I have to admit to being a bit apprehensive. My plans for Bucharest could be seen as either magnificently malleable or insanely non-existent depending on your point of view. My own view had hovered around before coming firmly to rest in the latter camp.
As we landed at what was clearly an afterthought of an airport, I barely suppressed the murmured thought "Fuck me, I'm in a field in Romania." Now would have been a really good time to wake up.
My neighbour, a middle-aged man in a check shirt and baggy jeans, simply stood up and walked off the plane. No carry-on luggage, not even a jacket or newspaper. With his walnut skin and lean looks he gave me the impression that he had been working in the field and had simply popped away for a moment. Now he was back.
In first class a priest adjusted his robes. Head to foot in black he placed a black doughnut of a hat on his cowled head and prodded it to perfection. As we walked off I could see past him to a group of black-clad priests who formed his welcome committee, smiling and taking photos. Later they would sweep past in a convoy of black cars, lights blazing despite the sunlight, precede and followed by wailing police cars. At the time I had no idea: when they look closely at thier photos, in the near background they should see some blond guy with a big idiot grin, waving.
I waited forty minutes for my luggage, still twenty fewer than at Heathrow, and repacked everything into my rucksack. Outside, the taxi drivers descended like wolves on the fold. I managed to lose all but one, who insisted on giving me unnervingly good advice. The bus?
"Downstairs to the right, about forty minutes to town. I give you good ride, about one hour. Eighty Lei good price for you, not me. One hundred Lei good price for me."
It was immaterial. I had pounds sterling, New Zealand dollars, Euros but no Lei.
"Where is the ATM?"
He pointed it out.
"You know how much to get out?" I nodded and he wandered away.
I pushed my card in and was relieved to see language options.
"PLEASE ENTER YOUR SECRET PIN NUMBER!" a voice screamed.
I felt a hundred eyes on me. I stabbed at 300 Lei.
"All right?" a voice on my left said. It was the helpful taxi driver. The ATM machine beeped loudly.
"Take your money" he nodded, and I saw three one hundred Lei notes peeking out at me.
It was hot and I was flustered. I also needed change for the bus. Beer time.
The ghastly Bucharest suburbs gave way to beautiful parks and Caucescu's little attempt at urban planning. I jumped from the bus at Victory Square - five Lei well spent - and made for the Metro. In the bowels and the semi-gloom an unbelievably bent old woman held out an unmoving hand. Equally unmoving passers-by did just that.
At the gates a lady took my five Lei note without even asking where I was going and handed back a ticket and a handful of one Leu notes.
I came up from the Kafkaesque Metro to what was apparently Beirut. Dark grey buildings overlooked a maelstrőm of traffic. A spaghetti of black cables sinewed overhead and great killer slabs of cladding had fallen away from walls. From potholed pavements drunks and toughs eagled everyone and down dark alleys dogs skittered here and there.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
Five down, one to go. London
With sleep snatching away the hours dawn soon came - we were over Greece. Soon the English Channel was underfoot and the patchwork of Kent gave way to the first truly indisputable landmark: the Millennium Dome. Not so useless after all.
A few circuits later we touched down. Six in the morning on an overcast Heathrow day. After twenty years away I was back. After twenty years of increasingly persuasive and frequent dreams, here I was, feeling as if I were dreaming.
But it was a poor dream. Heathrow, as the world's busiest commercial airport was a disgrace. If it was finished it was broken, or closed or just awful. Not dirty per se but the sort of squalor that no number of strange-tongued low-paid immigrants could brush up. The walk from Terminal 3 to 2 had me half expecting to be mugged.
When I got to Terminal 2 I was mugged - ten quid for a shower (if I walked to Terminal 1), five quid for left luggage, one quid for ten minutes on the internet! I told the information lady I'd rather smell thanks, held onto my luggage and spent four quid on the net.
Tarom, the Romanian airline, were checking people in three hours before the flight, so I went into the squalid hole that was Terminal 2 check in and got rid of the bigger of my bags. Once through security I was mugged again, or would have been if I wasn't so tight. Dixons, the electronics retailing chain, offered "Duty Free" prices that were just 10% below what even they said were the high street prices. With VAT at 17.5% it was the archetypal 'Duty Free' rip-off.
At 10.30 in the morning I declined a snifter of whisky in the Whiskies Galore shop but chatted with the Kenyan Indian lady in charge. She showed me a NZ whisky - Milford - I'd never seen in NZ. Mind you I hadn't seen 95% of the other whiskies either.
