Autobahnter
“Allahu akhbar. Allahu akhbar. Allahu akhbar,” says the voice overhead, complete with haunting echo. I’m on Air Arabia flight 39505 to Colombo. But only just. Let me wind back for you and tell you the tale of how I came ever-so-close to not being on Air Arabia flight 39505 and not listening to a voice overhead reciting scripture from the Koran.
Having discovered last night that I have the following four days off, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and get out of town. At 11.30pm I was dealt the good news, at 12.30am I booked my flight. I looked at several destination (including Daar Es Salaam, Cairo and Tunisia) but settled on Colombo. My reasoning was two-fold: it was cheaper (Dh905 for return flights) and I actually wanted to go to Sri Lanka. I didn’t bother with accommodation.
I’ve already agreed to go to Dibba on the east coast of Fujairah with Tony and Greg this morning and as my flight is not until 10.30pm, my plans need not be altered. Tone picks me up at the villa at 12pm and we make a (what was supposed to be) short trip to Mall of the Emirates – I want to pick up the Lonely Planet Guide to Sri Lanka. After some food, we finally set off for Fujairah – in a brand new, lemon yellow Corvette no less, which Tony is reviewing it for the paper.
Despite driving along the Arabian autobahn at 240kph (sorry mum!), we don’t arrive at the Sunny Beach resort until 4pm, where we then meet Greg, wife Kate and friend Martin. We go for a snorkel and I take some photos with my new underwater camera. All is well.
At about 6pm I suggest we get going as I still have to pack and it is a fair journey back across the Emirates to Dubai. Tony fancies a coke and washes it down with a “Chocolate Boule”.
I’m back in the Corvette speeding through Arabian Sands by 6.34pm. Even at this stage, we are doing OK. My flight doesn’t leave until 10.30pm and so long as you check in 45 minutes before take-off, you’re fine. Unfortunately for me, at about 8pm we hit some bad traffic and at one point during the soul-searching, fate-cursing, tumultuous hour and 18 minutes it takes us to get home, we travel 2km in 17 minutes. When every second counts, you can always count on Dubai traffic to ruin everything.
21.18: Still need to pack bag and drive to Sharjah airport (which, incidentally, a taxi company reassured me it would take “50 minutes to an hour” to reach from Media City).
21.20: Still need to drive to Sharjah airport. (I would later learn that the bag I packed in 2 minutes and 32 seconds had everything in it that I required – but, tragically, I left my camera, sunscreen and Lonely Planet Guide to Sri Lanka in the Corvette.)
Neither myself nor Tony actually know where Sharjah airport is. But with it being 21.20 and me needing to be there by 21.45, there is no time for us to bother with such minor details. The smell of burning rubber is likely in the air as we speed out of Media City. In a moment of sheer, unadulterated bravery (or was it stupidity? The borderline was so thin it could’ve been either) Tony dismisses the unanimous recommendations to take Emirates Rd and opts instead for Sheikh Zayed Rd.
At Garhoud Bridge at 21.42 heavy traffic hits us again like a blow to the gut by George Foreman in 1974 when he was training to fight Muhammad Ali in Zaire’s Rumble in the Jungle. There is no chance I can make the flight now. Colombo will be added to the growing list, not of cities I have visited, but of cities I have failed to visit because I’ve missed my flight (Palm Springs, Paris, London, Edinburgh…) We had simply left it too late. I have wasted Dh905 and now I will have the next four days in an empty villa in Al Sufouh to mill around rueing the “Chocolate Boule” and where I might’ve been.
Morale is at its deepest, darkest hour as I let out a cry in frustration (“Fuck!”). I called the airport to inform them I was enroute, but the voice simply said: “We will not delay the flight for you. You must be here 45 minutes at least to check in.” Nevertheless, we continue to head for our unknown final destination: there is always a chance, as my Bahamas miracle had proven. (I made my flight from Kansas City Intl to The Bahamas via Baltimore with literally four minutes to spare, ie, four minutes before take-off). But this is not America, this is Sharjah, where and Angry Arab can deny you simply because he doesn’t like the look of you. And we are already five minutes late, and we don’t know where we are going. Then, just as I am concocting a plan to fly tomorrow and come back a day later (“Sorry boss, my flight’s been delayed”) a sign appears on the roadside: “SHARJAH AIRPORT NEXT RIGHT”. I was only five minutes away…maybe, just maybe…
The Corvette’s 20” wheels pound the road as we fly towards the airport. The speed cameras that we had so carefully watched out for just hours earlier are now being ignored in reckless abandon. The end is in sight. My head spins as my mind works on a script for the check-in clerk.
