Chapter 9: Open Sushime

We all deal with bad news in different ways. The doctor simply released the tension in his knees and slid to the floor. Asim also lowered himself to the ground, but he then leaned forward and began to pray, extending his arms over his head and touching the floor with his forehead.

“Allahu’ Akh’bar.”

“Would you stop that!” hissed Caroline.

“Subhaanaka Allaahumma wabi hamdika wa tabaarakasmuka wa ta’aala jadduka wa laa ilaaha ghayruka.”

“I said STOP that,” said Caroline, and actually kicked him in the ribs! Not with her full weight behind it, but enough to get his attention. To his credit, Asim didn’t even seem angry as he looked up at us.

“I need to ask Allah for help,” he explained.

“Really? Allah? Whose religion made airlines put in reinforced cockpit doors in the first place, huh?” spat Caroline. “Here’s a hint: it’s not the ruddy Hindus! Why don’t you get out your suicide vest and blow up that door, rather than crawling around on the floor!”

Asim ignored her completely, focused on reciting his prayers. I was left dumbstruck. This was an entirely new side to Caroline. I guess fear brings out the worst in people, no matter how well hidden it is.

With a slight judder, the airplane banked ever so slightly to the left. I could tell by looking at the cloud deck via a window, through a slit in the curtains made by the purser, as she joined us via the aisle on the other side.

“Why is he doing this here? There’s a prayer area in the aft section,” she asked. Then she looked at the doctor, who was still sat on the floor, his hands over his face.

“Sir, are you okay?”

“Todos vamos a morir!” cried the doctor.

“We can’t get in,” I explained. “He’s not answering. We knocked, we even tried to kick the door down. The plane is now banking and descending.”

The purser resolutely shoved me aside and picked up the phone. She pressed 1 as well. After a few seconds she moved to face a panel just around the corner, in the narrow hallway in front of the cockpit door. I hadn’t noticed it before, but it was like a keypad, with two vertical rows of six buttons. There she pressed the hash key, which was below the zero. We could hear a chime coming from the cockpit. It stopped after three seconds.

“You see!” said Caroline, now almost inaudibly. She was actually shaking!

“There’s an emergency access code!” explained the purser.

“NOW WOULD BE A GOOD TIME FOR THAT,” I said, somewhat louder than I intended. At my feet, Asim sat up straight.

“Ha, that’s good news! Allahu Akhbar!”

The purser’s finger hovered over the buttons and paused.

“I’ve forgotten it...”

“WHAT?!” said three people. “QUE?!” said one.

“It’s in my notepad! Just ... gimme a sec!”

We all stood there as she produced a tote bag from a small compartment in the galley and leafed through a black booklet.

“One Nine Nine Three. Oh yeah, the year we were founded.”

“Very interesting, NOW HURRY UP!” hissed Caroline.

She pressed the key code followed by the hash key. Inside, the same chime was heard, only it didn’t stop. A green light flashed on the display above the numbers. I tried the door, but it wouldn’t open.

“Wrong code!”

“It has to be this!”

“TRY IT AGAIN,” said Caroline. But even as she spoke, she reached out to the panel herself and typed in 1-9-9-3-#. The sound didn’t stop and the light kept blinking. I nearly broke my hand as I tried to wrench open the door. There was no way in hell I’d get through without a blowtorch. And I don’t even know how to work one.

“Oh, wait! I think we have to wait thirty seconds!” said the purser. “It’s so they can barricade the door when they think one of us is entering the code under duress.”

The aircraft banked again, now levelling off. After a few seconds, during which I could feel my own heartbeat in the back of my throat, the blinking light turned steadily green. I tried the handle again and fell face first onto the cockpit floor. Caroline’s heels nearly perforated my hand as she unceremoniously stepped over me.

“Thank God for that. Everybody get in. Hey, you! WAKE UP!”

The cockpit was really a bit too small for five people, although one of us was out cold. I noticed with some relief the bucket had not been used.

“Get your medical supplies,” said Caroline to the purser. “And find something to keep that door open. Doctor!”

The doctor really didn’t need any encouragement. He leaned over the First Officer and gave him a nasty pinch.

“HUH!” said the man, as he opened his eyes.

“I go tell my cousin the news!” said Asim, and turned to leave. Caroline grabbed his black hair and yanked him back. Again, I credited the man for not bitchslapping her into the nineteenth century.

