Confessions of a Hostie 3

by Danielle Hugh

  'I'm not going to wait another 20 minutes' she barks.

  Her husband is prepared to wait. Even the daughter is prepared to wait.

  'I can offer you the chicken now or we can take our chances with the first class cuisine. It may well be chicken also, but it is first class cuisine - it is usually very good. It is your choice' says Thomas.

  Mrs. Bacher reluctantly agrees to wait.

  From the back galley Thomas rings the front galley - for real this time. By the way, this aircraft does not have first class, although Thomas used the words first class repeatedly. It is actually business class up the front. I could see what Thomas was trying to achieve. He is very convincing.

  Business class do have some meals available, but only fish and one steak dish.

  Ten minutes later Thomas goes up the front of the plane. He tells the crew to keep the steak for themselves, grabbing one of the fish dishes only. He takes two business class plates, putting vegetables on each. He carries all to the back galley to place the fish in a warm oven and the two plates of vegetables on the bench. He puts two of our leftover meals, being chicken, beside the plates.

  He says to me 'You are quite creative Danielle, can you plate these up to look like a first class meal? I'll be back in a minute.'

  I know what Thomas is talking about.

  He goes to the Bacher family to explain that first class had one fish meal and two chicken meals available. He does not use the word: leftover.

  Although Thomas asks the whole family, it is Mrs. Bacher who bellows 'I don't eat fish. Give me the chicken.'

  The daughter talks next, taking the other chicken dish, the husband gratefully accepts the fish. Thomas is very happy with the ordering outcome.

  I did a fairly good job in glamorizing the chicken meal; the extra vegetables helped. It could have passed for a first class meal, especially to someone who has never traveled first class before. Thomas is impressed. When returning to the galley after delivering the meals, he relays that the father said 'thank you' but the mother and the daughter said nothing. He notes that Mrs. Bacher snatched the meal out of his hand.

  Just then, Thomas breaks into song - singing E.L.O's The Evil Woman.

  every now and then I wish I was wrong

  Apart from dealing with Mrs. Bacher, working on a cart with Thomas is fun. He has a devilish sense of humor. One of the passengers, in the aisle seat in our zone, has the worst comb-over hairstyle I have ever seen - although any comb-over looks pretty bad, I say. As passengers are seated and we are standing, we look straight down on people's heads, particularly those in aisle seats. We see some sights. Every time we approach 'the comb-over man' as we now call him, Thomas can barely hold in his laughter.

  His face reddens, his cheeks swell; Thomas is so close to losing self-control. It is not just the eleven strands of hair which are dragged across this man's scalp and plastered down which threaten Thomas to giggle uncontrollably, it is that the comb-over man has something stuck under his hair. It looks like a large crumb of food. What it is and how it got there is the subject of heated (but good-natured) debate.

  It is impossible not to stare. While collecting trays, Thomas leans over the man to remove the trays and rubbish from the passengers seated next to the comb-over man. Thomas is tall. He is in the prime position to look at the man's hair - and whatever it is stuck under the strands.

  Thomas turns to me with tears in his eyes.

  'Muffin or cake' he whispers. 'My money is on muffin. Now the question is: What flavor?'

  The passengers would have no idea what we would be talking about, even if they heard the comment.

  We collect the used trays from the Bachers. Not a morsel is left on their plates. Only Mr. Bacher says 'thank you.' It is what we expected.

  With the cabin cleared, the lights are turned down, allowing the passengers to relax and recline their seats if they wish.

  Within minutes of the lights being dimmed, there's a problem:

  I mentioned that the back row of seats, where Mrs. Bacher sits, has the benefit of being able to recline the seat without someone accidentally (or deliberately) bumping or kicking the seat. The same can't be said for those in front of that back row. A passenger, a nice girl, has come to the galley to complain that when she reclined her seat the passenger behind started kicking the seat.

  Her exact words are: Kicking AND screaming.

