Epic Adventure - Part I & II

Back Story: Sydney To Dubai Part One: It’s Go Time “Sir, I can confirm you on a seat to London April 29th, assuming the volcano stops erupting,” Anne from Emirates airlines told me over the phone. That was twelve days from now. A group of five of us had been camping out in my room at the Millennium hotel in Sharjah for several hours now brainstorming other ways to London. The notion of flying directly to Europe’s busiest airport in the face of such obstacles as an Icelandic volcano spewing ashing across most of the Continent seemed grim. “I know! We could take the Orient Express! Or maybe go to Africa then ride camels across the Sahara, cross the straight of Gibraltar then travel north through Spain and France to the shores of Calais, where we can hitch our way across the Channel with some truck drivers.” We all began to laugh hysterically. “Yeah, like we’d ever have to do all of that.” It’s now seven hours later and we’ve turned my Dubai friend’s office into a situation room. Emirates is on speaker phone, the calming “hold” music offering incessantly irritating background to the chaos that has ensued. Someone else is coordinating with a few people still at the hotel. Pat, our host, is handing out apple cobbler and ice cream to keep us going. I’m on the computer confirming flights to Tunisia then onward to Barcelona, making our once absurd trek about to England a reality. At this present time, it seems, the fastest way to London is via Africa. “Yes, you’ll be refunded Dubai to London,” we’re told. Knowing that, we book Dubai to Tunisia over the phone, simultaneously click “buy now” on the connecting Tunisia to Barcelona flights and “BOOM,” we’re at least on the Continent. After two days of watching the hot Arabian sun rhythmically rise and set over the artificial expanses of Sharjah whille the Emirates airlines offered us no information on what was happening on the outside, we’re all desperate to feel like we’re moving in some sort of direction. We’ve been eating hummus for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Their is a public stoning of a woman tomorrow that has been suggested as an afternoon tourist activity. It’s time to go. Those legs booked, we get in taxis and head back to the hotel. The new challenge is booking a train from Barcelona to Madrid then a bus from Madrid to London. The Spanish websites won’t seem to process our purchase. A quick glance at the clock confirms that it’s now 3am. We have to be up and out the door by 6am to make our Flight to Tunisia. What should take five minutes has now dragged on for three hours, the mighty Emirati firewall doing all it can to keep us from London. I decide to bring in reinforcements, skyping a friend in London who then g-chats with a friend in Barcelona who then wakes up her Spanish boyfriend who then calls the bus company in an attempt to make a booking. He’s relaying info to his girlfriend, she’s relaying it to London in text, and she’s sending it back to us over skype. It’s globalization, social networking, technology, and inefficiency dominating our lives in a shockingly annoying way. Unable to confirm anything actually in Spain, we shot down the chain of communication and decide to manage the situation once we’re on the ground in Europe. By now it’s 5am. Time to take a shower and pack for the airport. No matter what, we’re on a plane to Africa by lunchtime. One step closer to London. -----------------------

Part Two: That’s Not Accurate Information In times of crisis, the true nature of “modernizing” regimes comes out as the shiny glitzy surface immediately erodes into a frightening display of secrecy and misinformation. Upon exit, we’re all forced to sign a paper indicating we have stayed at the airport. I am made to somehow pay my room bill twice, told I will be “detained” if I don’t reconfirm the charges. Our minibus to the airport runs smoothly and the terminal is - thus far - not in a state of total disarray. It’s just 6am. We’ve beat the rush of 7,000 manic travelers who will no doubt appear when the airline kicks them out of their hotels at noon. The first hurdle is checking bags to Tunisia. “There’s a problem,” the small lethargic woman behind the counter wimpers. “I need the supervisor,” she moans, as she begrudgingly waves her hand in the air. Twenty minutes later that’s settled. Next we have to process our refunds for the Dubai to London leg. The line at the ticket counter is still relatively short and we make it to the desk in no time. One of the ferocious five (the nickname we’ve given our new gang) is already in heated debate. Apparently our Dubai to London leg is worth less than our entire ticket, meaning we somehow OWE the airline money even though we’re not flying that leg of the journey. Tensions are rising as we lay out a story we’ve been told on the phone to a group of rude staff telling us we need to go to downtown Dubai for our refunds and that downtown Dubai is “the only place we can process that request.” Fearing more misinformation, we decide to video tape this interaction as proof of our own personal nightmare. “You can’t video us,” the man says. “Now I’m going to call security and he can teach you a lesson. We’ll see how much you like that.” Great. Not only are we being asked to pay for flight segments we didn’t use, the airline is now cryptically threatening us with prison sentences, which they dole out here for things like kissing in public. Fearing retribution and getting nowhere, the group decides to move on, wanting nothing less than to board our plane. The hour hand clicks to 8am. I have now been up for 24 straight hours and 42 of the last 46 hours. The man at immigration apparently shares my exhaustion, yawning while he stamps me out of the country. A mad dash for pre-departure coffee means the “final call” lights are flashing as we approach the gate. “At least we’re here, somebody says. Not quite. Charlotte, one of our gang members, is asked for her “paper ticket,” which we obviously don’t have because we booked online. “Sorry then,” you won’t be flying.” If we’ve learned anything in the last two days, it’s that nobody - NOBODY - gets left behind. Either five people go to Tunisia or nobody - not us, not the flight crew, not the other passengers - goes to Tunisia. An extended argument leads to their realizing they’ve messed up our tickets, which of course they do not take responsibility for and instead make a veiled attempt at shifting blame. “Whatever,” Charlotte says. “At least we’re getting out of here.” ... to be continued _ _ _ _ _ Kyle