On Saturday afternoon I dropped Mike & Graeme at the airport in Durban and went to meet friends for coffee because I still had several hours before my 6pm fight to Cape Town. At 4:30pm I returned to the airport to catch my flight hoping to beat the rugby hordes for a decent seat. I handed in the car and reported to the airline counter to check in. The friendly ground crew looked at me quizzically when I gave my flight time and informed me that I couldn’t be flying to Cape Town because the last flight had already left. I was sure they were wrong and fortunately I had the confirmation email on my cellphone. I called up the email and proudly showed them that I did indeed have a 6pm flight booked for the 18th. The stewardess took no pleasure in informing me that the flight I had booked was for 18 July 2005 and not 18 June 2005 - I am sure that I did see a little smile at my expense.
Not a problem….I would just take the first flight out the next morning. “Sorry Sir, it is the weekend of the Comrades marathon, there has been a public holiday, and there is a rugby test in Durban today. The next flight we have available, to any destination, is only late on Monday afternoon.” The message at each airline flying out of Durban International was the same. I WAS STUCK IN DURBAN FOR TWO DAYS. I would miss Father’s day with my son & wife, and I would miss a Masters lecture on Monday. And the worst part of all of it was that the only person I could blame was myself……it was really sucky [I see that smile on your lips.....I wasn't really seeing the humour in the situation].
Okay, if I could get to Jhb the I could catch the first flight to Cape Town the next morning and be home in time for tea. Then I had a brainwave, I had just handed in a car with three days of underutilised mileage that would get me to Jhb at no extra cost. WRONG AGAIN! The car was in Mike’s name and couldn’t be returned to me. I had to hire a new car, with 200km’s free - the balance at R1.70 per km. - and an additional R500 charge for dropping it off in Jhb. It was a pain but I accepted the Hyundai Getz that was available and went back to the airline to move my return flight…except that…..the airline counter was closed and everyone was going home. Desperate I banged on the window to get the attention of the one person still in the office. They were closed but she was happy to help me confirm a flight from Jhb the next morning…Whew.
Next step…..drive to Jhb to catch my 10:30am flight home the next morning. Now to let Desiree know that I was going to miss Father’s day breakfast and organise somewhere to sleep in Jhb. The conversation with Desiree went okay. Next call was asking friends for a couch, I had just got past usual cellphone greeting etiquette…..then nothing……MY @#$% CELLPHONE BATTERY DIED!! At the next fuel station I had to call Desiree from a call box and ask her to contact our friends in Jhb for a bed. Then stand around in the freezing cold in the KZN midlands waiting for her to call me back confirming that I had a place to stay. Eventually the ‘ticky box’ rang and I knew that I had somewhere to sleep.
Enough I hear you say….but wait…..there is more.
My car at home has a 650km range on a full tank of petrol so I didn’t stress about filling the car up at the fuel station where I called Desiree. I got in the car and did some low flying to get to Jhb ASAP [I was fed up with the day]. I was merely singing along to some retro classic on SAFM - the only radio station available in the middle of nowhere - when approximately 400km from Dbn my vision was assaulted by a bright yellow light on the dashboard that looked ominously like a petrol station pump. @^%*&@^% [or words to that effect went through my mind]…..I now only had 50km before the car ground to a halt on the side of the road. Needless to say the fact that I had a useless cellphone was now cause for more “%$#$%&” thoughts. The next road sign told me that I was 40km away from the Wilge toll plaza, but gave no indication of where the next fuel station was. So for the next 1/2 hour I crawled along at 80 km/hr, putting the car in neutral and freewheeling on every downhill. By the time I got to the toll plaza the fuel gauge needle was bending below empty. The toll gate cashier looked slightly amused at the look of despiration as I asked if there was a garage close by - it was 3km away.
I made it to the garage and the rest of my trip was thankfully….BORING - I don’t think I could’ve handled anymore excitement.
So, do I win the prize for travel story of the decade? If there is someone out there with a better story than this [that is true] please post it on the blog. If it is sufficiently awful I’ll take you to lunch so that we can compare notes.
The worst part about the whole thing? There is nobody to blame for anything except myself……BUMMER!
A few years back I visited New York city for the first time - very cool. I was with a bunch of people and realised that I could stay a little longer than them. So my friend Andre and I decided to do exactly that, and stay for an extra 2 days while everyone else went home.
We visited Central Park and did all of the things you’re supposed to do while in New York (except getting mugged) including supper in Little Italy and a great time was had by all. We found a random backpackers somewhere in Manhattan - which was fine until we got home on night no. 1 a little after 12. It was locked. Or more accurately, the lift door was locked, which meant we couldn’t get up to our place (no stairs, oddly enough). After a while we figured out we could jimmy the door if only we had a long, thin steel pole…but who has one of those hanging around?! So off we went in search of said pole.
