"This is why I'd rather get stuck in China than anywhere else."
Photo by Ben Foster
It was 7:30 am in Frankfurt after two domestic flights from Flagstaff to New York, just a few hour lay-over, and then a trans Atlantic flight to Germany where there would be a 10 hour lay-over before the 13 hour flight to Johannesburg and then another lay-over before the final three hour flight to Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. Ultimately I’d be working in a dinosaur quarry south of the small town of Karonga and living in a camp by a fishing village on the shores of Lake Malawi drinking South African brandy and admiring the Livingstone Mountains rising a mile high in Tanzania 30 miles across the lake. Sometimes it takes a week to get to where one needs to go in this business so being in Frankfurt was still not the half-way point.
The hangover, due to long conversations with an Air Force pilot in the adjacent seat most of the night, was uncomfortable but manageable. It was also a slight irritiation to think of what to do for the next 10 hours. Well, might as well check in for the South Africa Airlines flight, go hang around the transit lounge, and perhaps get some sleep. As of late, I have become somewhat nonchalant about these international escapades. The routine has become perfected to the state of being boring.
The South African Airline’s ticket agent is an attractive sinewy but stern countenanced blonde who looks like she’s waiting for the end of her shift after being up all night arguing with Indians about their seat assignments and carry-on luggage. My intention to check in for the flight 10 hours prior to boarding provokes her to regard me with a sneer. Nevertheless, she performs her perfunctory duties and dismisses me with a condescending air that gives me apprehension about whether my bags are really checked through to Malawi or to perhaps instead to Cape Town or Namibia as retribution for my causing her the inconvenience of performing her duties. It is quite obvious she does not like my type. It must be the cowboy hat that she finds offensive.
OK, my pack is on the luggage trolley, my travel billfold is on top of my pack, and it’s too hot in here, so I take off my jacket and lay it on top of my pack. On the other hand no, I don’t want to carry both my jacket and pack while going through immigration because I won’t have enough hands, so I’ll be a little uncomfortable for a few minutes and put my jacket back on. Just then a mother disciplines her screaming child in front of me. Where was I........ right, I put my jacket back on, secure all zippers on the pack and head for immigration. At immigration I lower the pack to the floor and unzip the top pocket to extract my travel billfold with passport, tickets, and $500 cash.......not there, in my pocket then.......not there, inside pocket then........not there, check side pockets on pack but it can’t be there I never put it there.......right, not there.............SHIT!!!
I race back to the South Africa Air ticket counter where my favorite ticket agent is now in the midst of a conversation with a oriental female passenger. “Please excuse me,” I try to humbly break into their conversation, “has anyone seen a billfold in this vicinity?”
“Oh that billfold” states the agent with a somewhat mischievous smile. “Two men just picked it up off the floor in front of this counter and handed it to me.”
I slowly breath a long sigh of relief.
She continues, “I told them I didn’t want it and that they should take it to Lufthansa.”
“What?” I gasp with the last remaining air in my lungs from my sigh of relief.
“I told them I didn’t want it,” she confirms with a smirk.
“I saw those two men,” admits the oriental woman hastily, “they were just here not more than 30 seconds ago, if you hurry you can probably catch them. They went in that direction.” She indicates pointing through the terminal that could house two football games, a rugby match, and probably the Preakness as well.
Fortunately, it’s only 8:00 am and there are only about 500 people in the complex, but now all the stores are opening (it’s a regular shopping mall), the place is starting to bustle, and I’m beginning to run into people........nowhere..............nowhere........they’re......Wait! “Dr. Müller’s Sex Shop” perhaps.......but no, inside are only two KLM flight attendants giggling while pointing at a stool with a phallus projecting from its seat.
Two men, hell, there are hundreds of two men all over the place. This isn’t going to work. OK, let’s try Lufthansa lost and found at the information desk in the center of the terminal. Upon asking whether anyone turned in a long maroon billfold the attendant reaches under her desk to retrieve a cardboard box which she empties onto the counter to reveal about 15-20 small purses, wallets, passports and a small wrapped present. “Any of these yours?” She asks.
Mine is not among the pile.
“Jesus, all this is just from this morning?” I ask while wondering how the human race gets anywhere when they’re dropping their crap all over the place. Matter of fact, now how am I going to get anywhere?