"I'm tired," I said in Swahili before bidding her "Asante sana" and heading through the ghetto to the gate.
A few circuits later we touched down. Six in the morning on an overcast Heathrow day. After twenty years away I was back. After twenty years of increasingly persuasive and frequent dreams, here I was, feeling as if I were dreaming.
But it was a poor dream. Heathrow, as the world's busiest commercial airport was a disgrace. If it was finished it was broken, or closed or just awful. Not dirty per se but the sort of squalor that no number of strange-tongued low-paid immigrants could brush up. The walk from Terminal 3 to 2 had me half expecting to be mugged.
When I got to Terminal 2 I was mugged - ten quid for a shower (if I walked to Terminal 1), five quid for left luggage, one quid for ten minutes on the internet! I told the information lady I'd rather smell thanks, held onto my luggage and spent four quid on the net.
Tarom, the Romanian airline, were checking people in three hours before the flight, so I went into the squalid hole that was Terminal 2 check in and got rid of the bigger of my bags. Once through security I was mugged again, or would have been if I wasn't so tight. Dixons, the electronics retailing chain, offered "Duty Free" prices that were just 10% below what even they said were the high street prices. With VAT at 17.5% it was the archetypal 'Duty Free' rip-off.
At 10.30 in the morning I declined a snifter of whisky in the Whiskies Galore shop but chatted with the Kenyan Indian lady in charge. She showed me a NZ whisky - Milford - I'd never seen in NZ. Mind you I hadn't seen 95% of the other whiskies either.
"I'm tired," I said in Swahili before bidding her "Asante sana" and heading through the ghetto to the gate.
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Four down, two to go. Dubai
The new seat allocations meant I now had someone better for a neighbour - no-one - although I couldn't sit closer to the repaired engine if I wanted and the smell of petrol fumes as we taxied was a little disconcerting.
For the third time the prayers came up and for the third time I wondered how appropriate was the line "and to our God surely we must return."
In the blackness we flew to Vietnam, then turned westwards across Asia to Dubai.
I adjusted my watch to claim back another 4 hours: it was to be a 32 hour day. I slid across to my non-existent neighbours working entertainment suite and watched some TV and Shrek 3. I was no longer on the list for Halal food apparently, my Moslemness having been revoked. It suited me fine, I was tiring of it already. I was tired in other ways too, so I contorted across the two seats, lay on my two pillows and snatched some sleep, despite my rediscovered skill of becoming fully alert whenever a food trolley hoved into view.
Dubai at midnight was 38 degrees centigrade and before we even landed I was in love with it. From the night air a sea of soft gold and sharp diamonds defined the city. Inside the transit lounge the impression stayed. So this was where money went to die! And lights. Constellations made up the runways. Everything that moved flashed yellow at the night. In an isolated part of the airport dozens of vehicles devoured the passengers of an Emirates plane, all its orifices open and attracting attention.
We parked at the end of the vast tube that was the arrivals hall. Inside time planners advised it was an hour's journey to the far end and back. My kids were right: it was huge.
Even at midnight the place was a cross between Terminal Man, Bladerunner and the Star Wars cafe scene: cosmopolitan, exotic and alive with new experiences.
I was glad, judging from the state of undress of several of my co-travellers ahead, that I broke my 100% record of looking suspicious, and the system spat me out into the city that was the transit hall proper.
For an hour I barely scratched the surface of it all. Gold was big - too popular to get through the two-deep queues - and so were cigars: dedicated shops, dedicated rooms within the shops and a dedicated humidor housing what must be the world's biggest stogie. As thick as my thigh and all of five feet long it was very clever. And totally unsmokeable.
Past the motorcycles and cars to the electronics store where again, I was made to feel like I was just not keeping up with technology and trends. All I wanted was a replacement for my cassette recorder which had decided to die. Recording ambient sounds, rather than dictation, was something nobody did anymore.
Just as casinos never have clocks, so the Dubai transit shopping area seems devoid of information screens. When I did find one, after leaving the shopping concourse, it was in Arabic. Flashing red was probably bad in any language, so I guessed which sequence of squiggles meant 'gate' and applying my knowledge of Arabic numbers, gleaned from three years of Asian and African studies, I headed for gate three. Almost immediately I heard an announcement of the final call for my flight, boarding at gate eight. My education was officially useless, again..
For the third time the prayers came up and for the third time I wondered how appropriate was the line "and to our God surely we must return."
