16 Dec 2019: Shaking St Peter’s Hand

I done been to the pearly gates, they sent me back. Said the good die young - I ain't eligible for that.

Curtis Jackson

My dipsomaniac guardian angel and I arrived a tad late at the São Tomé airport for our flight to Principe Island. This was not my fault, as I again realised that my guardian angel has a distinct inability to handle his consumption of São Tomé’s best. The fact of the matter is - one cannot choose your family nor your guardian angel. Let me tell you – to have a dipsomaniac traveling companion can become a bit tedious, especially when you need his A-game and he is glowing dim and bright with a massive hangover.

Guardian Angel Nursing a Hangover

The small island of Principe lies a mere 45-minutes by air to the north-east of São Tomé and our flight was delayed due to a storm system. When we eventually took off the small Dornier 228, with a full load of 19 passengers, was jumping and bucking about in the air pockets on the outskirts of the tropical storm. Near Principe the storm clouds closed in around us and it became quite dark. As we broke through the low cloud cover the earth jumped at us and the pilot seemed to slam the Dornier into the runway.

About this time self-preservation kicked in and my guardian angel woke up from a deep slumber. Mother earth rejected the forceful intrusion of the Dornier and threw us back into the sky. We finally bounced back to the wet runway with the nose of the aeroplane pointing at the terminal building while we were hurling nearly sideways down the tarmac. The pilot then over-compensated and wrenched the plane to the opposite side. The resulting skid turned us nearly 180 degrees, the plane tilted alarmingly and the left wing nearly scraped the grass fringes of the runway. Another violent wrench, and the plane, while speeding from side to side down the runway, started rocking so violently that first the left wing, and then the right wing, nearly touched the ground. At this stage my guardian angel vehemently promised never again to touch alcohol - reporting to St Peter at the pearly gates with a hangover would have been problematic. When we finally came to a standstill there was a deadly silence in the cabin. Not a word was said. Then there was a collective gasp sounding like a tyre deflating. And then we started to inhale…

It is actually a pity that I did not meet St Peter. There is much I wanted to tell him about my guardian angel.