flight

We departed from a desolate airport in Johannesburg at one minute to midnight... the day had been hot, extraordinarily bright and mixed with all the gloomy emotions that compete for dominance on the final day spent with family before saying goodbye for an indefinite period of time. I’d left for the airport too early because i don’t like to drag out the misery of the pending goodbye. I also needed to do some shopping for gifts and assumed that the early arrival would give me time to do so. I checked my bags and then went for a drink with my parents. To my surprise, there was a rather calm feel to it and there even seemed to be a certain element of cheer. Perhaps we were all secretly looking forward to having our own space again? Once the drinks were finished, we paid and walked over to security. I hugged my mother and she started to cry. A lump arose in my throat and tears started to sting my eyes. I walked to my dad and hugged him, too. He thanked me for all of the help I’d given him with his computer and for the phone that I had given him. I couldn’t speak so I turned to my mother again and hugged her once more. Then I walked through the weaving maze of iron columns designed to contain a queue of people. It felt ridiculous to weave slowly forward thus when i was the only person in security. I walked through without delay and made my way to passport control. The immigration officers were wearing football shirts (there had been a massive local game earlier in the day) and were sitting around lazily chatting. I walked to the official wearing an Orlando Pirates shirt and handed him my passport. He stamped it without interest and i walked through into the shopping area.

Rather than being the shopping opportunity I had hoped for it seemed I was in a shopping mall after closing time and the shops were gated closed and even most of the lights turned off. It was eerie… I started to worry that the remaining flights had been cancelled or that, at the very least, there would be no staff left to open the gate for boarding when the time came for our plane to go.  I drifted through a shop named ‘Out of Africa’ and felt as if I was sifting through the dead corpses and forgotten relics of an ancient African past. The smell of the place and the dust on many of the items added to this feeling. The only thing modern about the place was the prices being charged for their ageing goods. After this, I resigned myself to sitting at the gate to await my plane. A couple of hours stretched out towards midnight and I sat on the grimy gate seats trying to read through eyes I could barely keep open. I put my headphones on, listened to music, and blankly stared at the people passing through the unusual documentation checks being done at the gate itself.

                Once on the plane I took one of the tranquilisers my mother had given to me and managed to sleep for three or four hours. That helped the time pass. I decided not to watch a film because I was still reeling from the severe disappointment of The Dark Knight Rises, which I suffered through on the flight to Johannesburg. As we began our descent into Amsterdam I found myself thinking about the flight and how pleasant it had been. In my typical way I started to fear the worst for the connecting flight. I’d almost looked forward to Schipol airport because I had some form of fond memory of it… some time passing through in the 90s I had felt happy and thought of it as a beautiful place. But, this time, it seemed to stretch out before me; an empty and meaningless void into which I had to pour my tired loneliness for the next three hours or more. I wanted something to drink but had no Euros and realised I couldn’t use my card because I had not given the bank prior notice of my travels. Having walked around the airport for an hour or so, building up even more of a thirst, I sat down to listen to music and watch people pass by. Whilst sitting so I noticed a currency exchange machine on the wall opposite me. I walked over thinking that I could exchange £5 (all that I had spare) and receive at least 5 Euros in exchange. The machine ripped me off completely and gave me 2.50. This was precisely enough to buy one bottle of water (I somehow left this bottle of water behind a few moments later having only taken a couple of sips).

