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At 12 o’clock precisely, I get inside the taxi that will take me to Madras airport. The young driver turns into out of the hotel
courtyard, into the main street, and immediately starts beeping his horn (as is the custom in these parts) every 30 seconds. The cars on either side are sounding their horns too, as well as the
motorcyclists, trucks and auto-rickshaw that surround us. The trucks have a sign painted on the back that reads "USE YOUR HORN". The cacophony of sound is deafening.
I close the windows to attempt to block out the noise, only to open them again promptly when I realise there are 5 mosquitoes in the back
with me, sharing the ride, all looking for breakfast. Windows wound down; the noise assaults my ears once again. The taxi keeps braking to avoid hitting the auto-rickshaws, pedestrians and cows that
at various times appear suddenly in front of us. The springs of the back seat are so soft, that I am already bouncing up and down, and the ceiling is so low that my head frequently bangs into it. Now
with the constant braking then acceleration, I am also being jolted forwards and backwards. I am starting to get a headache from the noise, travel sickness from the forward, backward jerks, and a
sore head from it banging on the roof. I am also sweating profusely due to the heat inside the cab. I cough as I inhale a lung full of fumes from a passing truck that spews out a cloud of black smoke
as it accelerates. I close the windows again, but open them quickly as the heat is suffocating. So I close my eyes and breathe deeply in an attempt to find some respite from the sensual onslaught.
Five seconds pass and then
"Arrrgggh" I scream as I open my eyes and bolt forward“. What the …?”
"You like music, Sir?" my young driver has switched on the radio at maximum volume; sending one hundred decibels of high voltage
Indian music straight down my left ear.
“You like some nice Indian music, Sir?”
"No!" I bark at him, sinking back into the seat.
"Ok, Sir", he smiles and switches the radio off.
Now that he has my attention, he decides to use the opportunity to practise his English and at the same time improve his chances of a
good tip by being nice to me. I am not having any of it. I know by now that to his way of thinking, one smile equals 10 Rupees, a bit of conversation equals 20 rupees, and a prolonged conversation
should be worth at least 30 rupees.
"You from Sir?" he turns round and flashes his white teeth bearing large brown stains from the effects of poorly treated
drinking water.
"What?" I shout. "What?" I am definitely not in the mood for small talk.
"You from Sir, you from?"
"Where am I from?” In a desperate attempt to kill the conversation, I quickly try to think of some remote place that
he will never have heard of.
“Outer Mongolia" I reply. “I’m from Outer Mongolia”.
"Out Mongoria Sir?" He tries to pronounce Outer Mongolia but can't quite manage it. He has certainly never heard of the
place, but that does not deter him.
"It nice in Out Mongoria Sir, you like?"
I close my eyes again without replying. He now gets the message and the rest of the journey passes without another word, with me
holding onto the back of the seat in front in an attempt to find some equilibrium and also to avoid seeing the constant stream of near-misses as he brakes and swerves to avoid otherwise certain
collisions.
Mercifully, miraculously, we arrive at the airport without mishap. I get out quickly, take my bag and slam the door. For a whole 2
minutes the young driver sits in his cab with the door open. Each time I turn around he is staring hopefully in my direction. Perhaps I have forgotten? The tip? No tip. He is stunned. After all he
had given me 2 smiles and a "You from Sir", that must have merited at least 20 Rupees in his reckoning!
At the Jet Airways office window, outside in the 34-degree heat I inquire about my ticket.
"My name is Curley and I have a reservation. Can I purchase the ticket please?"
There are seven smartly uniformed staff behind the window in an office barely 12 feet square, plus a worker in overalls who has the
task of cleaning the inside and outside of the window. Using his bright orange cloth he diligently passes too and fro across the window right in front of my face as both I and the clerk on the other
side, dodge around him in an effort to maintain visual contact.
As I attempt to explain the situation to the uniformed clerk, he works his way right across the window to the end, and then starts coming
back again. In next to no time I am once again dodging the orange cloth in front of my face, as the uniformed girl moves out of his way to let him in front of her. Off to the left he goes. We resume
our conversation, but no, he is back again in the middle of the window again, this time, leaning over the computer screen.