“You are not going anywhere, my friend. What are you going to do, tell the entire sodding aircraft we’re down to one pilot, who is sick? Your cousin knows nothing about our current predicament and that is exactly how it will stay. Understand? UNDERSTAND?”

“Your boss is touching me!” he said to me. He sounded like an angry toddler.

“That is currently your best case scenario,” I said, as I got up from the floor. “Madam, please let go of him. Your Highness, you cannot tell anybody what’s going on here. You’ll cause a panic. Do you understand?”

A voice came from a speaker somewhere. I suppose we all have a basic idea of what a cockpit looks like: two seats, lots and lots of buttons and a bunch of mysterious screens in the center console. And windows that are a lot smaller than you’d think.

“Qatar Zero Zero Two, contact Athens approach on 121 point 4.”

“Deal with that,” ordered Caroline, as she let go of Asim’s hair and looked at me.

“What, me?”

“Yes, you!”

“Shouldn’t he do that, now he’s awake?”

“HRRRRLUB!” said the pilot. The doctor deftly stepped out of the way as Neil bent over and vomited copiously on the floor between the seats. Or rather, behind the center console, which extended well past the back of the seats. Some control panels got splattered. If there had been any smell of daisies here before, which was doubtful, it would have been eradicated right now.

“Get him out of here,” said Caroline.

“Then who is going to fly the plane?” I asked, because I am a master at stating the obvious. I have a certificate and everything. Came first in my class. Obviously.

“You are, for now. Sit down.”

She pointed to the left hand seat.

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“SIT DOWN! At least you’ll be out of the way. Find a microphone and call for help.”

“Qatar Zero Zero Two, contact Athens approach on 121 point 4. Please respond.”

The plane moved again, just as I sat down.

“WHY IS IT DOING THAT?” asked Asim. “What did you touch?”

“I didn’t touch anything!”

“Grrrrr ... I ... set an approach ... kgggrrr...” explained Neil, whose front was now covered in vomit. It was reddish.

“Hello?” said a female voice in the doorway. Two stewardesses peered in. They were the ones serving the forward section of the lower decks. Their galley was somewhere around row fifty and they had worked their way forward on their rounds.

“Oh my God! What’s wrong with Neil? Neil!”

“You two: make sure the pantry curtains remain closed. The passengers can’t know about this,” ordered Caroline, who was slowly becoming her old self again.

“Why are you in that seat? SIR! GET AWAY FROM THAT SEAT! And who are you?!” barked one of the stewardesses.

“Find Sue. She’s getting us medical supplies.”

The purser showed up just then.

“I’m here! I’m here. This is what we have. Lydia, Catherine, it’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay but they can be here.”

She gave the doctor two plastic boxes, sealed in foil. He started to unwrap them.

“Do we have to do that here?” said Caroline. “Sue, take your girls away and brief them, discretely. And bring me something to clean up here. It’s all slippery.”

“Come with me,” said the purser to her colleagues. That made the cockpit area somewhat less crowded, but there were still five of us. Well, at least I had a seat.

“He doesn’t need to be here,” I said, pointing at Asim. He tried to make himself as small as possible and was clearly shaken up now that Allah turned out not to be actually at the controls.

“He does, for now. Can’t have him spreading the bad news to his cousin, or anyone else. Pilot? Pilot! How are you now?”

“Ung...”

“This approach you set, does it include a landing?”

“No. Didn’t have ... HUWAAAARGH...”

Fortunately Neil was now empty, at least above the navel.

“I wish he would stop doing that. Doctor, anything useful in that kit?”

“Sólo tranquilizantes y analgésicos.”

“I don’t think we want him sedated, do we? You know, some cocaine might do the trick.”

“I don’t think many people have the brass balls to smuggle coke on their person to Qatar,” I said. I was in the pilot’s seat but frankly I was afraid to turn around and face the controls. I saw quite enough of them from the corner of my eye.

“Qatar Zero Zero Two, Qatar Zero Zero Two, please contact Athens approach on 121 point 4. Please respond,” said the voice, now annoyed. It wasn’t perfect English to begin with, because traffic controllers are hard enough to find as it is. It’s not everyone who can visualize dozens of moving objects in 3D space. That’s why the job pays so well. Speaking intelligible English is more of an afterthought once you meet that first requirement.