Having appealed to the young Indian’s cricket-loving character, he replies: OK sir, but you must be quick.
But until then, I am back in the yellow Corvette winding up the road towards the departures entrance. There’s a big queue of cars so I jump out, passport in one hand and my flip-flops in the other (can’t run in flip-flops) and make for the entrance. “Park up and bring my luggage in please, Tony!” I shout as I leave him in a jam.
I push and shove my way through the crowd of Indians as they seem to try their darndest to push a luggage trolley over my bare feet. Anybody watching would think I was dancing as I hop from one foot to the other. Finally, I get through and run up to the Air Arabia check-in. There isn’t one for Colombo so I rock up to Lagos, place my passport on the counter and tell the
young Arab woman (no cricket-loving Indian male here. No Sir!) of my plight and my flight. It’s 22.08; I’m 23 minutes late.
The lady gives me my boarding pass and urges me up the escalator. But where is my luggage? It literally is essential: my wallet is in it. I phone Tony who is being booked by a parking attendant and between conversations, he agrees to meet me at the departures entrance. Seconds go by.
They feel like fortnights. Where is he? There he is! He passes me my bag over the heads of three bemused Indians and with a shake of my hand and a shake of his head (No, he did not pick up my other bag containing my camera, etc), he is gone.
I put my flip-flops on, pick up my bag and casually walk up the stairs. After all that it’s only 22.12; I’ve still 18 minutes before I leave for Colombo. Although what I’m going to do there at 4.30am with no accommodation and, alas, no Lonely Planet Guide is another story entirely…
Having discovered last night that I have the following four days off, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and get out of town. At 11.30pm I was dealt the good news, at 12.30am I booked my flight. I looked at several destination (including Daar Es Salaam, Cairo and Tunisia) but settled on Colombo. My reasoning was two-fold: it was cheaper (Dh905 for return flights) and I actually wanted to go to Sri Lanka. I didn’t bother with accommodation.
I’ve already agreed to go to Dibba on the east coast of Fujairah with Tony and Greg this morning and as my flight is not until 10.30pm, my plans need not be altered. Tone picks me up at the villa at 12pm and we make a (what was supposed to be) short trip to Mall of the Emirates – I want to pick up the Lonely Planet Guide to Sri Lanka. After some food, we finally set off for Fujairah – in a brand new, lemon yellow Corvette no less, which Tony is reviewing it for the paper.
Despite driving along the Arabian autobahn at 240kph (sorry mum!), we don’t arrive at the Sunny Beach resort until 4pm, where we then meet Greg, wife Kate and friend Martin. We go for a snorkel and I take some photos with my new underwater camera. All is well.
At about 6pm I suggest we get going as I still have to pack and it is a fair journey back across the Emirates to Dubai. Tony fancies a coke and washes it down with a “Chocolate Boule”.
I’m back in the Corvette speeding through Arabian Sands by 6.34pm. Even at this stage, we are doing OK. My flight doesn’t leave until 10.30pm and so long as you check in 45 minutes before take-off, you’re fine. Unfortunately for me, at about 8pm we hit some bad traffic and at one point during the soul-searching, fate-cursing, tumultuous hour and 18 minutes it takes us to get home, we travel 2km in 17 minutes. When every second counts, you can always count on Dubai traffic to ruin everything.
21.18: Still need to pack bag and drive to Sharjah airport (which, incidentally, a taxi company reassured me it would take “50 minutes to an hour” to reach from Media City).
21.20: Still need to drive to Sharjah airport. (I would later learn that the bag I packed in 2 minutes and 32 seconds had everything in it that I required – but, tragically, I left my camera, sunscreen and Lonely Planet Guide to Sri Lanka in the Corvette.)
Neither myself nor Tony actually know where Sharjah airport is. But with it being 21.20 and me needing to be there by 21.45, there is no time for us to bother with such minor details. The smell of burning rubber is likely in the air as we speed out of Media City. In a moment of sheer, unadulterated bravery (or was it stupidity? The borderline was so thin it could’ve been either) Tony dismisses the unanimous recommendations to take Emirates Rd and opts instead for Sheikh Zayed Rd.