"Which flight Sir?"
"Delhi".
She checks the computer screen.
"Yes, there is a flight to Delhi at 18.10, Sir"
"I know that, I already have a reservation. Do you want the booking reference?"
"No Sir"
"Well why did your office give me a booking reference then?"
"What is your name Sir?"
"Curley, C-U-R-L-E-Y"
"One moment please." She types at the keyboard then waits for a response. A very long moment passes slow....ly.
"Your reservation has been cancelled Sir. It was held until 12 o'clock".
"But I rang your office in Madras and they said they had extended the collection time until 14.00". (The time is now 13.45,
and the system in operation says that I must collect the ticket no later than 4 hours before departure).
"No Sir, it has been cancelled".
"But they said ... oh never mind. Can I just buy a ticket?"
"Of course Sir, how are you paying?"
"How much is it?"
"$265 Sir"
"How much is it in Rupees?"
"We just use the exchange rate Sir. You must pay in dollars".
"Ok, charge my credit card".
I pass my card through the opening in the glass and wait whilst the assembled staff try to get the swipe machine to work, amidst much
laughing. Eventually the ticket appears along with a credit card slip. When I look at the amount, it is in Rupees.
"But you said I had to pay in dollars" I say to the girl.
"We can’t charge you in dollars Sir, only in rupees"
"But ... oh never mind. Charge me whatever you like as long as I get on that plane".
I sign the slip and with the ticket safely in my hands, make my way to the airport entrance. There are hundreds of Indian people
milling around outside, hoping for the chance to make a few rupees off a rich (by their standards) foreigner. They are not allowed entry into the airport. The armed police at the door make sure that
they stay outside. I show my ticket and they let me in.
In the almost deserted departure lounge I hear a public address announcement.
"Would passengers for flight Bzzzzbbbbblddd" please go to the departure gate as their flight is ready for departure".
What, what was that? I heard everything clearly except the most important bit. I resolve that next time I will listen attentively. I
sit waiting, ears cocked.
After a few minutes, the announcement is repeated. This time I am ready.
"Passengers for flight Crrrrrrrrbzzzzzdip" please go to departure immediately.
No, I had not imagined it. The flight number really was indecipherable. I remembered that I had almost missed a previous flight to
Bangalore because I couldn't understand the announcements. I had arrived at the departure gate an hour early. There were many announcements, but all were unintelligible so I stopped listening to
them. All of the flights left from the same departure gate, as there was only one. There was an electronic display sign over the door that is supposed to show which flight is currently boarding but
it was broken so it had been switched off.
As the time arrived at which the flight was supposed to leave, I asked one of the staff what had happened to the Bangalore flight.
"Are you Mr. Curley?" he asked looking relieved.
"Yes, why?"
"We have been paging you for the last 10 minutes. The plane is ready for take-off. They are waiting for you. Hurry."
I arrived at the plane to the disgruntled looks of the captain and some of the crew who were standing on the tarmac waiting for the last passenger to board. Me.
Three hours to wait before my flight. So I sit there feeling the stares of my Indian co-passengers burrowing into my head, and
watching the scores of brown-uniformed, armed policemen eyeing everyone suspiciously. I am tempted to go through to the departure gate, but I know there will be absolutely nobody there, and I
probably won't get past security, as it is probably not yet even CHK-IN time, let alone SEC-TY time. I would check-in my bags but I can see from where I sit that all four of the check-in desks
are deserted, and when somebody eventually does appear and I hopefully present my luggage they will probably tell me that I can't check-in my bags until 1 hour before the flight, and in any case,
they haven't been "security scanned".
I would go upstairs to the restaurant, but the thought of three white-jacketed waiters all hovering in attendance scrutinizing my
every gesture, watching me drink my tea, waiting for the moment when I might need a refill, deters me. Neither am I in the mood for giving them a 10 Rupee tip each, as they expect.
So here I sit, patiently waiting for the allotted time to check-in my bags, drinking my bottled mineral water. Hopefully flight 9W 824
to Delhi will be announced soon, but will I be any the wiser?
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