The next day has little in store for us. I walk around town in the morning, accosted by merchants and wanna be tour guides offering their services. Eventually there is Ali, a Muslim with the trademark overgrown beard who offers to take me to some places, most notably his own bazaar shop. The guy’s English is impeccable. Eventually I manage to buy a silk shirt made in Kashmir, a belated Valentine’s Day gift for my wife.
We have a good breakfast, but then it’s time to pack up and hit the road. Remember the three part plan I explained that is so crucial to reaching your destination? The driver is wonderful and gets us to the airport with plenty of time to spare. The check-in is a breeze.
Then disaster strikes. We make the ill-fated decision to actually take our stroller through customs and security, assuming (remember the rule?) this super power understands that this will speed up things. Stroller or none, we expect Indian officials to not let us wait for hours in a line and pay dearly for it.
Meanwhile, our comfortable margin of time is quickly evaporating. Officials won’t let us go through the security fast track, so now it is up to the mercy of fellow travelers to get what we want. Luckily, a friendly British couple takes pity on us, and we are almost at the beginning of the line. I go through first, checking the laptop and Liebi’s carry-on. There is no order here at the airport, people push and shove their way toward the x-ray machines, the officials themselves merely wish to prevent a stampede, although a few choice words here and there would alleviate this nightmare immensely. It is impossible to carry a baby and a toddler through this, something that goes blissfully unnoticed by airport guards. Yep, you sure are a superpower, India. Or should I say, incredible.
Axl goes with me, and we get through unscathed. I also admit that by now I have abandoned any modicum of decency and join in on the rugby game, Axl pressed to my belly. Sorry, Axl. Not surprisingly, though, at twice the size of Indians and Nepalis, I win this one. Add Axl to the package and we are 220 pounds, rolling through an Indian mob. High five.
Now I need to harass the officials to let my wife through. I do not snap at any time here, because by now I know better. Yelling at an airport can earn you all sorts of hitlist points. At the same time, though, there is my wife with a six month old baby that needs to get through there, now. Needless to say, men and women are separated at the security checkpoint, for obvious reasons. Yet Liebi can’t get through the crowd of forty or so trying to wedge themselves through this made-for-one metal detector, so I seek out the boss and tell him to get my wife through the detector unharmed. I tell him I will jump over there myself and do it, if need be. Meanwhile, Axl is crying in the stroller. Poor guy. He’s been such a rock throughout the whole travel thing. I think I would have hated myself and if I had been an Indian airport security guard that day. So be it. A lack of professionalism and decency and incompetence will earn you that. I get the hammer for assuming things could run smoothly. Looks like a draw here, a scoreless one at that.
But no, India must win this one today. And they do so decisively.
First, Liebi and Bash make it through all right. Good thing. But the stroller is still on the other side. The Indian guards do bobble head doll movements (yes or no? We still don’t know what that means), and leave the stroller stuck inside the crowd of forty. Could Liebi have gotten through with Bash on the stroller? Only if you think that you can thread an elephant through a keyhole.
But more help makes up for the brutal incompetence of these jackasses. An old Irish couple this time collapses the stroller and pushes it through the checkpoint. Of course the stroller can’t fit into the x-ray machine (I only assumed it would), so you will have to lift it and have the Indians cram it under a microscope to take a better look at it. The stroller makes it to us. God bless the Irish. We have the stroller, and the boys are buckled in so we can retrieve hand bags and stroller. We are late for the plane. We are missing stamps and permits and run back and forth and in circles to attain all of these.
Then, uncharachteristically, Liebi snaps. There is an elderly women who is in the way of the stroller's path.
"GET OUT OF THE WAY!" she barks. And you will never hear Liebi snap like that.
Ferenc, a Hungarian contact we know from Kathmandu joins us and is equally nervous. Not a bad thing, I’m thinking. They won’t fly without us now.
We have everything together until we reach the last passport control downstairs. Damn it. A stamp is missing on Axl’s ticket. I need to wing it back upstairs and take Axl with me. Incredible. Thank God for being in shape. I lug Axl’s thirty-five pounds with me up the stairs, reach the counter with the immigration official before the pretty customer service rep does and repeat the whole process, this time in reverse, going downstairs.
We make it but leave later than we’d expected. This is the first time I have ever held up a plane. The boys fall asleep before we even take off, and Liebi and I share a Tiger beer (and a laugh, believe it or not, over this bloody fiasco) as we look out at the approaching Himalayas.
What have we learned? Again, expect the unexpected. A few days later, I watch a speech given by Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. He states that we must ‘deliver what we promise’. This is more in tune with the recent environmental summit in Kopenhagen, but he no doubt is reflecting his own country’s stance. India is full of potential, but is still inherently third world, a billion plus people with a great percentage of poverty, no matter what the status. Ask this country to be like the west and you might as well ask a cat to leave mice alone and, what the heck, the canned food too and feed on grass instead.