I return to the airline ticket counter to perhaps glean some more information about the two men but find that my favorite ticket agent has been replaced by a large, bald, bespectacled and kindly gentleman who sympathizes with me and suggests the first thing I should do is file a police report.
This is a simple affair which only entails locating the local airline terminal police office, provide a brief oral description of what happened and fill out a simple form in duplicate. At the end of the tasks I ask the officer what I should do now and he replies there is nothing for me to do now but wait. If they find my travel documents they will announce my name over the public address system. As I slowly walk away sulking, I ponder why the bastards just didn’t take the money and leave the rest of the documents. Because, I suppose an American passport is worth a lot of cash on the black market to the right people.
A wander around the terminal for awhile and wonder about what I’m supposed to think about. I think that I should be patient. No I shouldn’t, I think I should be hysterically running up and down the terminal screaming “WHERE IS MY SHIIIT!!” I think I need a beer. My body tells me it’s 11:00 p.m.
The bar is empty this morning providing me solace and a place to ponder my line of action or inaction. Rather than admire passing attractive women, I prefer to observe the blank wall in front of me and think of the time, date, and potential line of attack to solve this conundrum. There is absolutely no way to contact the rest of the crew south of Karonga. There is no public phone there. Hell, there’s barely enough electricity to run a dim light bulb in that tiny fishing village. No, that line of action won’t do.
Then I think of an alternative, but realize that it won’t work either but perhaps will buy me a little time. There is another alternative, but wait, look, and I notice on the blank wall that in front of me as I visualize different lines of action they intersect at various places in time and the more alternatives I imagine the more the image constructs the form of web. So now I see the complete image in my mind. I’m snared in a web, but if I pull the wrong filament to extricate myself, the whole thing could collapse in upon me leaving me completely mired and for some duration. Can this web be undone without creating any knots?
Am I dreaming? No, this is no dream. If it were a nightmare I’d still be sitting here in the Frankfurt airport trying to figure a way out but I’d be naked.
Critically evaluating this condition continues for several hours. I leave it alone for a while then return to it from a fresh perspective. I’m waiting for the public address system to light up. How long can I wait before I must take some form of action? Lightly and gingerly I repeatedly pluck at the filaments of the problem and then realize which one to select. Do it! Take action now, the police will be of no help, return to the ticket counter, have your boarding pass reissued and just try and leave the country any way possible.
The time is now 11:35.
I return to the ticket counter to find my bald friend is now replaced by another friendly short medium dark-haired gentleman who is also sympathetic to my problem and wishes to be helpful. But when I suggest that he reissues the boarding pass he states that even if I have a boarding pass I would still not be permitted to leave the country at immigration without a passport and I certainly wouldn’t be admitted into the country of my destination. Duhh I think to myself. Of course he’s right. He finally suggests I contact my embassy and eventually provides me with the phone number.
I am now no longer casually walking but am hurrying to find the nearest public phone. Upon finding the phone I notice I have change from the bar to make a call but don’t know the proper procedure. If this is like a British public phone I’ll shoot myself. There’s an information booth. Hurriedly I approach the attendant rapidly repeating “How do I work the phone, how do I work the phone, how do I do it???”
The attendant calmly and condescendingly states “You put two marks in the coin slot and dial your number. What’s wrong with you anyway?”
“WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME? CAN’T YOU TELL I’M HYSTERICAL, THAT’S WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME!!” I scream, turn away, and stomp back toward the phone muttering “fucking Germans.”
OK, calm down. The embassy answers my call and I explain my predicament. The officer asks what the nature of my business is and I reply that I’m in transit on a National Geographic expedition to excavate dinosaurs in southern Africa. She asks if I have filed a police report and when I reply in the affirmative she states that because it’s Friday they close at noon but if I can get down to the embassy before closing they will issue me another passport. She then hangs up.
FRIDAY! I thought it was Wednesday! I look at the clock on the wall: 11:45. I make a dash out the door of the terminal to observe a waiting taxi. God Damn it! I remember I have no German cash. Fortunately, I have emergency American cash, my credit cards, and standard identification stashed in a different section of my pack (always avoid all your eggs in one basket. If my ID and credit cards were in that billfold it would have been curtains).
