Katmandu, October, 1998 EXIT
One always regards Stevenson as the founder of modern travel; "Travels with a donkey in the Cevannes" was the first backpacker's journal, 100 years before "Lonely Planet." But even he grew cautious: "I travel not to go anywhere but for travel alone. "To move is the thing" later moderated itself into "To travel hopefully is better than to arrive." And that was before the aeroplane.
The beauty of modern air travel is its convenience. Being only able to spare a day from preparing for a Himalayan trek, living only minutes from Manchester Airport allowed me to journey to London in just 45 minutes leaving the whole day in the capital to spend with dear friends visiting from America. A visit to a museum, browsing in book shops, evensong at St. Paul's, an early dinner at an Indian restaurant carefully selected near to an Underground station, a brief farewell and off back to Heathrow for the last plane home.
As the train rattled its way westward I became immersed in a book of Nepali travelers' tales bought in London in anticipation of my forthcoming trip. So engrossed was I that some time elapsed before I became aware that the stop at [Baron's Court?] was lasting somewhat longer than one would expect. Curiosity turned to anxiety as I pulled out my ticket to check the flight departure time, 8:45 p.m. An announcement comes, "We have broken down."
A frantic request to a fellow traveller reveals that but 3/4 of an hour remains before my flight. An instant decision; I leap off the train and dash through the station forecourt. A lonely taxi is standing there, engine running. The driver sees me running and opens the door for a quick getaway.
"Heathrow," I cried, "I've a plane to catch." "Right " he says, and takes off before I have shut the door - straight into the path of an oncoming pick-up. The impact shoots me backwards out of the open door, but fortunately no one was hurt. As the two drivers conducted the ritual shouting match I realise that my ticket, which had been in my hand, was now in the mangled remains of the back of the taxi. I crawled in head first and probed desperately for a touch of cardboard. Just as I thought I had something at my fingers' stretch, firm hands grasped my legs, pulled me from the taxi and rolled me expertly onto my back. I looked up to see a helmeted face peering anxiously down at me. A passing bobby, seeing my legs sticking out of the wreckage was rescuing me from the crash. I scrambled up and back towards the taxi. "I need a plane ticket", perhaps not the clearest thing to say in the circumstances. Gentle hands restrained me. "He's concussed," explained the policeman to the gathering crowd.
Restraining an impulse to jam his helmet over his ears I carefully suggested that if he would see to enforcing section 170 of the Road Traffic Act 1972 in relation to the aforementioned accident I would retrieve the ticket which I needed to catch my plane. Perhaps the legalistic bombast was a trifle excessive but after some hesitation he was convinced and let me back into the taxi.
This time my fingers grasped the ticket and, pulling, I emerged triumphant with about 3/4 of it torn across. As I looked around wondering what to do next I saw my broken down train pull out of the station without me. Luckily another had caught up behind, I ran back into the station feigning not to hear the plaintive cry of "witness" from behind, and was once more heading towards the airport.
With maddening deliberation the train stopped at every station to Heathrow finally arriving just minutes before the plane left. I dashed through the ticket barriers, along endless passageways to the security gate, flung the plastic bag containing my book onto the tray and shot through the metal detector, forgetting my keys, which promptly set it off. I was hand searched and my book examined. I don't know what they expected to find but they leafed through the book with the maddening slowness in which that distortion of time of one about to miss a plane envelops all that passes. I thought he was going to read the damn thing.
But then I was off again, running through the terminal arriving at the gate at exactly 8:45 to see the plane taxiing off towards the runway.
I never did like British Airways, but having their planes leave on time is just too much.
Returning to the British Airways desk they helpfully informed me that British Midland had a later flight to Manchester but I could not transfer my ticket. I would have to buy a new one. Cursing my way to the British Midland desk, conveniently situated at the opposite end of Terminal 1, they politely informed me that there was no later plane. Back at British Airways I had to book for the first plane in the morning and resign myself to sleeping in the terminal.
Already armed with a good book and having no luggage to guard I ensconced myself next to the all night coffee stall and settled down to read and doze the night away.
