Quite a few moons ago, we were flying in one of those Voodoo countries. Some kind of Voodoo mixed with a bit of Christianity, just to be covered…
The weather was challenging, as per usual, this close to the equator. We were basically always in the clack. Especially at the last waypoint for the only working ILS in the country. That point was thunderstorm central. At the Out-stations, the trick was: find a hole and go for it. It was a new thing for me to be flying for a little airline and greeting the passengers in a foreign tongue.
After conducting the safety briefing, we were ready for taxi. Making sure nobody else was in the circuit before entering the runway, we backtracked the entire length of the surprisingly well-maintained strip. The grooves of the cement made the familiar dung dung, dung dung, dung dung - sounds as we slowly made our way to the end. Captain was taxiing and I was quickly finishing the last bit of paperwork, whilst looking up every so often. It is not good practice to do paperwork while in a critical phase of flight. The schedule, with its usual 6-8 sectors per day, was too tight. Captain was one of those old hands that always wanted to make it work. In fact, he was a slave to the schedule, no matter how tired we were. Very task-orientated, no matter the circumstances or fatigue levels. It could be quite infuriating at best, downright dangerous at worst. Fatigue causes incredibly bad decision making. Coupled with tropical heat and humidity, work was tough.
Opening the storm window, I reached out my hand to cool down a bit. It is amazing, how cool 38 Degree Celsius air can be, when inside the cockpit the needle of the round thermometer dial is bent permanently around the maximum mark of 50 degrees.
“12 or 13?” I asked by way of confirmation, as the pax I had counted and the pax accounted for on the passenger list, weren't agreeing.
“13.” Came the immediate reply. Captain rarely missed a trick.
I turned around and counted the heads again. Definitely 13 heads sticking up over the seats. Some of the people in these parts were huge!
“Okay, then we have one too many on board.”
“Iiiis ok.”
“Ah, no, I mean we have a stowaway on board. An extra passenger.”
“Iiiis ok.”
“Sorry, captain, but perhaps we should turn back to the apron, to see who the extra is. The manifest says 12.”
“Ah no…ah, … iiis ok… ah,…schedule…” he said, pointing to his watch.
We were under immense pressure to make the 8 legs before running out of FDP. (Flight and Duty Period, which is a legal framework telling pilots and operators the compulsory limits of working hours for flight crew.)
Rolling my eyes, secretly behind my sunnies, I realised that trying to get the captain to do “the right thing” was futile. So, we carried on through marginal weather to the next strip.
On the way, we were discussing how this could have happened.
I think we finally agreed in Spanglish, that just after shut-down on the destination apron, I would jump out of the emergency exit on my side and stand next to the passenger exit and count again.
If 13 people got off the aircraft, I would stop everyone right then and there, on the tarmac. Only people I called up from the passenger list, would be allowed to proceed to the little terminal hut.
What I didn't tell my captain, him possibly being from a Voodoo country himself: Every time we discussed the 13th passenger, my Turn & Slip Indicator fogged up and showed the face of a ghost. The ghost's face was clear as day, and showed up again and again, whenever the mystery pax was mentioned. All other instruments stayed clear and clean. Only the Turn & Slip was eerily affected, its foggy white appearance haunting me. Two hollow eyes and a terrified, gaping mouth stared mockingly. Then it was gone and then it appeared again.
The flight seemed endless. Now I wanted to know for sure, what was going on. With his usual super flat approach, somehow just managing to avoid the coconut laden palm trees, Captain planted the trusted aerie onto the cement strip. His flare was fainter than the ghost face, he truly was a master of the three-pointer.
This had prompted him to ask in the past: “Why you scaaaary?”
Anyway, Captain shut the engines down and I immediately made my way out of the emergency exit, the props still turning slightly. In hindsight, I should be grateful that I didn't hurt myself. As I jogged around the aircraft and the puddles, the ground crew was already unlatching the main door.
I stood next to the steps, counting…
My goodness, these people could move slowly. I don't blame them. In this hot climate that was the only way to move, if you didn't want to risk a cardiac arrest, I'm sure.
Slowly, slowly, then finally: 10, 11, 12.
“Twelve!”
That was it. I jumped up the steps and ran down the aisle. Nothing. No-one. Nada. Except for Captain, the plane was empty. I ran back out and counted the pax shuffling ever so slowly to the terminal. Passenger 13 had vanished.
I had counted and focused on these pax so often, subtly scrutinising them repeatedly, that I knew immediately which one was the ghost.
He was quite a massive, relatively unfit man with ebony dark skin. A very likeable chap. Seemingly 35 years old, he appeared with a high forehead and a shadowy, short beard. His heavy, thumb-thick gold chain around his generous neck, was hanging outside of his washed-out dark blue T-Shirt. He was fat and happy, with an open demeanour, with a friendly vibe about him. He was wearing ill-fitting jeans that regularly showed his colourful boxers, paired with dark brown, worn-in leather slip-ons. I can say regularly, as this was not the last time we were going to see him.
“Fantasma?” Captain asked as he stared out the window counting the receding pax.