The corner cafe down the street (yes, it did happen to be run by a rather nice Portugese guy) let us borrow one of their metal shelf holders which did in fact open the lift. *whew*! That should have served as a warning for the following night…
Realising that we may not get back in on our final night we took our bags with us the next day. More wandering around etc etc and when we got back, you guessed it - they were locked. In spite of promising to be open and making alternate plans to get in, we couldn’t rouse anyone. Our place was on the 3rd floor so we spent 1/2 an hour throwing coins at the window (and occassionally hitting it) to try to draw some attention, but only passers-by gave us any of that (along with weird stares). Slowly we realised a few things.
a) we had no-where to sleep
b) we didn’t know what place would be open at that time of night
c) we had a long flight home via Italy - and it would be nAsty getting on that plane without showering…
d) it was getting cold
The only logical place for us to go was the airport. JFK is an hour and a half by train (at least it felt like that) so we got there at about 3 in the morning, and promptly went to sleep under some benches inside.
Woke up the next morning by some kid laughing at me…and felt rather homeless. No chance of a shower either. So we check into our flight…which happened to be Alitalia. I don’t think they exist any more, and I’m rather sure why. They had some really low budget movie showing on the way to the States, and showed the same candid camera from the early 80’s at any opportunity. *sigh* It’s going to be a great trip home.
So we check in, only to find that airport workers in Italy are striking and our flight is delayed. Which would have been annoying had they not given us $50 meal vouchers…mmmmm…food! So we spend the rest of the day in the airport, reading magazines and eating well. Now we’ve missed the original flight - which was supposed to take us to Milan and then to Joburg. So now they’re scrambling to get us connecting flights back to SA. First, we fly to Milan, then they send us to Heathrow. After that, hopefully Joburg - it wasn’t sorted by the time we got on the plane.
But at any rate, a short 6 hours later and we’re in Milan. Great. More stop-over time - 3 hours. Great. Now there’s one thing I can’t stand, and it’s dirty, sticky, greasy hair…hich was exactly my present state of being. Plus, I’ve realised airports don’t believe in showers. Maybe they do in first class, but we were faaaar from that…so I did something I’ve never done before or since. I went into the bathroom with my backpack and a cup, stood over the toilet bowl, and washed my hair. Whenever the cup was empty I’d back out of the stall, fill up the cup from the basin, and slowly pour it over my head again. That felt unbelievably good! Other parts of me were smelly-sticky, but hey, at least my hair was clean! Right, let’s go to England.
On the plane we see more of the same inane Italian candid camera moments along with abrupt canned laughter. I understand why the stewardesses look the way they do.
At Heathrow we get told the marvellous news that there’s no connecting flight to Joburg. Hooray. So what will we do? Easy - they’ll fly us to Cape Town! At this point I don’t care. I don’t want to be flying around in Europe any more, I really need a shower and offering to put me just ON the African continent is good enough for me. Let’s go to Cape Town. Luckily it’s not too long a wait and we get flown to Cape Town.
All through this I’m trying to contact my parents to let them know what’s happening and when they’re supposed to pick me up from the airport. I rather cunningly bought some internet time in Milan and logged on to the Vodacom4me site, smsing my Dad with details on some stupid, unusable keyboard. Only when I got home did I find out he never got that sms…
While the Cape Town flight is boarding I’m trying vainly to phone home and let them know what’s happening. 2 pounds gets me 30 seconds with my Mom when I basically say, “I’ll be in Cape Town tomorrow and I don’t know when I’ll be in Joburg. Call you from SA!” Much later, on the plane, I remembered it was her birthday and I’d forgotten…oops.
Cape Town was great. Flying into South Africa was great. Leaving Europe behind was great. Home! (albeit another flight to Joburg…but home nonetheless!). Now, about that shower…oh, wait, airports don’t believe in showers. And we’ve got another 2 hours wait…
Luckily, God, in his eternal grace, decided that this would be the day Nescafe would do a promotion of their new instant coffee machine. Some student was demo-ing it, and the rule was the coffee was free. I think I drank 6 cappucino’s while we waited…and only didn’t drink any more because every time I went back, I got stranger and stranger looks…well, at least I didn’t smell.
Finally, the flight back to Joburg. Hooray. Our travel home was: New York, USA -> Milan, Italy -> London, Heathrow -> Cape Town, SA -> Joburg, SA. All that was left was to collect our luggage…
After waiting and waiting until we were the only ones at baggage collection, Andre and I dragged ourselves over to the “Baggage Claims” counter. “Right, let’s see where our baggage is…”
After a bit of a search, the lady said, “Your baggage appears to be in Frankfurt…” Frankfurt?! Germany?! We didn’t even go NEAR there…well, relatively…
They said they’d deliver our baggage to us the next day, and miracle of miracles, they did. At last - a happy ending!