In the blackness we flew to Vietnam, then turned westwards across Asia to Dubai.
I adjusted my watch to claim back another 4 hours: it was to be a 32 hour day. I slid across to my non-existent neighbours working entertainment suite and watched some TV and Shrek 3. I was no longer on the list for Halal food apparently, my Moslemness having been revoked. It suited me fine, I was tiring of it already. I was tired in other ways too, so I contorted across the two seats, lay on my two pillows and snatched some sleep, despite my rediscovered skill of becoming fully alert whenever a food trolley hoved into view.
Dubai at midnight was 38 degrees centigrade and before we even landed I was in love with it. From the night air a sea of soft gold and sharp diamonds defined the city. Inside the transit lounge the impression stayed. So this was where money went to die! And lights. Constellations made up the runways. Everything that moved flashed yellow at the night. In an isolated part of the airport dozens of vehicles devoured the passengers of an Emirates plane, all its orifices open and attracting attention.
We parked at the end of the vast tube that was the arrivals hall. Inside time planners advised it was an hour's journey to the far end and back. My kids were right: it was huge.
Even at midnight the place was a cross between Terminal Man, Bladerunner and the Star Wars cafe scene: cosmopolitan, exotic and alive with new experiences.
I was glad, judging from the state of undress of several of my co-travellers ahead, that I broke my 100% record of looking suspicious, and the system spat me out into the city that was the transit hall proper.
For an hour I barely scratched the surface of it all. Gold was big - too popular to get through the two-deep queues - and so were cigars: dedicated shops, dedicated rooms within the shops and a dedicated humidor housing what must be the world's biggest stogie. As thick as my thigh and all of five feet long it was very clever. And totally unsmokeable.
Past the motorcycles and cars to the electronics store where again, I was made to feel like I was just not keeping up with technology and trends. All I wanted was a replacement for my cassette recorder which had decided to die. Recording ambient sounds, rather than dictation, was something nobody did anymore.
Just as casinos never have clocks, so the Dubai transit shopping area seems devoid of information screens. When I did find one, after leaving the shopping concourse, it was in Arabic. Flashing red was probably bad in any language, so I guessed which sequence of squiggles meant 'gate' and applying my knowledge of Arabic numbers, gleaned from three years of Asian and African studies, I headed for gate three. Almost immediately I heard an announcement of the final call for my flight, boarding at gate eight. My education was officially useless, again..
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
Three down, three to go. Brunei
Brunei.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of 40+ year-old memories something stirs as we fly into Brunei over brown rivers and jungle.
We are here to transfer planes - hopefully not to the one I saw which had its engine in bits..
Oh, God! Squat toilets. Now the memories are complete.
Brisbane was everything I expected it to be: hot, dry and unattractive.
After the flutter with my passport I decided to sit in the correct seat, notwithstanding the fact that I would forgo the entertainment.
My new neighbour was a gaunt Asian man with a gaunt Asian moustache. In the air I noticed him fiddling with the entertainment control. I pushed the button to release it from its recess in the armrest and it popped out.
"I was trying to put it away," he said. They were the only words he spoke to me.
Sleep overcame me and I woke only to food. As we flew over Sulawesi and Borneo the clouds rolled up like frozen surf, a serried sentinel of turbulence guarding the jungle below. Forty-five year-old memories stirred back in my childhood. Heat, humidity and the sight of a city carved out of the jungle took me somewhere close to my earliest memories, but the opulence, comfort and soft lighting of the transit area sent those thoughts scuttling away.
Different memories poked their heads out as I discovered the joys of civilisation did not extend to either Western-style toilets or effectively flushing squat ones. I turned tail.
"Found the toilets?" I asked my aisle neighbour. She grimaced before heading to the internet cafe where I had already reset the security settings to my own specifications.
I wandered around looking at cheap gold, wondering whether the Moldovan one would appreciate a scare, and dusk fell to the sound of a broadcast muezzin calling the faithful to prayer.
My own were answered when I found, tucked away in the bowels of the complex, a proper toilet and a private shower.
As I emerged the flight was called. Someone was still smiling, though with a twist - my record of being pulled out of line for a contact search remains at 100%.
Two down, four to go. Brisbane
"Will passenger blah blah blah please report to the departure gate. Will passenger blah blah blah please report to the departure gate". At least that is how I usually hear these announcements. But this time it was my name that was being called. I'd been caught!