In the movies air traffic control centres are manned by tough looking men in short-sleeved shirts with pocket protectors. In reality, all sorts of people have a go at the famously difficult admissions test, particularly students. Those who pass and get in find it very hard to give up the job, because it pays freakishly well. And so your friendly ATC operator may be a middle aged housewife who once dreamed of med school, a philosophy student who’s in his eighth year at university or indeed a Greek man who sounds like Demis Roussos chewing marbles. And it’s hardly Hi-Fi, these radio connections. The longer a wave has to carry, the smaller the bandwidth for decent sound.

The purser stepped back in. We just left the door open at this point. Come on in and have a go! Try a button, any button, three for a fiver! Big prizes! YOUR LIFE, actually.

“How is he now?”

Caroline answered:

“Not at all well. Ideally I’d put him on the pantry floor, keep him close. But that will alarm the passengers in the front section. If we take him to the crew rest area, he won’t be of much use and the entire plane will freak out.”

“There’s the pilot rest area,” said the purser.

“And where is that, dear?”

“There’s a small ladder behind this panel. If you climb up, you’re in a small space with two beds. You can’t really stand up there, but it’s something.”

She opened a panel, which revealed an area not much bigger than the inside of a chimney. There was indeed a ladder, of about seven rungs. I’d have a job crawling up there, but then I’m fairly broad-shouldered.

“If I could just have a lie down, that’d be great ... Wash up...” said Neil.

“Sir, do we need to talk to his Greek fellow? Before he sends in the F-16s?” I asked.

“Who?” asked Neil. That’s when I realised he wasn’t lucid. He was covered in vomit, beads of sweat pearled on his forehead and he had a weird grin on his face.

“Athens approach wants to talk to you!”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

He shivered. It was anything but cold here.

“Well, he’s not much use like this for the moment,” said Caroline. “And next time he may not manage to miss the controls. Ah, some towels. Finally.”

Say what you will about Caroline, but she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty. She was handed some surprisingly fluffy towels, no doubt intended for First Class, and cleaned up the mess on the cockpit floor. She was also given a new packet of wet wipes, but she gave that to the prince.

“Here, make yourself useful if you have a chance. Carstairs, get on the radio and declare an emergency.”

I let out a sigh that was long overdue. This was going to happen. Of course it was! When do I ever get a break from misery?

“Yes, Miss Keller.”

I managed to find the microphone, which was a sturdy piece of plastic with a single button.

“Hello? This is Qatar Airways flight zero zero two. Is anybody listening, over?”

It was quiet for a while. The doctor and Caroline pulled Neil out of his chair. Now he was on the cockpit floor, on his back. Caroline was cleaning him up, although his shirt was still drenched. A man who spoke slightly better English said:

“Qatar Zero Zero Two, this is Athens Approach Director. Why did you not respond?”

“Hello, this is Qatar Zero Zero Two. We have an emergency on board. The Captain and the First Officer are both seriously ill, over.”

Again, it was quiet for a few seconds.

“Qatar Zero Zero Two, can you switch to frequency One Two Five, over?”

“No I can’t. I don’t know how to work the radio. Uhm, over.”

Behind me, the doctor had climbed up the ladder and was hoisting Neil up. Asim was animating his legs. The plane was still on a gradual descent and now we were entering the clouds.

“This is a general message for all aircraft on frequency 121.4. This channel is now in use for an emergency. Contact Athens Approach on 130.025 only.”

I waited for a few seconds and pressed the button.

“This is Qatar 002. We’re on a pre-programmed approach and we’ve just gone through the clouds. There is no pilot. Please advise?”

“Qatar 002, who is this?”

“I’m a passenger. I need help to set this thing to auto pilot or something. We have a doctor who is assisting the First Officer, but it’s going to take a while.”

“Qatar 002, where is your Captain, over?”

“The Captain is ... he died. Our doctor confirmed it. About fifteen minutes ago.”

“Say again, Qatar 002. Over.”

“The Captain died. He was ill and then he died. And the First Officer isn’t doing very well, either. They both had sushi yesterday, we think that may be it.”

Well, I did at any rate. The acrid smell of vomit stung my nose. The view from the cockpit was basically zero, because we were flying through clouds. Behind me, two men were cursing. All in all, it was a fairly typical day for me.

“Qatar 002, was there a violent incident on board? Over.”

“No, there wasn’t. Over.”