  We know which passenger it is.

  Now it is getting out of hand. It is bad enough that Mrs. Bacher is rude to the crew, but now she is upsetting passengers around her. That is unacceptable. Thomas and I have a point to prove, which will come undone if we read Mrs. Bacher the riot act, however we can't have her terrorizing other passengers. I come up with an alternative.

  I talk to Rob. We have several spare seats in business class. Sitting down the back are a family of four, with both parents top-level frequent flyers and their children young adults I suggest we move the valued clientele to business class, freeing a whole row of seats down the back. The girl who had her seat kicked is travelling with two friends. They can move to the newly-vacant row with a seat spare - and, more importantly, be away from Mrs. Bacher. The Bachers are in a row of four, with another girl, travelling on her own, occupying the other aisle seat.

  Regardless of my efforts to be nice to Mrs. Bacher, the girl in their row is first to be offered one of the now-vacated seats in the row in front. She gleefully accepts. I then tell the Bachers that they have extra room and if one of them would like to move forward, it is alright to do so. Mrs. Bacher sends her daughter, telling her to move along to the middle seat. This would be so when the seat was reclined it would not affect Mrs. Bacher. She might be evil and totally self-centered, yet she is smart.

  Many of the passengers attempt to sleep. Some, including Mrs. Bacher, continue to watch movies. Thankfully nothing goes wrong with her entertainment system. We could only imagine the pandemonium she would inflict on us if she was bored.

  Each time Thomas or I walk past the Bachers we ask if there is anything we can get them. Mrs. Bacher grunts and looks away. We gather that means 'no'. The daughter places her hand in the air, also not making eye contact. We gather that too means 'no'. Her husband has a few more glasses of wine. Who could blame him?

  On long flights like this, the toilets become an integral component of the flight. They are used continually, so we are regularly checking, cleaning, and restocking. One of the mid-cabin toilets has a problem - appearing to be blocked. It is not flushing properly. We report it to Rob, who in turn informs the pilots. We block the toilet off. This means locking the door, which we are able to do from the outside. We then place an out-of-service tag on the door.

  Thomas and I are in galley when a passenger tells us that there is water in the cabin. I race out to see a steady stream of water running from under the blocked-off toilet's door - making its way down the aisle - and already running past four or five rows of seats. Passengers begin standing up, including our comb-over man.

  'Call Rob' I instruct Thomas as I unlatch the toilet door.

  I discover the toilet overflowing and continuing to flush. The water, thank god, is clear. The toilet appears to be fully blocked and although earlier it would not flush, it now won't stop flushing. The excess water has nowhere to go but up and over the bowl - and then out into the cabin. As the plane flies with the nose slightly raised, this means all the water flows aft. There are no drains or plugs on aircraft toilet floors, so what overflows has to go somewhere.

  Rob arrives while Thomas communicates with the captain. This is serious stuff. It might only be water, but we are on an aircraft at nearly 40,000 feet. As I said: Water has to go somewhere. Under us are electrical systems and god knows what else. Rob grabs as many nearby blankets as he can. He throws them on the toilet floor in an effort to soak up the water. With passengers beginning to realize the potential severity of the problem, they too hand over blankets.

  'Is there a water shutoff valve?' I yell to Thomas, now co
mmunicating directly with the captain.

  The best answer he can get is: 'Yes there would be, but we don't know where. It is one of the manuals if you can look it up.'

  'Look it up in a manual?' I mutter while I am ankle deep in water, with more spilling over the bowl and onto the floor. 'Is he kidding me?'

  I expected the captain would know how to shut off the toilet water. I guess he can't know every functioning apparatus on the aircraft. I've seen the zillion switches on the flight deck, I am amazed he knows what they are all about, but that doesn't help us now.

  We haven't time to start reading manuals. I ask Rob to help me. We start ripping off panels from around the toilet, trying to locate a valve. We do; immediately shutting it off. The toilet keeps flushing. As the toilet is already full and there is water everywhere, it is difficult to ascertain if the water has stopped flowing.

