December 2003
December 2003
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December 2003
The Evolution of Lusaka's Roads A Secret Oasis In The Heart Of Zambia
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Zambia
Storms
Any pilot working in Zambia will know how quickly a violent storm can blow up. I found this poem, written by my older brother, C.R.Hilton, when he was 15. Living in Chililabombwe, around 1973, and at boarding school in England. We would fly back and forth six times a year. The inland flights were nearly always scary during the rainy season. My brother is now a Chartered Surveyor working in the north west of England. (Kindly sent to us by Keith Downing and sure to bring back many memories)
The Kitwe Flight by C.R.Hilton
The weather wasn't perfect, but the tower thought it right, That we should make this journey (the beginning of our night) The passage should take near an hour, by turbo jet, of course, But ours was an old plane and the weather getting worse.
The take off wasn't too bad, a little bumpy though, And everything was going well for half an hour or so. Then suddenly we hit the rain as if a solid wall Our old machine it shuddered and we feared lest it should stall.
But the pilot used his skill and climbed a thousand feet To try and get above the storm as each gripped fast his seat, But still the gale was raging, too high for us to go It reduced our speed to walking pace thus making progress slow.
Lightening lit the outside world, showing a terrible scene. A tiny girl towards the back let out a tiny scream. I can't say that I blame her, it gave me quite a scare To see the whirling torrent, I wondered how we'd fare.
For in those awful seconds, hell surely was displayed, And I could see the hostess was more than just dismayed. A description of the clouds outside I simply cannot tell, Like giant augers, swiping, at our tiny shell.
A gloomy sight, with little light, mixed up a thousand grays, A million streaming corridors, pointing a million different ways. The clouds were not with silver lined, but with a darker hue, Blacks & purples everywhere, but not a sign of blue.
The raindrops fired against the wings, we felt as in a cage, They beat against the windows, too, in their stormy rage. The plane dipped down into a dive and then rose up again Thor tried his best to bring us down, but tried his best in vain.
For however old our vessel was, it flew on through the night Down again and up once more, from right, to left, to right. Then suddenly it was all over, not a sign of it was here, The very end of our ordeal, the end of all our fear.
The lights of Kitwe shone below, meaning minutes to the end. Believe me, I was quite afraid, on that I won't pretend.
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