“Didn’t you just say that the Captain was ill? Over.”

“Yes. But I wasn’t sure if I should be saying all this over the radio, over.”

“Sir, do you have any flight experience?”

“I have about five hours in a small one-engined airplane, no license. So I’d say no. Over.”

“Qatar 002, please wait.”

“Yeah, about that ... How do I stop this thing from descending, over?”

“Qatar 002, you’re still at 18,000 feet and descending very gradually. There’s still some time. Please stand by.”

“My friend, can I help?” asked Asim, who came up behind me. The doctor and his patient were now in the pilot rest area.

“Do you know how to fly an airplane?”

“No.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“Then I will clean up, okay? You sit there and talk to them. They will help, insh’allah.”

He opened the packet of wipes and began to scrub the carpet behind the seats. I had a feeling he hadn’t done a whole lot of cleaning in his life, but at least he was trying to be useful.

The cockpit door was now closed, but when there was a knock I had no qualms about letting anyone in. If these were hijackers, at least we’d have a chance they’d have taken flight lessons. Those 9/11 guys had, although landing hadn’t been a priority in their curriculum.

“Asim, would you open the door?”

“Sure, my friend.”

Caroline stepped in.

“Any news?”

“I’m speaking to air traffic control. They’ve got me on hold. You?”

“We’ve told all the stewardesses and did a turbulence announcement. Sue is speaking to the Qatar control room from the crew rest area. They’re trying to find out if there’s a pilot among the passengers.”

“Why don’t you just make an announcement?”

“Because that will turn this flight into pandemonium. We have several hours of fuel left, so there’s still time to think. Have you had a look at the controls yet?”

“Caroline, there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to fly this thing.”

“Why not? I’ve seen you doing it in computer games.”

“Yes and as soon as I find an XBOX controller we’re laughing. But I suspect it takes a bit more than pressing the left trigger button to slow down.”

“Look dear, this is a computer. A computer with wings. And what is your forte? Computers. Now I suggest you just take your time and work out what it all does. I’m sure none of them is a hidden self-destruct button.”

“Just find me a pilot!”

A very familiar sound rang through the cockpit, one that I associate with Kate. It took me a while to realise this was the default FaceTime sound! Caroline produced her iPhone from somewhere and pressed a button.

“Yes, hello?”

“Miss Keller, this is Qatar Airways control. What is your situation?”

“Well, see for yourself. This is Carstairs, he’s doing the honours right now. Carstairs, it’s for you.”

She gave me her phone. I was looking at the face of a woman dressed in a pilot’s uniform. She seemed to be in a control room of sorts. Worried looking men in white shirts milled about behind her. She looked familiar, somehow.

“Hello. Mr. Carstairs?”

“Do I know you?”

“Yes. It’s Leonie. We met a few years ago, on your flight to New York. When you served lunch to that boy.”

“Ah yes, of course! You’re a Captain!”

“Yes, I am. Call me Leonie. I’m in the Qatar Airways operations room. What’s the situation?”

“Uhm ... Athens Air Traffic control has me on hold. They’ve cleared their frequency for an emergency. Last I heard from the First Officer when he was still lucid was that he had programmed an approach to Athens, but that didn’t include a landing. And we’ve just gone below the clouds. If I’m reading this correctly, we’re at... 16,250 feet.”

“Can I have a look at the displays?”

I switched to the camera on the back of the phone, so I could see what see was seeing. I was very glad to see this tiny Belgian woman, who had risen to the rank of Captain at a Middle Eastern airline. We were speaking English now, but we could both default to Dutch if need be. If I have a choice, I prefer to handle life or death situations in my native language. But then, until now I never actually had a choice.

“Left. Left a bit. Keep it still,” she ordered, as I moved the phone towards a vertical display in the middle of what I’m going to call the dashboard.

“You’re in vertical descent,” she said.

“I know. I’d like to stop that.”

“Right. See those three orange dashes and the dots? Just over the white button with the blue triangle?”

“Yes.”

“That means you’re flying in ‘managed’ mode. The autopilot is controlling your speed and heading. That’s good for now. The other display has numbers on it. You’re in ‘controlled’ mode. The plane is slowly descending to 15,000 feet. But then it will level off.”

“It says ‘push to level off’. Can I do that now? It would feel REALLY good to be flying level.”