Sometime after midnight a voice woke me. It was the police checking that I was not some wandering vagabond looking for a warm place to sleep. After some scrutiny the battered remnants of my ticket passed muster and they left me feeling wide awake and very dry. The all night coffee stall was closed.
After a refreshing drink of water I settled down to my book again but by now my mind was wandering, partly in England and partly with memories of Nepal. I must have dozed off again because I thought I woke up with someone talking to me. Ungluing my eyes revealed an elderly woman standing before me. Dressed in a tweed skirt, three or four cardigans and a blanket as a shawl she addressed me in what I, with some struggle, came to realize, were English words, but with no apparent order or syntax. With some reluctance a few surreptitious pinches revealed that I was actually awake and not dreaming. The only nutter in miles and she had to come and talk to me. Desperate measures were required: I sprang to attention, snapped off a salute, said, "Excuse me madam, I have to save the world" and marched off in double time, dodging between the deserted check-in desks to hide at the other end of the terminal.
There must be a school somewhere which teaches designers how to make seating in public places which can be sat upon for just less than the required average waiting time but no longer, and ergonomically forbids sleeping. Such sophistication however is lost upon one whose expertise has been honed by months of sleeping on Greyhound buses, the tops of land rovers, snow caves and every kind of sailing boat imaginable. Lying half on one's side with the feet comfortably on a seat, the half-raised knees carry the legs over to the next which conveniently takes the hip. The next ridge tucks underneath the rib-cage allowing the shoulder to rest on the following rise, a folded jacket supporting the head. Under such dormitory bliss consciousness slowly fades, dreaming of mountains to come, the wide open spaces, the breeze rustling gently through the trees, softly trickling streams and the music of bird song. The raucous music of bird song, the insistent birds yammering at me--they're speaking English--no, Mad Alice has found me again.
I look desperately around for escape. You can never find a policeman when you want one. Then I spot them, two of them sheltering behind a kiosk, grinning at another of the mad woman's victims. On a boring night's duty, it's the only amusement they have.
Alice jabbers on, the high-pitched incoherent jumble penetrating every nerve. I reply in French, German and Spanish but nothing has any effect. The only resort is to flee into the Gents' toilet where I pass a miserable hour sitting cross-legged on a corner shelf like some nodding Budha, jerking sharply awake when someone comes in.
The increasing bustle from the concourse without encourages me to peer carefully out of the door. The coast appears clear and I edge out nervously into a group of passing cleaners who, unknowingly, escort me to the restaurant steps. Time for breakfast. I leap for the stairs. This is a mistake. The confused over-tired mind cannot coordinate the necessary movements. My right leg is trying to go up the stairs whilst the left one appears to want to go sideways. I end up facing the wall clutching the banister with both hands. Grasping the situation intellectually I address each limb with individual consecutive orders. Establishing communication with my right foot I watch it wiggle, testing it is the correct one. I order the knee to bend and the foot moves up a step. this is going to work. I move my hand up. This is wrong, it's the left hand. I should have known that by the fact that there isn't a wrist watch on it. I never wear one. I am now cross handed and inherently unstable. I move the right hand up. This is correct. the only remaining limb is my left leg, which I now move. This is also correct. A rhythm being established a somewhat syncopated progress is made to the head of the steps where the restaurant staff are watching in some mystification.
"Table for one, sir?" Why do they have to ask such difficult questions at that hour of the morning? As I fumble weakly for a reply the waiter gives up and leads me to a table. Uninstructed, this wonderful being then returns bearing a cup of coffee.
As the drug seeps into my brain I recover enough to order a full breakfast and after two cups I'm ready to eat it. A fresh orange juice restores the palette and I tuck in. The scrambled egg whisked to a feathery lightness, spiked with a cast of black pepper, soft lean bacon glistening in the reflection of it own fat, sausages dotted with sprinkled herbs, the mushrooms, a wholesome tomato, damn Southerners there's no black pudding. On the side of the plate a foreign square-looking object looks lost amongst the glory. A little surgical exploration and a reference to the menu reveals this to be a "hash brown." Perhaps with its golden colour it's there as decoration or, being otherwise tasteless, it is a carrier for tomato ketchup, a bottle of which has, otherwise inexplicably, been placed on the table.