I should have waited until the last leg to pinch the Royal Brunei spoon to add to my collection of pilfered airline cutlery. My clumsy attempt to transfer it from my jacket pocket to my bag during the, I thought, unnecessary security check during transit in Brisbane, had been noted.
I toyed with the idea of chucking it in a bin but decided to brazen it out.
Up to that point I had felt someone smiling down on me - yes, I'd been pulled out of line at Auckland and given a 'contact search', but I had plenty of time and nothing better to do. And when I had discovered a wizened Asian crone in my window seat I let it slide and was rewarded by having the only working entertainment module for rows. After a film ("Wild Hogs") I even swapped my seat with a rather fetching blonde so she could break her boredom. Even my food arrived early as I'd ordered Halal, although each time I have to go through a routine where the stewardess asks incredulously whether I had really ordered Muslim food. Muslims eat French toast and poached eggs for breakfast. Now you know.
Even when I was pulled out of line again at Brisbane and checked for "traces of explosives, sir" it was by another pretty blonde - and I cut the queue again.
But now my luck had changed. Pity.
I went to the gate where an official handed me my passport and boarding pass. They had dropped, unnoticed by me, out of my jacket.
"You'll be needing these," he said and let me jump the queue. Someone was still smiling on me.
One down, five to go. Auckland
There's probably not a better way to see a city than under moonlight, twinkling in the predawn light, sea flat and milky.
I felt no panic, despite the dream.. unless you count the horror I felt when I realised I hadn't got my passport. Last minute packing does that, and getting my passport is not something I do too often.
Watching the passengers I saw a man with half an ear bump his head into the overhead storage and mused that it was exactly that sort of carelessness which led him to his present state of earlessness.
We waited while a cop jumped on board, late, and took off over the picture-postcard scene.
After an uneventful flight we touched down and I banged my head on the overhead storage. Karma: that'll teach me for being such a smug git.
My bag was almost first off the plane and after a stroll to the international terminal I found I had stumbled across the first of the check-ins for the Royal Brunei flight. Straight to the head of the queue where a rather pretty check-in girl made me guess her country of origin - after remarking on my unusual place of birth. I failed miserably despite her taking my metaphorical hand and trying to help. She was 21 and had been in NZ for 18 years, so I felt none too upset that I couldn't nail down her light accented English to her birth place, the Punjab in India. Having been there five times we chatted a while before the sniggering of the other check-in staff became unbearable. The phrase 'you've made an old man very happy' popped into my mind, along with 'you sad old fool' and 'don't tell the Moldovan one' and I wandered off only to find free internet access.
Such a serendipitous start. Will it keep up? Should I have locked my checked-in luggage?
I felt no panic, despite the dream.. unless you count the horror I felt when I realised I hadn't got my passport. Last minute packing does that, and getting my passport is not something I do too often.
Watching the passengers I saw a man with half an ear bump his head into the overhead storage and mused that it was exactly that sort of carelessness which led him to his present state of earlessness.
We waited while a cop jumped on board, late, and took off over the picture-postcard scene.
After an uneventful flight we touched down and I banged my head on the overhead storage. Karma: that'll teach me for being such a smug git.
My bag was almost first off the plane and after a stroll to the international terminal I found I had stumbled across the first of the check-ins for the Royal Brunei flight. Straight to the head of the queue where a rather pretty check-in girl made me guess her country of origin - after remarking on my unusual place of birth. I failed miserably despite her taking my metaphorical hand and trying to help. She was 21 and had been in NZ for 18 years, so I felt none too upset that I couldn't nail down her light accented English to her birth place, the Punjab in India. Having been there five times we chatted a while before the sniggering of the other check-in staff became unbearable. The phrase 'you've made an old man very happy' popped into my mind, along with 'you sad old fool' and 'don't tell the Moldovan one' and I wandered off only to find free internet access.
Such a serendipitous start. Will it keep up? Should I have locked my checked-in luggage?
Panic attacks
I was in free fall, talking to a guy with a parachute, wondering why I decided to plunge to my death.
"Well," he said," you bought the ticket. And indeed I had, a ticket to jump out of a plane without a parachute. I flashed back two days to before the purchase. Easy, I wouldn't buy it.
Then I woke up.
Not a good dream to have two days before you fly.
"Well," he said," you bought the ticket. And indeed I had, a ticket to jump out of a plane without a parachute. I flashed back two days to before the purchase. Easy, I wouldn't buy it.
Then I woke up.
Not a good dream to have two days before you fly.
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