  We keep searching. Rob reaches behind the toilet to find a small panel. He pulls the panel out. There is a switch of sorts behind it. He flicks it and the toilet stops flushing.

  Crisis averted.

  I don't know of a plane that has crashed because of water malfunctions, but I do know of several which have had to land at the nearest available airport. In one case, the damage to the aircraft was such that the plane was out of service for over a week. That's big.

  With our flight, we are in the middle of nowhere. Had the water problem not been solved, who knows what the outcome may have been. It is fixed, there is no time for what ifs and maybes, now we need to clean up the mess.

  It takes some time to mop up all the water; there are no mops or giant sponges onboard. We use at least a dozen blankets, ringing them into the toilet's hand basin the best we can. There is a lot of water.

  Over 20 passengers have wet carpet under their feet and now no blankets, although most are understanding, including the comb-over man. There are five spare seats in business class. Rob moves the worst affected passengers to those seats. The only other seats are right down the back - and we know who is sitting down there.

  Rob decides to get as many business class blankets, amenity kits, pajamas, and socks as we can muster on the aircraft, handing them out to the most affected passengers. We are a few blankets short. In an ironic twist, I go to get the spare blankets from the vacant seats around Mrs. Bacher. She won't let me take them. I politely explained that we needed to use some passengers' blankets to mop up a spillage and those poor passengers were now without blankets.

  'I don't care' was her reply.

  I walk away toward the galley to also start singing ELO's The Evil Woman.

  When no one is around, Thomas begins calling Mrs. Bacher a similar name beginning with F, understanding that Bacher is pronounced Bucker.

  Undeterred, I have tolerated this woman for most of the flight - I won't let her get under my skin now.

  I step up my niceness.

  We do another full meal service before landing in Joburg. This time we reverse the service. This mean we start at the back; Mrs. Bacher is served first. Thomas is very chatty, explaining in intricate professional detail the full menu options. He receives a one word reply - no eye contact, no acknowledgement.

  'There you go Mrs. Bacher. I hope you enjoy your meal. Bon appetit.'

  She snaps the tray from Thomas's hands.

  This woman has tested our tolerance - and more. To smile at someone we so obviously despise is no easy feat. I've already learned that Thomas is a great actor. Maybe I am too? Even so, our patience is worn thinner than one of the comb-over man's strands of hairs. We can't wait to arrive in Joburg.

  It has been an arduous flight. We often work hardest when we are the most tired. With that extra meal service, which we postpone to the last minute so as to let passengers get maximum sleep, we are pushed for time to clear the cabin and prepare it for landing. The passengers are also more active, using toilets and readying themselves for landing. There are passengers in the cabin everywhere. We have difficulty moving around the cabin. In addition, we need to clear the galleys as well as the cabin.

  There is one positive: We are kept so busy that Mrs. Bacher's rudeness plays second fiddle to other onboard issues, although every time I looked anywhere near her vicinity, I see her sour face. Her expression is still the same. They say it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. She must be exhausted.

  Our comb-over man has slept and is now awake. Thomas points out that the comb-over man left his seat several times to visited the toilets, which have mirrors, and yet he still has the same crumb of muffin or cake under his strands of his hair. We are dumbfounded he cannot see it, but then again, he obviously can't - because if he could see the top of his head he would realize how ridiculous the comb-over looks in the first place.

  The wheels touch down. I am seated just behind and off to the side of Mrs. Bacher. She has said nothing to me nor her family. Her expression is predictably the same. When the seatbelt sign is turned off, she gets her bag from the overhead locker in readiness to leave. I go out of my way to get her attention.

  'Welcome to Johannesburg Mrs. Bacher. I know it was a long flight, but I trust we made it bearable for you.'