As the lethargy of a full stomach begins to overcome the caffeine toast arrives on a rack and I drift off to memories of yesterday in the museum. Paul is laughing at the display of silver toast racks. "Only the English," he says, "use a rack to cool their toast." What do Americans do? In that land of the pre-packaged everything, does toast come ready frozen perhaps? And I'm back to sitting on a camp stool, high on a ridge on Dhaulagiri. I am trekking in Nepal under the guidance of the wonderfully named Yeti Travels. Due to some organizational hiccup, the group I was to have joined had left the week before. Unfazed Yeti have equipped me with a guide, an assistant guide, a cook, two cook's boys and three porters sending me off on my own. I felt like Livingstone at head of his trusty natives, earning the awed stares of all who passed by. Who was the august personage with his own entourage?
The morning ritual is for me to breakfast alone, looking across the fertile, green-terraced valleys dwarfed by the gaunt, snow-capped giants towering above me. Pemba, the cook's boy, brings the toast, carefully covered to keep it warm, and settles down on his haunches a few feet away to watch the ever entrancing performance. Uncovering the toast, I place it on a patch of snow to cool off. Then, producing from the security of my personal pack that ever present icon of the traveling Englishman, a jar of Cooper's Oxford Marmalade, I proceed to carefully layer the morning's ration on each slice. Such a rare delicacy has to be carefully hoarded to last the trip. Perhaps I could fly out supplies from England and parachute them in? But the Yetis might get them. Do Yetis like marmalade? Apparently so. Though he doesn't say so the one sitting opposite me carefully cuts a knob of butter from the butter dish, places it on the side of his plate next to the toast and hesitates slightly. Yetis are so well brought up. I offer the marmalade and he reaches across to take it from me. As he grasps it there is a crash. Panic! Has he smashed the irreplaceable jar? No it's me having fallen asleep dreaming at the table, slipping off the chair and crashing onto the restaurant floor.
A worried head appears around a pillar, assesses the situation, retreats and then reappears carrying more coffee. "Thank you, Jeeves," I say. A puzzled smile crosses his face. I think he must be foreign. I manage to pay the bill with reasonable competence and set off to the check-in desk.
British Airways has a school for its staff where the charm and politeness lessons must be particularly exacting. Every one of them I have met anywhere in the world has that same careful elegant poise, the delightful smile, the deferring politeness with the so charmingly hidden arrogance that makes you want to hit them. It was , therefore, of little surprise that the pretty smile which greeted me also informed me that the first flight has been cancelled, but I could take the second one. "You could have had an extra hour in bed" she said brightly. I was tempted.
Not being in a fit state to go anywhere I just sat, zombie-like opposite the check in, swaying slightly from lack of control and staring straight ahead at nothingness. This produced some nervousness amongst the twittering acolytes behind the desks who at the first possible opportunity rushed across to tell me that I could now embark. Somehow they seemed anxious to get rid of me.
I sat on the plane. Nothing happened. After about 20 minutes the pilot announced that two passengers had checked bags aboard but had not embarked. There would be a delay whilst the luggage was unloaded and their bags removed. Well, well. My brain seemed to have developed a by-pass circuit which diverted all such news from the conscious realm. This was the last stage of evolution. The delay-proof traveller. Lamark triumphs!
An hour later we land at Manchester. The automaton struts through the crowds barely pausing as he reads the sign saying, "Sorry, the bus to the car park is out of service." As he trudges around the perimeter, the bus passes him and disappears in the direction of the car park. Later it transpires that the "Out of service" notice has been there for 3 months and nobody has remembered to take it down.
Arriving at the car park one is faced with line upon line, miles of vehicles each in its standard colour. Not coming by the bus there is no reference point to start looking for one's own. A grid search appears the only option, tacking up and down each rank until recognition brings a halt. This method proves eventually successful though a more logical approach would have greatly shortened it. A little obvious prediction would have brought the realisation that the car one wanted would stand out like a mile from the others. The sideways sloping roof distinguished it, caused by the flat tyre.