“If you like. We’re communicating with Athens ATC. They’re keeping all planes away from you. Thing is, you’re about to leave Greek airspace. Then we’ll have to deal with the Turks.”

“And that’s not good?”

“That’s never good. Apart from that, you’ve overshot your approach for Athens by at least two hundred miles by now. So I’m going to have to turn you around.”

“Right. Can I make a suggestion?”

“Not really.”

“I’m going to do it anyway. Why risk landing in Athens? We’re supposed to have enough fuel to reach Doha, and then some. That would give me a few hours to learn how this thing works. We’ll be flying over fairly uninhabited areas. And then I could try landing at Doha. Unless we find a pilot, that is. Or ours gets back on his feet. Does that make sense? I could even slow down, so we’ll burn less fuel.”

“What?! I need to ... Let me talk to the guys here.”

Caroline tapped me on the shoulder.

“I see you’ve got this, Carstairs. I’ll see if I can be of use somewhere else. Doctor? Cómo está?”

I couldn’t see the Doctor from my seat, but from somewhere above me I heard:

“Está inconsciente!”

“Oh. Bugger. Perhaps I can mix something to wake him up with what’s on board,” she mumbled, and left the cockpit.

“Why is your boss dressed as a stewardess?” asked Asim, back on his knees to clean up the rest of the mess.

“Because that way she can move about the airplane without arousing suspicion.”

“She is a remarkable woman.”

“She is indeed. And she’s not normally physically violent.”

He shrugged.

“I understand. We are all afraid.”

“Carstairs? You still there?” asked Leonie.

“Yes, I’m not going anywhere. Well, forward. But not relative to the plane.”

“We have decided to set you on a course for Doha, at least for now. Here’s what I need you to do.”

Let’s skip ahead to about an hour later, when my heartbeat had returned below 200 bpm. Because although I’m leaving that out, you can bet I was scared. Being Carstairs, or at least a slightly harried version of him, actually helped me. I was now speaking to Leonie via an iPad, because those have a much bigger battery. It was being held up by Asim, now in the co-pilot’s seat, so I had my hands free. He barely spoke a word, well aware of our predicament. The link was spotty, at times forcing FaceTime to default to audio only, or cut out.

Overhead we could hear the doctor speaking to someone at MedAire, as the purser had patched through a link via the handset near the pilot bunk. MedAire spoke Spanish with him and was very much aware of what was and wasn’t available on board. Caroline, who spent some of her time in the back of the cockpit, could hear what was going on and gave us a summary.

“Have you got a moment, Carstairs?”

“Yes, madam. They’re having a meeting in Qatar. We’re waiting for them to call us back.”

“The pilot is drifting in and out of consciousness. They’re searching the kitchen of that sushi restaurant as we speak and two people who ate there last night are also ill. Why the pilot died is unclear. It may be an underlying condition, exacerbated by food poisoning.”

“I thought these guys all got thorough medicals,” I grumbled. The novelty of seeing Caroline dressed as a stewardess had worn off rather quickly.

“Carstairs, professional athletes in their twenties have been known to drop dead from undiscovered heart defects. Besides, there is nothing we can do about it now. At least there is still a chance the co-pilot will recover in time. How are you getting on here?”

“Well, could be worse. I’ve been taught how to navigate this thing.”

“Excellent! I knew you could do it! You made some flights with Wayne, after all!”

“Yeah, not exactly the same. All I’m doing is entering waypoints, which are worked out by that Belgian lady on the ground. The autopilot is doing the actual flying. I’m not touching anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Basically, I keep telling the autopilot where we need to go next. Coordinates, altitude. The autopilot handles the rest. That’s not flying, that’s data entry.”

“Surely you merely need to set it for Doha?”

“No. We can’t fly there in a straight line. There are fixed routes for airlines and we’re sticking to them. You know, to avoid war zones and such. Oh and Turkey didn’t want us in their airspace, so we’re taking an alternative route over Egypt. Also, we’re trying to conserve fuel so the pilot has a chance to recover. That means trying to find calm weather and favourable winds. I don’t know about any of that, though. But the connection is awful. It keeps dropping out.”

Caroline considered this for a moment.

“That might be because First Class and Business Class have complimentary Wi-Fi and are trying to watch Netflix. I’ll see if we can’t turn that off.”

“Wait! Don’t just turn it off! I’m on that same connection! If we lose it, we’re screwed.”

