I.R.PIRATE
26th Jan 2009, 11:39
Picked up from "another" site...:hmm::hmm::hmm::D:D:D
Day 1
By the dawn of day 1, it had already been too long. 31 years dreaming of my Hadj - my mission to aviation mecca, Oshkosh
The last few hours before dawn were spent dreaming, eyes open – about swarms of Mustangs, homebuilts, and everything else that could fit into Whitman airfield’s 13000 odd parking spaces.
As has become the norm in so many households worldwide, flying SAA (aka South Zimbabwe Airlines) is done when all other options, including uni-cycling, leopard crawling and / or swimming (if you’re not a PDI) have been exhausted. The tour had booked SZA, and thus in order to facilitate easier transits and baggage dependability; I booked SZA for my flight from Durban to JHB.
I WAS BLOWN AWAY. The flight left exactly on time, and arrived in the same fashion, however what really made me wonder whether I was perhaps cruel in my judgement of the South African tax-payers pride, was the in-flight service. It was impeccable. Friendly faces, courteous manners, and most importantly, a clearly visible pride in the job at hand. I could not believe it, as all previous experiences riding on the SZA gravy planes, had been less than worth writing home about. I couldn’t figure it out, but once I opened my newspaper that was handed to me with a smile, it all fell into place.
No I hadn’t traveled back in time to the days when the SZA was a nation’s pride, I realized that today a COSATU mass action was taking place, translating into what I can only hazard must have resulted in SZA contracting in PEBBPA ( previously employed before becoming previously advantaged) cabin crew to stand in for the ama-strikers. You see, in our colour blind rainbow society, I had missed one glaring fact. The cabin crew was made up of middle aged, pale ladies. I have nothing more to say about that, other than, COSATU, please keep on doing what you are doing, so we can enjoy flying SZA again.
Having been so pleased with the service on board; the fact that I was later to encapsulate myself in Airbus’ most torturous plastic traveling tube, the A340-200 almost seemed survivable. The name “A340-200” itself does not instill the fear and loathing I am trying to bring across. With an entertainment system recovered from Mt.Ararat, off the Ark Mk.I, and seats that could make a prozac powered, greenpeace dwarf kill baby whales, the -200 is SZA’s not-so-secret shame – or at least it should be, but then again the fatcats running the show would never set foot in “that part” of the aircraft. They are not missing much as they wouldn’t fit into the cushioned torture device anyway.
With eagerness running at high levels, I decided to check myself in six hours before the flight, in an attempt to convince the sullen faced, monosyllabic chappie-clicker behind the counter, that I required an emergency exit seat. Success! Deciding to while away my morning watching the aircraft movements from the aircraft viewing deck, I was mildly surprised to find that the entire viewing deck area, save for two or three seats had been taken over by a large flock of Yellow Vested Chicken Chewers. I have to admit that being airport security / ramp staff must be extremely tiring, and famishing, hence the mass migration to the viewing deck where chicken could be chewed, and fingers licked. The one or two seats I mentioned that were not annexed by the YVCCs were taken up by what seemed to be the corpses of other random airport workers – all very understandable , of course, considering the fact that these poor souls are tormented by boogeymen and tokoloshes all night. Where better than to ‘die’ for a few hours than the bench on the viewing deck, during work hours – a time when no self respecting tokoloshe would make an appearance. With the viewing deck out of the question, I made my back to the lounge, leaving behind the sounds and smells of finger lickin’ and rainbow chickin’.
Roll on boarding time, and once more Mr.Eager has ensured that he is right at the front of the gate…camera gear takes up loads of room in the overhead, so its always good to get onboard ahead of the other self loading freight….of which there were interestingly, only about 120. At the gates the staff were furtive, casting sneak peaks from behind a corner to see if we were still there. Forty minutes after the planned boarding time, a staff member, perhaps in dire need of some finger lickin chickin, stuck his head around the corner to see whether all 100 and something of us had somehow miraculously disappeared. Alas, but for him, an irate American passenger, whom I had been placating (albeit pointlessly) about time and its total irrelevance on the African continent, took it on to himself to walk to the corner where the staff were hiding to enquire as to the delay.
This had a rather strange effect on the staff member, who proceeded to walk the 30 yards to where the pax lined up, and closed the door in their faces. Ironically the fact seemed to go amiss on our service providing fellow that the door was made of glass and fully transparent. While chatting furiously on their radios, I watched as various levels of “couldn’t’ give a ****”, “they should be thanking us for allowing them to flysaa” , and “oh ****, what do we do now?!” washed over their faces….it was clear that all was not what it should be.
Finally after much deliberation as to whom will be the bearer of bad news, a brave soul detached itself from the huddled group, threw open the glass doors and uttered these life changing words: “Flight is cancelled”.
Now in most society it would be considered couth to remain in place after making such a profound statement. Not this lady. Before I could look around to inquire as to the nature of such a remark, she had Marion Jonesed it out of sight. This left a dilemma for the three remaining on the other side of the glass door. There were now 120+ angry travelers demanding answers – betweem them and freedom, and possibly a piece of the Colonel’s crispiest.
One by one they flung open the glass door, and bolted their way through the crowds, roughly the same mantra being uttered by each swastika that blurred its way past us: “Flight is cancelled”. “Flight is cancelled.” “Flight is cancelled”. For a brief moment real panic set in; Flight – and everything the Wright brothers fought for , CANCELLED? That would mean Oshkosh cancelled, and OMG how the hell would I get back to Durban…?
