(Santiago, Chile - Arequipa, Peru).
I’ve never actually seen the passengers of a flight invade an airport check-in desk in rage and frustration before, but it happened this morning.
After an “interesting” flight from Santiago to Lima last night, arriving at my downtown hotel at the relaxing hour of after-midnight, I was given my travel instructions for today: be ready for pick up at the even more relaxing hour of 3.45am for the flight to Lake Titicaca.
Terrific. Not much sleep to be had.
At that early hour the Peruvian airport staff seemed to be working in controlled hysteria as the information systems weren’t quite working (as the recorded announcements droned on in quadrilingual perfection) and a room of 300 passengers looked like they were experiencing something other than the joy of travel, having already weathered three lots of security and tax checks just for an internal flight.
At 7.40 we landed in Arequipa, after tracking an amazing sunrise across the Andes to our east. We transit passengers were told we could stay on the plane. At 8.15, after a fascinating knocking noise underneath our seats, we were told that there was a “small problem with the landing gear”. At 8.30 we were “encouraged” to go to the transit lounge. This looked, initially, to be a great catch-up-on-3-days’-fitful-sleep-on-carpet opportunity.
The “lounge” was a kind of besser-block and terrazzo arrangement with not quite enough plastic seats. It is here that the true awfulness of our potential fellow passengers started to display itself in the persons of a middle-aged French tour group that was already NOT HAPPY after 3 days in Arequipa.
By 9.30, the self-appointed bully of Les Francais was abusing the flight staff and his young Peruvian tour leader in Francais, as if this was going to solve anything. Even some of his own group were looking downcast with embarrassment by this stage. It was all mightily entertaining – even better than the soft-porn Spanish “soap” and the dubbed “Malcolm In The Middle” on the TV screens.
I finished writing the available postcards and used the airport post office to send them on… What next?
At 9.45 they were removing baggage from the aircraft. Things were not looking good. The departure times were pulled from the board, and the on-board food was being offered in the lounge. By 10am the words “bus” and “manhana” and “free overnight accommodation” were being announced by the rather brave ground crew leader. It was then that the Frenchies, en masse, went ballistic, barged through Security and overwhelmed the check-in desk.
Ils demandents (very belligerently) to see the manager. Someone found a pilot’s hat behind the desk and others crowded around, being photographed in airlin gear as the scene became somewhat hysterical. Bags were found and delivered back to owners by members of staff wearing “Visitor” badges. The French organised their own coach, VERY AGRESSIVELY, demanding their baggage then skulking out to sulk in a non-air conditioned bus.
By this stage my new best friends were an English retired couple, a pair of German academics, and a loud Miami Jewish Princess (complete with leopard skin top and gold! Gold! Gold! And lurid red hair and a great line in Zza Zza Gabor jokes) and we were all having the best time doing stoic: “You know: a 4 hour bus ride to Puno is not so bad, we’ll see more f Peru/catch up on sleep/escape the French bullies etc… etc…”
Somehow things got more quiet and more confused at the same time. There was a strike/avalanche/security crisis on the road to Puno. No bus. One of the Americans started whistling the theme to “The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly”.
Desperate measures were needed: I conquered the mysteries of the Peruvian long distance phone system.
After feeding in many coins which were a sleep-deprived complete mystery to me (I had never seen one before 10 this morning) I found my tour company who had been quietly wondering what had happened to the plane. Within 10 minutes, a local courier arrived, shared a bit of muttered Spanish with the quite put-upon but increasingly wonderful ground crew leader who was equally mystified about a bus… then my new best friends and I were bundled into cabs, leaving Les Francais cooling their tempers in a stationery bus of their own organising, going nowhere fast in the airport car park.
…………………………
I’ve now had a rather posh day in a reasonable Spanish pub with food laid on, caught up on sleep and spent the afternoon in the crisp mountain air strolling the cobblestone streets and arched squares of Arequipa. The lattes and dry-baked custards are fine. The churches are stunning colonial confections of grey stone, Inquisition and gold. The town plaza is wonderful, with one shaded side populated by old men with slightly younger typewriters where letters are dictated by the less literate. (People who have seen the movie: “Central Station” will know the territory). I’m booked on a 9pm flight out of here tonight (unlike my new best friends who, as a small tour group, have t cool their heels until tomorrow).
We’ll see what happens at the besser block airport tonight…
To put all of this into perspective, let me describe my “fun” flight from Chile into Lima last night.
This was a flight from Santiago to New York.
This was not a good thing.
Well after we were all seated, a large and loud American family charged down the jumbo jet aisles towards the final two rows where I was dozing inconspicuously.
The were “P.L.O.”: Pushy, Loud; Obnoxious.
As the plane commenced its reverse from the terminal they realised they had been allocated two separate blocks of seats (checked in very late, perhaps????)
As the plane backed out there was much LOUD debate about which two kids would sit alone in a very full plane.
Father (fortissimo): I CANNOT BELIEVE THEY HAVE OT ASKED SOMEONE TO MOVE…” and “LISTEN, BOYS, I WANT TO SIT WITH MUMMY!” The small boys quite excitedly charged 13 rows up, dragging wheeled bags, ricocheting off seats and arm rests of seat belted passengers, as the incomprehensible safety video played and the plane moved forward for take off.
Wife and daughter sat. Dad fumed. Boys couldn’t find stowage for large, wheeled bags (as several passengers rubbed elbows and shoulders which had been assaulted by those same bags). The crew was doing “desperate pleading” by this stage: anything to shut this family up and get them safely sat.
Two of us were asked to move. We did. Willingly: 13 rows away from this “entitled” Family From Hell; anything to get away from these clowns. Dad “did” grateful. Boys added shoulder assaults to previous passengers’ elbow assaults as they charged back down the aisle to Belligerent dad, barking our shins as we collided in the “passing lane”.
The plane accelerated for take off. I slept. Twenty minutes into the flight we were jolted awake by the younger boy bashing our legs: “I LEFT A BAG HERE. WHERE IS IT?”
You know: that child will grow up to be his father one day… and you or your children will be on his plane… experiencing the joys, excitement and glamour of overseas travel.
…………………….
I’m looking forward to a quiet cruise on Lake Titicaca tomorrow morning. I’ll save the gorgeous scenery and travelogues for the post cards.
