Now that I had my instrument rating and commercial pilot’s license, I really wanted to start making KAJ earn her keep. You have to understand—there was no pressure from my dad or Niels or anyone. It was just a gut feeling. I’d been incredibly lucky and privileged, but I wanted to contribute towards maintaining this very expensive aircraft.
Gordon Harris—who hasn’t appeared in this memoir yet but will—was a well-connected Johannesburg businessman. He put me in touch with someone whose name escapes me now. I flew this guy a few times, but one flight stands out: taking him and some overseas guests to a private game farm in the Lowveld. Could’ve been Londolozi or Mala Mala—I can’t quite remember.
What I do remember is how, for the first time, someone made me feel like their servant rather than an equal.
The flight down to—let’s just say Londolozi—was uneventful. But unlike other trips I’d done to these luxury safari camps, this time I was housed in the staff quarters. I wasn’t invited on any game drives, and I was very clearly “the hired help.” It was a new experience for me, but fair enough. This was a proper paid charter now. I was just the pilot.
The return flight, though, is where things got... interesting.
I’d sat in my little room and plotted an instrument flight plan back to Lanseria. KAJ was a Bonanza A36—normally aspirated, 285 horsepower Continental engine. Hot day, full load? She wasn’t climbing fast. What people often don’t realise is that flying from one of these game reserves near Kruger Park back to Joburg means crossing the escarpment—specifically, Maripskop, which towers up to 6,300 feet and has a bloody great radio antenna on top.
I knew we’d hit cloud almost immediately after takeoff and be in instrument meteorological conditions (IMC) the entire way. No GPS back then—it was all manual. So I did the math: if I hadn’t reached a certain altitude by a certain time and distance, I’d have to start circling in a gentle climb to gain enough altitude to clear Maripskop safely.
The next day, His Royal Businessness shows up—naturally, he sits in the co-pilot seat. We take off, and within 30 seconds we’re in cloud. After 15 or 20 minutes, I see we’re not climbing fast enough. I start a very gentle spiral climb—so subtle the passengers wouldn’t even notice.
Except this guy notices.
“Why are you doing a turn?” he asks.
“Because I haven’t got enough altitude to clear Maripskop,” I reply.
To which he says, “Yes, you have. I’ve been watching the instruments, and I can tell you with absolute certainty that you can proceed. I’ve got a meeting in Johannesburg I don’t want to be late for.”
I could not believe what I was hearing.
I turned to him and said, “Unfortunately for you, I’m the pilot in command, and I’ll decide when and if we head to Lanseria.”
I said it with full conviction—because I knew I was right, and this clown didn’t know what he was talking about.
Maybe three or four minutes later, the light outside the aircraft started to brighten. We broke through the top of the cloud layer—and there, dead ahead of us, sticking up like a needle through a cotton blanket, was the radio antenna at Maripskop.
Probably three or four kilometres away, but it felt like a hundred metres.
I looked at him. He looked at me. He said nothing. Because he knew—he would have flown us straight into that mountain.
I was a very good instrument pilot. I played it by the book. I never had the hubris to think I knew better than the instruments.
That humility would come back to bite me a few years later when the instruments were lying—but that’s another story.
Most of this memoir is about the mistakes I’ve made and the wild ride it’s been. But this? This was one of those times I got it right.
By the book. Diligent. Safe.
An uneventful flight that could have been our last.