At Garhoud Bridge at 21.42 heavy traffic hits us again like a blow to the gut by George Foreman in 1974 when he was training to fight Muhammad Ali in Zaire’s Rumble in the Jungle. There is no chance I can make the flight now. Colombo will be added to the growing list, not of cities I have visited, but of cities I have failed to visit because I’ve missed my flight (Palm Springs, Paris, London, Edinburgh…) We had simply left it too late. I have wasted Dh905 and now I will have the next four days in an empty villa in Al Sufouh to mill around rueing the “Chocolate Boule” and where I might’ve been.
Morale is at its deepest, darkest hour as I let out a cry in frustration (“Fuck!”). I called the airport to inform them I was enroute, but the voice simply said: “We will not delay the flight for you. You must be here 45 minutes at least to check in.” Nevertheless, we continue to head for our unknown final destination: there is always a chance, as my Bahamas miracle had proven. (I made my flight from Kansas City Intl to The Bahamas via Baltimore with literally four minutes to spare, ie, four minutes before take-off). But this is not America, this is Sharjah, where and Angry Arab can deny you simply because he doesn’t like the look of you. And we are already five minutes late, and we don’t know where we are going. Then, just as I am concocting a plan to fly tomorrow and come back a day later (“Sorry boss, my flight’s been delayed”) a sign appears on the roadside: “SHARJAH AIRPORT NEXT RIGHT”. I was only five minutes away…maybe, just maybe…
The Corvette’s 20” wheels pound the road as we fly towards the airport. The speed cameras that we had so carefully watched out for just hours earlier are now being ignored in reckless abandon. The end is in sight. My head spins as my mind works on a script for the check-in clerk.
GM: Hi sir, I’m booked on the 22.30 flight to Colombo. I’m terribly sorry, but I
got caught in some horrendous traffic.
SIR: I’m sorry sir, you are
too late, this desk is closed.
GM: But you don’t understand. It’s
essential that I get on that flight.
SIR (a young Indian in my imagination): And why is that sir? If it was essential, you should have been here on time.
GM: I’m a sports reporter for Emirates Today and I have an interview with the Sri Lankan World Cup cricket team… well, Lasith Malinga and Mahela Jayawardene, at 10am tomorrow in Colombo. I can’t miss it.
Having appealed to the young Indian’s cricket-loving character, he replies: OK sir, but you must be quick.
GM: Of course sir.
But until then, I am back in the yellow Corvette winding up the road towards the departures entrance. There’s a big queue of cars so I jump out, passport in one hand and my flip-flops in the other (can’t run in flip-flops) and make for the entrance. “Park up and bring my luggage in please, Tony!” I shout as I leave him in a jam.
I push and shove my way through the crowd of Indians as they seem to try their darndest to push a luggage trolley over my bare feet. Anybody watching would think I was dancing as I hop from one foot to the other. Finally, I get through and run up to the Air Arabia check-in. There isn’t one for Colombo so I rock up to Lagos, place my passport on the counter and tell the
young Arab woman (no cricket-loving Indian male here. No Sir!) of my plight and my flight. It’s 22.08; I’m 23 minutes late.
“OK sir, where is your luggage?”
“It’s coming. It’s just coming;
can I go and get it?”
“There is no time. We need to check your
luggage in now.”
“OK, in that case, I don’t have
any”
“You don’t have any luggage?”
“No. Just
hand-luggage”
“Just a purse? OK sir”
The lady gives me my boarding pass and urges me up the escalator. But where is my luggage? It literally is essential: my wallet is in it. I phone Tony who is being booked by a parking attendant and between conversations, he agrees to meet me at the departures entrance. Seconds go by.
They feel like fortnights. Where is he? There he is! He passes me my bag over the heads of three bemused Indians and with a shake of my hand and a shake of his head (No, he did not pick up my other bag containing my camera, etc), he is gone.
I put my flip-flops on, pick up my bag and casually walk up the stairs. After all that it’s only 22.12; I’ve still 18 minutes before I leave for Colombo. Although what I’m going to do there at 4.30am with no accommodation and, alas, no Lonely Planet Guide is another story entirely…
posted by Sheikh Gareemi Nahan at 11:07 PM
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