After that, climbing the Snowdon peaks was a doddle really. I unearthed and checked all my heavy weather mountain gear, this was Britain at the end of September after all, loaded down my pack with telephone directories and set off. It proved to be the hottest day of the year. Not a cloud in the sky and the only things I hadn't brought were a sun hat and cream. By the time I got to the top I nearly had heat stroke. Even the rhinoceros I met on the summit thought it was a bit much.
However I survived and finally, my taxi arriving promptly I was off to the airport for 7 a.m. My travels had begun at last. Time to book in, have breakfast and catch the plane at 8:50. There wasn't even anyone waiting in front of me at the Lufthansa check-in desk. Advancing confidently and placing my luggage on the scales I was asked if I would mind waiting for a few minutes as they weren't quite ready yet. Twenty minutes later the queue was beginning to grow behind me. Every fifteen minutes for the next hour someone appeared and said, "Sorry, could you just wait ten minutes?" Another hour passes. By this time there are over 200 people behind me.
By take off time they announce that the flight has been cancelled for unavoidable reasons; these turn out to be that three of the crew haven't turned up for work. "Everyone will be re-booked" they said. "Please go to the ticket counter." Since the ticket counter was behind us everyone turned around leaving me at the back of a queue of 200.
Slowly the ticketers ground through their task. They seemed to be coping quite well really until, two positions in front of me a Japanese who couldn't speak English wanted to go to Tokyo. Re-routing someone from Manchester to Tokyo by sign language is really quite interesting to watch, though it was a little one sided. The staffs' gesticulations were greeted with appreciative oohs and aahs by the Japanese, but when they paused he seemed to be dextrally challenged and shot forth a stream of unintelligible syllables. Finally it was done and he wondered off happily clutching his new ticket. I still wonder where he ended up.
You could see the relief on the girl's face as he went. She reassembled the remains of her smile; only two more to go. I felt sorry for her really, I'd been chatting to the two guys in front and knew what was coming. "Where do you wish to go, Gentlemen?" Not quite concealing his glee one replied Nizni Novgorod."
You could see the shock of it hit her, at first refusing to believe what she had heard, passing through a faint hope that it was just a joke to the final awful realisation. Brave girl, she buckled to and after a half an hour's frantic effort had them on their way; via Amsterdam, Helsinki, Moscow and then by hired car for the eight hour drive to Nizni.
She really was quite good. The smile had gone, but she was still game, "Where do you wish to go?" I hesitated, she needed the time. "Kathmandu." She had ceased to react, slowly rising without speaking she disappeared into the office behind.
Passengers 1 Lufthansa 0
A moment later a new girl appeared and managed to re-route me. I could get the next shuttle to Heathrow at 12:30, stay in London for the afternoon, take the overnight flight to Delhi which arrived about 15 minutes before the scheduled flight to Kathmandu. If the Delhi flight arrived early I might make the connection but there were other flights at 3pm and 8pm, so I would only lose a day at the worst.
So off to London again arriving at the all too familiar Terminal 1 and transferring to Terminal 4. It's here that the plan began to go wrong. Arriving at terminal 4 and looking at my new flight details a chill of terror pierced my heart. I stood motionless in a sea of movement staring at my ticket, leaden feet unable to move. The hand holding my ticket began to tremble as the true horror of the destiny which fate lain in wait for me closed inescapably over my being. They had booked me on British Airways.
Transformed from a hopeful traveller to a zombie, a mere fallen leaf buffeted by the winds of fate I was sucked slowly towards the vortex, a maw of check-in desks each graced by a British Airways siren.
Could I check my baggage for the flight? No it's too early. Is there a left luggage office I can deposit it in? No, there isn't one here for security reasons. Am I expected to sit here for eight or nine hours guarding my luggage? You'll have to.
A security guard helps me out. By going back to terminal one I could go out through the security barriers and back into the arrival hall where there was a left luggage depot open. Back at terminal one, my baggage stored I contemplated going into London but I'd lost the heart for it. What if the train broke down again? If you have to wait you might as well do it in familiar circumstances. A cautious survey reveals no signs of Mad Alice, I settle down to read a book, but I couldn't concentrate. It was all too familiar.