                At the gate I discovered hundreds of people waiting around even though I was early and started to wonder if there were delayed flights. However, I soon discovered that the gate consisted of many exits all going to various destinations. The information for my flight was listed as: ‘gate opening at 12:40’ and ‘boarding at 12:45’ for a 13:25 take off. Around 12:35 I was surprised that there was still no sign of KLM ground staff, but this thought soon dispersed as a truly beautiful woman – a fellow passenger – walked up from the distance, looked at the information on the screen, and sat down directly in front of me. She had long, black hair, piercing dark brown eyes and beautifully shaped lips. She was wearing a black dress that flowed casually down to the floor and only had a thin strap running over each shoulder. The front of the dress was low cut and her perfectly shaped breasts threatened to do damage to any man who may brave a look. I found myself pining forlornly and gazing into her face without control. The crowd had cleared and she could have chosen any seat to sit in but she had chosen the one before me. I had to force myself to look away, to look at the book I’d had sitting on my lap since I sat down. Then I realised the time was 12:45, boarding time according to the gate information, and yet there was still no KLM member to even open the gate. Around 12:48 a woman from KLM arrived at the gate and started to type away at the computer. 12:55 she was still typing and saying nothing. The passengers stood up and queued at the gate regardless of the fact that there had been no request to do so. 13:00 a bus pulled up beyond the gate doors and the lady at the gate announced boarding. The doors opened and people pushed forwards ignoring the request that certain seat numbers approach first. Onto the bus we crammed and the doors shut. Most of us were standing up, which, of course, one doesn’t mind when it is only for a brief trip from the gate to the plane. The bus set off and seemed to be driving for nearly ten minutes. I began to wonder if we were driving to London. Eventually we reached the plane. The driver stopped the bus, got out, and walked away. The doors remained closed. Although it was a cold day, the sun shone brightly upon the bus and this, added to the fact that we were crammed in, standing, wearing our winter coats, meant that it was extremely warm and uncomfortable.  The driver walked back to the bus, opened his door, and sat inside. Some passengers attempted to get his attention by waving and knocking but it was impossible as there was a four or five foot separation concealed on both sides with thick glass between driver and passengers. Some started to call out ‘Open the doors! There is no oxygen in here.’ The driver got up and walked off again. In bewilderment we all stood on the bus and tried to remain calm. The realisation that something was obviously wrong was starting to set in heavily. It seemed an eternity that we stood in the bus awaiting information or action and, finally, the captain walked down from the plane and stepped onto the bus. He informed us that there was a problem with the brake system of the plane and that the engineers were doing everything possible to resolve this so we could take off in our allotted time slot. Another eternity passed and still we stood upon the bus on the runway in the sun. At this point, another plane taxied in behind us and offloaded passengers and baggage. As the baggage was still rolling off, the pilot and cabin crew emerged from our intended plane and walked over the runway to the one which had just landed. A few moments after they boarded the plane, the bus driver returned and, without a word, drove us over to the replacement plane. The doors of the bus flung open and the passengers cheered as one. However, as if some form of practical joke was being played, it instantly began to rain. We stepped off the bus and started to ascend the stairs of the plane in driving rain and ice cold wind.

                Once in our seats on the plane the cabin crew walked around offering us biscuits. Some idiots started to question the cabin crew about the problems… the witch hunt had begun. Others were placated with their biscuits. The captain began to speak over the loud speaker and informed us that refuelling would take twenty minutes but that we had missed our allotted landing time in London and had to request another. This would take another forty five minutes on top of the twenty for fuel, so we’d have at least one hour and five minutes to wait on the plane before being told when we could leave. I felt suffocated and claustrophobic. I’d been travelling for a long time, I was sad and missing my parents. I was thinking about the fact that no one would be waiting for me at home and that no one really cared if I was back or not and yet I still wanted to get home to my own space. Vacantly I stared out of the window at two bags that had been pulled off our original plane and were lying abandoned on the runway in the rain. I became convinced that one of them was mine and I started to think about the goblet my dad had made for me from a piece of tree that had been cut down… he had made it for me on his 65^th birthday while I was there and was currently wrapped inside my bag. It was the only item I was afraid of losing. It struck me again that there was no one… no one to show my goblet to and to tell the tale of how my dad made this in his shed from a piece of wood he’d shown me while I was swimming. It was his birthday and he had carved a piece of wood into a goblet for me. I recall the pungent smell of the wood as he carved it and how pieces of it flew all over his shed.

                After exactly one hour the captain informed us that we were ready to depart. I felt a wave of excitement. Moments later the plane taxied out to the run way and almost immediately accelerated to take off. The flight was smooth and very short; the pilot must have flown at supersonic speeds in an attempt to make up for the time lost. At Heathrow, collecting my bags, I became involved in conversation with the passengers who had been standing next to me on the bus. The beautiful girl was standing next to us but she did not join in and although I ached to tap her shoulder and ask her for her name I didn’t dare for I assumed she’d be heading home to a boyfriend and that the flight would soon be forgotten as she was washed away in the waves of joy stemming from her reunion with her lover. My phone rang, it was the driver of the taxi I’d booked. He had been watching the flight updates and was waiting for me. At least there was one person waiting to see me.