  I had not rehearsed what I was going to say, yet I did it in a polite and professional manner. I was not sure if she was going to say anything. What she did say, I must admit, came as a shock:

  'I cannot criticize the pilots because they got us here safely' she says loudly in her broad South African accent, 'but what happened in the cabin, well, that was ABSOLUTE NONSENSE.'

  They say that 80% of communication is not what you say, it is how you say it. She said the absolute nonsense speech in such a way that would send shivers up the Devil's spine. Regardless of our motivation to treat her well, we did treat her and her family exceptionally well. She truly is an evil woman.

  Thomas could hear Mrs. Bacher's loud voice, although all he heard was the absolute nonsense part. He does a much better South African accent than I, so it is he who tells the rest of the crew of her parting shot. Many of the crew dealt with her throughout the flight. She upset everyone; no exceptions. They initially laugh at Thomas's retelling of Mrs. Bacher's words, however that mood is quickly replaced by anger.

  Trying to be nice to someone who doesn't deserve it tends to build up much hostility, particularly when we've had to deal with this woman for so many hours. I tell Thomas that a woman like that would have a whole life of 'absolute nonsenses'.

  I can't recall not finding something positive in a person before.

  Congratulations Mrs. Bacher - you're my first.

  breakfast travel stories

  Some of the crew, including Thomas and Franco, come to the hotel's bar for a drink. Most of us have just the one drink. We are shattered. As much as I like learning about crew's lives and discussing interesting subjects outside of flying, it is now time to vent. Mrs. Bacher is still the topic of conversation. Rarely does someone get under our skin with such intensity. There were over 400 other passengers on the flight and all, but Mrs. Bacher and her daughter, seemed lovely. It is such a shame the worst passengers take up so much of our time and are the ones we often remember most.

  Thomas sings Evil Woman again, this time with an exaggerated South African accent. It must be hard to do, yet he does it so well. We are in giggling fits as we sing along with him. It is the pressure valve release we needed.

  Franco confirms our trip to Soweto for the next day. Franco has befriended one of the employees at the hotel; a young man named Patrick. At only 22, Patrick is an African local, and according to Franco, he is a warm-hearted young man with an incredibly mature outlook on life. Although not an official hotel service, the hotel allows Patrick to finish work early so as he can drive Franco (and now me) to Soweto. Thoughts of Mrs. Bacher subside as spending a day in Soweto now occupies my thoughts.

  I am the first to leave the bar, although the others insist they won't be far behind me. Thomas is playing golf with one of our pilots early the next morning and Franco, like me, is resigne
d to waking up in the early hours of the morning. I know I will wake up at 2.15 a.m. I will probably see the boys at breakfast. The buffet opens at 6.30. I have a feeling I'll be there at 06.31.

  I sit up with a jolt. The room is pitch-black except for the glow from the bedside clock: 2.17 a.m. I chuckle to myself as I am two minutes out with my waking prediction.

  I am constantly baffled that I wake up at (roughly) the same time regardless of what continent I may be in. There are no correlations between African and North or even South American time, yet I wake at the same time. Forget the Bermuda Triangle - this is my mystery.

  I have over four hours of contemplation before the breakfast buffet is open. South African television in the early hours of the morning is not exactly must-see TV, so I turn on my computer. People often ask me: When do you get time to write?

  Now you know.

  My lifestyle and job may appear hectic, it is, but I do get plenty of time to myself. For every hour I spend in the air, I get at least three times as much at the destination. Of course there is jetlag, sleep-time, and general recovery time, but if you look at pure statistics, we flight attendants get far more time to ourselves than the average workers.

  Even when I am at work I often get time to write. We do get breaks on the aircraft. The longer the flight, the longer the breaks. I rarely sleep on a plane. That is not by choice, it is just me. If someone could give me a magic trick to sleep, without taking a pill (we are not allowed to take sleeping pills while at work), I would gladly try to put it into practice. Nobody has come forth, so I use my 'awake' time wisely.