For a zombie the time passes without notice, A meal in the restaurant in anticipation of the airline food, then back to terminal four to check in and take off on time. At least crammed as I was in my economy seat I could get some sleep. Not that I had any option, the film projector in my part of the cabin had broken down.
We arrived on time of course, you can depend on it and so I missed the connection. Fine, so now I needed to book a seat on the next plane at 3:00pm. Problem, this plane and the 8pm one are Royal Nepal Airlines and I was booked on Air India whose next flight was at 11am the next day. So change the ticket. Problem, the ticket counter is on the other side of customs and immigration. Could I go through? Do you have a visa for India? No, I'm in transit. Well then you can't go through. What do I do? Contact your travel agent, Lufthansa. Where's the office? On the other side of immigration.
Finally I bribe an airport worker to go for me. He reports back. It's closed. Since theirs are all night flights they won't be here until 11pm. The 3pm flight goes.
Taking my fate back into my own hands I risk all by accosting a vision from British Airways ground staff. A tall, young Indian woman with that wonderful eastern grace, the beautiful, fine boned face, dressed in a stunning sari. The only hint of her true self is a small British Airways badge slinking in the folds over her shoulder. What could I do? In beautiful soft-spoken English she says--wait until tomorrow. Can I get a hotel? No, you can't leave the transit area. She sways off. Perfection to the eye untroubled by the machinations of the evil empire which controls her.
By the 8pm flight I try bribery to get a ticket. It fails; the only time I've experienced that in India. I must be losing my touch. The 8pm flight goes. At 11pm a Lufthansa man appears in the transit area. I grab him and demand a hotel. "You must wait here," he says and disappears back to safety through the customs barrier.
I have been on the go for 47 hours and am facing another 12 in the transit area. There is a restaurant and a snack bar, they don't take traveller's cheques or credit cards. Where is the money exchange? Why, on the other side of customs, of course. I can't go to sleep, I have to protect my bags. Guess where the left luggage is?
I work off a few pounds pushing my luggage cart up and down the concourse. After four or five hours it palls. I strike up a conversation with a medical worker from Lhasa, but it's hard work. His English isn't good, though a lot better than my Tibetan. It turns out he's trying to get a job in England. Could I help him? I resume walking. I know that's what I was travelling for but this wasn't quite what I had in mind. By now I can't sit down at all for fear of falling asleep. Even leaning on the back of a chair sends me off.
There is a large electronic notice board in the centre of Delhi transit lounge, so placed that you cannot avoid seeing it. Every few minutes updates bring a rush of clicks drawing one's attention to it and its prominent clock. They know how to make the time drag here.
By early morning more transit passengers have been encaged and the bustle helps me keep awake. At 10am an India Air official appears with his list of passengers. The plane takes 120 people and the list is full. He's surrounded by an anxious group of some thirty transit passengers. Each gives his name. They're not on the list. The name is spelled out and the list checked again. it's not there. In English they are told they will have to wait, the messages being translated into whatever language to their companions. They show their tickets, point to the date, time and flight number--they will have to wait.
Using my advantage of my 6'2" I peer over the arguing heads. Success. I see my name on the list. Shouldering my way through the disappointed, I produce my ticket and point to my name on the list. He nods, opens a drawer, produces another list and scans it. "But you're not on this list, sir." I asked him how long ago he had left British Airways. Some primeval survival instinct must have moved him. Looking up at 200 lbs. of obviously demented passenger decides him to go to the office and check. He returns and hands me a boarding card.
I get on the plane. It's even business class, wide seats, plenty of leg room. I am beyond sleep, it's only an hour to Kathmandu.
Entering the terminal at Katmandu's Tribuvan Airport I begin to realize that I've made it back to Nepal. The immigration officer stamps my passport with barely a glance. The customs help me guide my luggage cart through the concourse. Amongst the myriad of expectant waiting faces two unexpected broad grins leap out at me. Two old friends Perma and Doje, seeing my name on the office list have come unbidden to the airport to greet me. I'm back at last in the Land of Smiles.
To Hell with Stevenson.
John