India is certainly a great country with loads of potential. I wish them well. I just hope I don’t go back there in the foreseeable future.
We have a good breakfast, but then it’s time to pack up and hit the road. Remember the three part plan I explained that is so crucial to reaching your destination? The driver is wonderful and gets us to the airport with plenty of time to spare. The check-in is a breeze.
Then disaster strikes. We make the ill-fated decision to actually take our stroller through customs and security, assuming (remember the rule?) this super power understands that this will speed up things. Stroller or none, we expect Indian officials to not let us wait for hours in a line and pay dearly for it.
Meanwhile, our comfortable margin of time is quickly evaporating. Officials won’t let us go through the security fast track, so now it is up to the mercy of fellow travelers to get what we want. Luckily, a friendly British couple takes pity on us, and we are almost at the beginning of the line. I go through first, checking the laptop and Liebi’s carry-on. There is no order here at the airport, people push and shove their way toward the x-ray machines, the officials themselves merely wish to prevent a stampede, although a few choice words here and there would alleviate this nightmare immensely. It is impossible to carry a baby and a toddler through this, something that goes blissfully unnoticed by airport guards. Yep, you sure are a superpower, India. Or should I say, incredible.
Axl goes with me, and we get through unscathed. I also admit that by now I have abandoned any modicum of decency and join in on the rugby game, Axl pressed to my belly. Sorry, Axl. Not surprisingly, though, at twice the size of Indians and Nepalis, I win this one. Add Axl to the package and we are 220 pounds, rolling through an Indian mob. High five.
Now I need to harass the officials to let my wife through. I do not snap at any time here, because by now I know better. Yelling at an airport can earn you all sorts of hitlist points. At the same time, though, there is my wife with a six month old baby that needs to get through there, now. Needless to say, men and women are separated at the security checkpoint, for obvious reasons. Yet Liebi can’t get through the crowd of forty or so trying to wedge themselves through this made-for-one metal detector, so I seek out the boss and tell him to get my wife through the detector unharmed. I tell him I will jump over there myself and do it, if need be. Meanwhile, Axl is crying in the stroller. Poor guy. He’s been such a rock throughout the whole travel thing. I think I would have hated myself and if I had been an Indian airport security guard that day. So be it. A lack of professionalism and decency and incompetence will earn you that. I get the hammer for assuming things could run smoothly. Looks like a draw here, a scoreless one at that.
But no, India must win this one today. And they do so decisively.
First, Liebi and Bash make it through all right. Good thing. But the stroller is still on the other side. The Indian guards do bobble head doll movements (yes or no? We still don’t know what that means), and leave the stroller stuck inside the crowd of forty. Could Liebi have gotten through with Bash on the stroller? Only if you think that you can thread an elephant through a keyhole.
But more help makes up for the brutal incompetence of these jackasses. An old Irish couple this time collapses the stroller and pushes it through the checkpoint. Of course the stroller can’t fit into the x-ray machine (I only assumed it would), so you will have to lift it and have the Indians cram it under a microscope to take a better look at it. The stroller makes it to us. God bless the Irish. We have the stroller, and the boys are buckled in so we can retrieve hand bags and stroller. We are late for the plane. We are missing stamps and permits and run back and forth and in circles to attain all of these.
Then, uncharachteristically, Liebi snaps. There is an elderly women who is in the way of the stroller's path.
"GET OUT OF THE WAY!" she barks. And you will never hear Liebi snap like that.
Ferenc, a Hungarian contact we know from Kathmandu joins us and is equally nervous. Not a bad thing, I’m thinking. They won’t fly without us now.
We have everything together until we reach the last passport control downstairs. Damn it. A stamp is missing on Axl’s ticket. I need to wing it back upstairs and take Axl with me. Incredible. Thank God for being in shape. I lug Axl’s thirty-five pounds with me up the stairs, reach the counter with the immigration official before the pretty customer service rep does and repeat the whole process, this time in reverse, going downstairs.
We make it but leave later than we’d expected. This is the first time I have ever held up a plane. The boys fall asleep before we even take off, and Liebi and I share a Tiger beer (and a laugh, believe it or not, over this bloody fiasco) as we look out at the approaching Himalayas.
What have we learned? Again, expect the unexpected. A few days later, I watch a speech given by Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh. He states that we must ‘deliver what we promise’. This is more in tune with the recent environmental summit in Kopenhagen, but he no doubt is reflecting his own country’s stance. India is full of potential, but is still inherently third world, a billion plus people with a great percentage of poverty, no matter what the status. Ask this country to be like the west and you might as well ask a cat to leave mice alone and, what the heck, the canned food too and feed on grass instead.
India is certainly a great country with loads of potential. I wish them well. I just hope I don’t go back there in the foreseeable future.
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