Quick, back into the terminal to find a foreign exchange! There! Oh no! Look at the line!! It must be 40 ft. long! Look at the escalator descending to the line! Everyone stepping off of it is queuing up in the same line. Oh no now look! There’s an old lady in a sari with coke bottle glasses holding the hand of a five year old girl and her suitcase is in front of her and she doesn’t see that she’s coming to the end and there are 30 people tightly packed behind her! Oh no! she’s reached the end and falls over her suitcase dragging the child with her and everyone behind her is toppling over on top of them in some kind of perverse chain reaction. Oh no, Oh no, Oh......wait a minute, it’s just a flashback as that was a different transit-lounge antic. That was at Heathrow in 1985 (fortunately no one was harmed). But let’s catch our breath take a short respite here to consider:
Transit-lounge antics II.
Which year it was is vague, as is the destination, but the origin of the flight must have been Kenya. All that can be recalled is that it occurred in the Abu Dabi transit-lounge. You know, the one that looks like it was designed by someone on five hits of windowpane. It was 3:00 am or so and to kill layover time Jacobs, my traveling companion and leader of many international expeditions, decided to go upstairs to view the gold and gem shops. I decided to remain on the ground level to look at the Rolls Royce and Jaguars for sale in the duty free. After his perusal of the diamonds and sapphires Lou decides to return to the ground floor via the central escalator which was at the time inoperative. From the top of the stairs he views below him two Arabic women completely shrouded in purdha as they walk half way up the descending side of the stationary escalator. Obviously, they are from a former British colony where driving and ambulatory habits prefer the left side and since the escalator is inoperative how are they to know they are on the wrong side.
You guessed it. This is a “smart” escalator such that when Jacobs’s foot treads upon the top step of the escalator it activates the mechanism setting the automatic descent into operation. But upon realizing the descent of the stairway do the Arabic women admit their mistake and descend to take the correct staircase? No, instead they both fly into a panic and hurriedly attempt to ascend the descending stairway but are making absolutely no gain in elevation. At this point Jacobs has his arms outstretched and palms forward while attempting to say calmly “Please stop...... don’t....... go back,” but the women pay him no heed and as he approaches these two shrouded figures wildly running in place while flailing their arms and trying to lift their cloaks to avoid tripping over them, he is forced to stand up against the railing as flat as possible as he glides smoothly past them. When Jacobs reaches the bottom step of the escalator it automatically shuts off, and he is now viewing two hyperventilating figures both lying on the stairs in a state of exhaustion. And what will be their response when they finally reach the top of the stairway and trigger the top treadle again? These poor women have entered into the realm of Sisyphus. You just can’t get there from here. Now let us return to the plight of our hero:
I am racing the clock and cannot afford to stand at the back of this horrendously long line to secure cash, so I approach the head of the queue where a man has just finished a transaction and I plead to the gentleman next in line that I have an emergency, must get to the embassy in 13 minutes, and may I please butt in front briefly to secure some funds. Most fortunately, he is not only American but a generous Texan who replies “Why certainly pard, you go right on ahead and good luck to ya.” I am out of there in 30 seconds, cash in hand, and into the cab leaning forward in the rear seat panting “The American embassy...FAST!”
The driver starts his cab with a quizzical look on his face and then lazily throws his right arm over the back of his seat while turning to me with a pleasant smile and asks “Excuse me sir, what is......fast?”
Oh great, now I’m supposed to know how to speak German. How the hell...........wait! Now I remember........German war movies:
MAAAACH SCHNELLLLLLL!!!!!
But the sound of my final syllable is drowned out by the roar of burning tires against pavement while I myself am thrown against the rear seat by what appears to be a couple of G-forces. These Mercedes cabs aren’t bad, I think, I bet 0-60 in 3.5 seconds...... 70.... 80... 90... 100.... 110. Many whooshing sounds as the cab careens past the rest of traffic. Perhaps we shouldn’t be going so schnell. Off the freeway (was that the autobahn?), down the off ramp, and around several corners in a four wheel drift, running stoplights and stopsigns and we finally arrive at the embassy. It is 12:00 p.m. precisely.
“Wait here please,” I request of the driver.
“What?” He responds.
“Wait...”
