Trying to Get to Mexico (2003)

Every trip has to start with the dramas of air transport, because getting there is never guaranteed from Africa, and never seems to go smoothly. This was the route: Starting with a two hour flight from Bulyanhulu, just south of Lake Victoria, on the company Dash 8 (seats about 35 people) to Dar es Salaam, leaving at 10 AM. On arrival at the domestic airport the company mini van dumps us at Dar es Salaam international airport. The guards will only allow passengers into the terminal two hours before their flight, so we kill time with lunch at the Flamingo restaurant above the terminal, rather than wait for a chance to sit and sweat on the two continuously occupied park benches outside the terminal. This is our last chance for African food poisoning. Fish n chips with hot pink ketchup.

Check in, departure 3:20 pm. 3.5 hour flight to Johannesburg. One hour time difference (South Africa is 1 hour behind Tanzania), two hour layover at Johannesburg airport then a 17 hour flight to New York City via Ilha del Sol, a previously unheard of island lying off the coast of Ghana, used as a refuelling station. The plane bursts a critical hose and so we spend three hours in the middle of the night on Ilha rather than the scheduled one hour. I have two hours before my flight to Miami from New York City so I am doomed. But not to worry, booms the confidence inspiring captain over the intercom, they have radioed ahead and South African Airways ground staff in NYC have checked our flight schedules and have rescheduled all our connecting flights. Just check with the ground staff and they will assist. Phew.

I land, make it through customs (this is always a nervous procedure for those of us who have, um, maybe forgotten to file a tax return for the past, um, 14 years), and ask to see the ground staff so I can find out about my rescheduled flights. But I see no friendly helpful South African Airways ground staff eager to assist with my reconnections. Airport staff say perhaps they are waiting on the other side of that door eager to assist, no, they are not there, hmm, perhaps they are beyond the next door, nope, the next one? Finally I am spat outside, no ground staff anywhere, and they won’t let you back inside the terminal once you step through that final door to the outside world. I see the captain leaving and complain to him about the no ground staff situation, he says, I suggest you take control of your own destiny, run to your next terminal, you never know, your flight might be delayed. So I make a run for the terminal bus and get to the check in counter 2 seconds after my flight leaves. Oh well. And don’t you know, the non-existent South African Airways ground staff have in fact NOT rescheduled my flights.

The guy at the American Airlines counter says not to worry, just telephone them at this number, toll free, but you have to put in 50 cents or something to get the call to go through first. Well Pammie hasn’t got any American coins. So this guy lends me 50 cents or whatever it costs to make a telephone call these days out of his own pocket. I dial up, and reschedule my own flights, thanks a lot South African Airways ground staff. I give the counter guy his change back. Now I have five hours to kill at John F. Kennedy international airport. I could go into town but what do I do with my luggage, they don’t do lockers these post Sept 11 days.

So I get to know all the scary black hustlers who hang around airports directing confused travellers and their bulky luggage to their terminals, hoping to intimidate them into tips. I ask them which are the best terminals to hang in, since there’s 9 terminals. I ride in circles from terminal to terminal on the bus, and see the same guys from time to time, we are becoming familiar, they say to me, see ya in terminal 6! Now I have a chance to eat some US food, yowza. So what do I do just before going to Mexico, I go to a perfectly spotless white brushed steel Mexican place (never a décor to recommend a Mexican place) and have a not very good freezer style burrito. Hmm. Should have had that fatburger at TGI Friday’s in terminal 9 after all. So I decide to travel to terminal 9 anyway and have dessert at TGI Fridays and order a hot fudge brownie sundae. It is incredibly sweet and I can only eat two spoonfuls. Disappointing. I am always surprised by how poisonously sweet American food is, I don’t remember it being like this.

Now I’m thinking, wow, I can buy some cool sunglasses for cheap! Maybe a nice watch! Some American clothes! But those terminals are useless, nothing in them. No internet café!! You would never even know you were in the US in fact if you landed there blindfolded. Every one is speaking Spanish.