“Don’t worry, Carstairs. I won’t just start pulling plugs. Be right back. The purser is running a meal service right now. The passengers have no idea what’s going on and we’d like to keep it that way. While I’m out there: can I get you anything?”

“Nothing for me, thank you madam. Your Royal Highness?”

“Uhm ... Some water? Or juice?” asked a very timid prince. Caroline gave him a friendly smile, clearly intended to make up for the insults and the physical assaults, and left us.

And there I was, looking out over the Mediterranean Sea. In a straight line we’d have flown over Syria or Iraq. Although it’s not entirely uncommon for commercial flights to fly over war zones, the recent incident with Malaysia Airlines flight MH17, which was shot over Ukraine by incompetent Russian separatists armed by the Kremlin with surface to air missiles, killing 298 souls, had basically put a stop to that. We’d be flying over the Mediterranean sea soon, then hang a left past Egypt and then go across Saudi-Arabia, keeping a wide berth of Iraq. That was now ISIS country, mostly.

We were too high up to see any ships, never mind any buildings. There were some scattered clouds below us and the curvature of the Earth was visible, but if I’m honest it’s a view I can do without. I’m sure it’s better at night or at lower altitudes, but I’d seen screen savers with a more interesting view. (Are you old enough the remember the one with the guy stranded on a small island? Johnny Castaway. Bloody brilliant and it came on a single floppy disk.)

Leonie called back on FaceTime. It took thirty seconds for the connection to be made.

“There you are. How are things?”

“We’re still horizontal and going forward. Which is good news, I suppose.”

“Autopilot on?”

“Yes. Both of ‘em.”

Asim hastily turned the iPad, so she could see the display.

“Thanks. And the co-pilot?”

“He’s out right now. It changes, but when he’s awake he’s not exactly lucid.”

“Okay. Fuel?”

“Hang on ... One ten.”

It actually said 110.072 kg on the screen, in a font I hadn’t seen since I last used a dot matrix printer in 1988. The most important panels were front and center on the dashboard, if that is indeed the name for it in aviation terms. The FCU panel and the EFIS panel, which looked like car stereos from the early nineties, with small displays and lots of sturdy buttons, were showing me our speed, heading and altitude. There were iPad-like screens as well, just above my knees, but they weren’t as important right now. At least not according to Leonie. My judgment counted for very little.

“That’s good. That’s great.”

“You’re leaving Athens FIR. Has Cairo ACC checked in yet?”

FIR means Flight Information Region. ACC means Area Control Center. Air traffic control isn’t handled by airports, as you probably know, but by regional control centers. If you leave one, you say goodbye and then report in at the next one. This is called a hand-off. You’ll be told the frequency for the new area, but obviously there are charts to look it up. Not that I would know where to find them.

“Not yet. Athens will let me know when it’s time.”

“Good. You’re doing good.”

“There’s no need to keep telling me that,” I snapped.

“Got it. Sorry. Zeg, kunnen wij Nederlands spreken?”

She just asked me if we could speak Dutch. Clearly she didn’t want anyone else to hear this.

“Ja, waarom?” (Yes, why?)

“Verstoade gij nen Vlaoms accent?” (Can you understand the Flemish accent?)

“Ja.”

She and I had spoken Dutch before, when I was invited to the cockpit on my flight to New York. Belgium has two official languages: the Walloons speak French and the Flemish speak Dutch. There’s a clear geographical separation between both populations, although Brussels is a French enclave within Flanders. Both sides hate each other with a vengeance. The Flemish are exposed to Standard Dutch, because they watch our TV channels. They’ll tone down their own accents when they deal with us, but they can also turn it up to the extent where most Dutch won’t be able to follow. She was doing that right now. In fact, she was probably stretching way past her own accent, so that the tone, speed and word sequence would confuse anyone listening in. If you speak English, you can get a pretty good idea of what’s going on in a conversation in standard Dutch, but Flemish is another matter.

“En kunde gij daddook?” (And do you speak it?)

“Joa. Zo nen bietje.” (A little.)

“Kunnen wij dan zo ‘n gespreksken hebben waarmee dattem geen anderen meelustert?” (Can we have a discrete conversation?)

“Ja.”

“Dienen gast wat of dat u filmt, da’s nen ... Dies nie van ons, he?” (The man filming you, he’s not one of us, right?)

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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