“What?”
Never mind, I think as I step out of the cab, if I don’t pay him he’ll certainly wait.
The guard at the gate informs me the embassy is closed. I tell him I have an appointment and after asking if I’m the gentleman from the airport he allows me entrance.
At the duty officer’s counter I am informed that I’m the first person this week who has had his passport stolen at the airport, but that hey have had six stolen from the train station this week. The duty officer is a charming and cute brunette but that doesn’t prohibit her from severely chastising me for my inattention that caused the loss of the passport. After apologizing profusely and as humbly as possible she demands of me two picture identification cards and asks my mother’s maiden name. Then I fill out several forms and am asked to provide two passport photos (Uh oh is this a knot in the web?). I inform the official that my extra passport photos are in the billfold that was stolen and she informs me there is a coin operated photo booth down the hall (It’s OK it was just a slipknot. They’ve thought of everything here).
After a half-hour wait I am presented with my new passport (temporary but good for three months) with an admonition accompanied by a glare that if I lose this one......(she doesn’t have to finish the sentence). I can hardly praise the embassy staff enough for their unbelievably efficient assistance and consideration.
The next thing I know I am back at the airport approaching the kind gentleman at the Africa Air ticket counter and note the clock over his head. From the time he recommended I contact my embassy to the current moment, precisely one hour has elapsed. Cordially, I request to have my boarding pass reissued as I show him my new passport.
“Wonderful news!” He exclaims. “Where did you find it?”
“I didn’t,” I reply, “the embassy just issued me a new one.”
At this rejoinder the face of this German employee, who prides himself on his country’s unequaled punctual efficiency, turns deadpan and his mouth drops completely open. Behind me I hear a crowd of 50 Americans giving the German republic a Bronx cheer (at least in my imagination I do). Wait, there’s another complication. I require a ticket from Johannesburg to Lilongwe to replace the one I lost and am informed that it would be no problem to purchase one here and that a one-way ticket would of course be insensible. It’s quite a reasonable price at $250 and I hope that the project will reimburse me for this one. If not, the hell with it. I deserve the fine anyway.
Finally, I exit immigration into the transit lounge, find a reclining seat, stretch out, and fall into a deep sleep.
No, I didn’t miss my flight, but am awakened by the gate announcement board which emits the sound of someone shuffling metallic cards and notice that my flight is now boarding. As I approach the gangplank there is a mutual recognition between the friendly portly bald ticket agent and I and while tearing the stub off my boarding pass and smiling he says “Such wonderful luck that you found your passport.”
“I didn’t,” I reply as I walk by, “I just got another one. Thanks very much for your assistance.”
Before entering the gangplank doorway I turn to observe the ticket agent slack-jawed and dumbfounded with his hand out-stretched and staring straight ahead. The passenger behind me is attempting to force her boarding card into his grasp but she might as well have been trying to give it to a mannequin. I descend to the plane and prior to entering the hatch visualize the few remaining strands of the web that can no longer prohibit me from disembarking. I’ll take care of those upon my return. Then I smile to myself while I think of how solving a problem can feel soooo sweeeeeet.
Nearly a full day and night later Elizabeth Gomani from the Malawi Antiquities department and Ph. D candidate at SMU (that’s in Dallas) meets me at the Lilongwe airport with airline tickets to Karonga for the next morning. And yes, my favorite ticket agent did check my bags through to my destination. I hereby owe her an apology for being skeptical.
The next morning before departing the hotel I send a telex to my travel agent Paula asking her to have my return tickets reissued for pickup in Johannesburg next month.
Elizabeth and I land at Karonga airport in the small Beechcraft. Tag! Home! I’ve made it to Karonga, unforturnately with no return tickets out of South Africa, but I certainly rather be stuck here than anywhere (except China). We are met by Jacobs, his hand outstretched and a greeting of “welcome back to Karonga, camp is all set up and waiting for you. The men have done a fine job but our cook is drinking all our liquor.”
“Man,” I reply shaking his hand “I’m genuinely ready to spend a month sitting in a hole in the ground.” “Wonder if I’ll ever get home?” I muse aloud with a satisfied grin as we, the triumvirate, walk accross the landing field to retrieve the luggage.
“What do you mean by that Downs?...............”