember the Sikh bombers who blasted the Air India flight over the Atlantic?” I emphasised the seriousness of the situation.
The only solution was to get them off and then search the aeroplane thoroughly to be certain that we will not be blown up above the Pacific. That meant a time-consuming search, leading to a possible crew change due to flight time limitations. This was serious business as finding a new crew in Seoul was a difficult task.
“Why don’t we let the Canadian authorities handle the matter” I short-circuited the problem.
“The airline may be fined two thousand dollars but might also save thousands of dollars that a delay may incur. The aircraft will be safe, and the passengers will arrive safely without complaining, safeguarding the all-important on time record of the company.”
The Ground Manager was thinking hard. He saw the bigger picture; is it really worth contradicting and spilling the soup on his Seville Row suit? Searching aeroplanes and delaying flights and changing crew were certainly not on his menu.
“Good idea Captain, as long as you are willing to take them, I am happy to let them go,” saying that he joined me in the winning team, closed the case and stepped out of the plane.
We closed doors and I tapped the two Indian young men saying, “I know you speak English; I know what this is all about. Never mind, I will take you to Vancouver, now go back to your seats and enjoy the flight.”
They looked at me; no words, but their eyes said everything. It was relief and gratitude at their unbeatably humble best.
We started engines and flew out of Seoul.
Vancouver on scheduled arrival and the passengers disembarked, including the two Indian Whittingtons. I was walking past immigration when I saw my passport-less friends with some uniformed officers inside a room. They saw me, too. With smiles as wide as the Pacific Ocean they waved and waved, hands gesturing in a wonderful farewell, the best possible good-bye from inside the glass cage. I, too, stopped and waved back and silently wished them well, hoping that the Canadians would be kind to them.
The two Sikhs had come to Canada. They surely would get their refugee status and perhaps, drive a yellow cab and send money to their loved ones and maybe get them across to Canada too. That would be the complete fairy tale. The airline may have lost two thousand dollars but flew a safer sky, gained much more on delay costs and retained the all important “punctuality” reputation. It was my call and I am glad I made it.
The scales of justice are vital, but as professionals there are times we should temper them with mercy, or what are we worth as human beings?