Luckily I came to my senses, realising that no matter how defiantly Khaya Nqcula can lie straight faced on tv, no matter how the company pilots believed they could walk on water, and no matter how much the cabin crew could perpetually appear to hate flight – SZA could never cancel flight. Only important companies could pull off such a move.
Ok, so its just OUR FLIGHT that was cancelled, not FLIGHT in its totality, though one could have been excused for believing otherwise, the way the staff disappeared in clouds of dust – perhaps believing that along with FLIGHT being cancelled, the airport would collapse too.
So there we were…we knew it had been cancelled, we knew we were going nowhere, and we also knew that inevitably our onward flights from Heathrow had gone down the tubes. What we didn’t know is : what next??
Finally the announcement we had all been waiting for:” Bla bla bla SZA wishes to announce bla bla – technical reasons. Technical reasons – the world’s most perfect excuse, employed by SZA to explain anything from baggage abortions, to flights being cancelled, to the reason they need another 5 billion (yes billion) rand bailout from the taxpayer each year. Very technical indeed.
Anywhere else in the world, you would expect to be guided to the next step of your aborted departure by somebody in a position of authority. Not with SZA. In times of turmoil, not only does anyone do all persons in positions of authority vanish, even all the positions vanish, including the janitor, pop-corn girl, and the CEO’s praise singer.
Enquiring from ACSA (another clown show afoot) as to our next move was met with a mixed batch of shrugs, tongue clicks and one rapid fire instruction:” you must go back and clear back into customs.
Now anyone who has had any dealings with the Sarcophagi that man the booths of hell, will know that negotiation is futile. Your mere presence is a waste of their important time, not to mention now having to explain arriving from a flight that never landed, let alone boarded. After first appearing at the wrong counter, and being reprimanded sternly for disturbing the one man 2010 dream session that was happening behind counter #1, we were told in no uncertain terms :” Go there “(which was accompanied by a finger, pointed somewhere between 70 degrees and the vertical, with a mild easterly inclination.”
So off we trudged once more, walking sticks, wheelchairs and kids akimbo – a cursing mass, with no guidance. On arrival at terminal 2 customs, we were once more refused entry into the country we had never left, and once more ignored by vast tracts of staff, who were interested in the inner working of their nostrils, the coke vending machine, and in ensuring that the walls of the building did not come crumbling down, due to no one propping them up.
Finally a voice of authority boomed out over the loadspeakers:” bla bla bla SZA apologises bla bla…all go to the business class lounge…” Which of course we did. We were told that those in wheelchairs had been accommodated on the next flight, which although it may seem crass, I believe is a bad move, as there were a large number of passengers who had to catch connecting flights for business, presentations and performances, in other words, keep the global cogs turning. This was made all the worse by one of the old coffin dodgers sporting a shirt saying :” I might be old, but at least I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. If that’s the case, you don’t need to be on the flight either – cheers.
The rest, well, we were to be transported to hotels in the vicinity to spend the night. Fine. So how do we get out of ORTIA ( overbearing reason to incite anger)? Well back to ructions and mutilation to have our passports stamped back in to the country…and to collect our bags before being spirited away in taxis that were reportedly tearing their way down to ORTIA to appease SZA’s loyal cash cows.
We waited, and waited, and when we felt like waiting no longer, we waited some more, as all three the booths, although manned/womanned were trying their utmost to convince us that we had since become translucent -or maybe the poor things were just night-blind, but I was nearly convinced that I was invisible. Once more, when the patience wore thin, a passenger approached the desk to enquire as to the reason for our delay. As all highly trained ORTIA operatives have been taught to speak, the easter-island-statue grunted in one syllable, “no GENDEC”.
Now anyone who has worked on the front end of international travel will know that when clearing customs and immigration, a very special piece of paper is required. This list containing passenger names and points of departure, truly a mystical piece of paper, stood between us, and freedom. The officials know where to get this paper, the passengers don’t, but due to a total lack of SZA positions in the area, and absolute hatred of the ructions and mutilations staff to do anything other than stamp and grunt – we were once more stuck up a creek with no GENDEC.
An enterprising and somewhat brave passenger decided to take an official grasp on the situation – well, he actually took an official in his own hands and instructed him to lead him to an office where the illusive GENDEC might be found. Like a prize fighter clutching the severed head of his opponent, the passenger returned bearing the GENDEC aloft, much to the dismay of the stoic stampers, who seemed most disappointed that they have to exert themselves, by granting us access back into the country we never left.
Due to the arrival of inbound flights, and the lack of carousel infrastructure to handle one cancelled flight, along with the rest of the usual scheduled traffic, our bags were found in a massive pile in the corner of the arrivals hall, arranged, so to speak, in what reminded me of a funeral pyre – to service, and staff that care about more than just putting money in their pocket at the end of the month. Another hour spent jostling with passengers to get out of customs and into the land of the free, saw us once more gathering at the front of the airport building. Three by three, the thankful passengers mounted the wave of taxis that descended upon the airport, to whisk us away to a destination yet unknown (which was luckily only a km away).
Check in was remarkably smooth, no doubt thanks to the lack of SZA intervention, however it was made blatantly clear that we were allowed to eat a meal to the value of $ 16, and no alcohol would be included. Understandably, because trust me, at midnight, angry passengers aren’t exactly thinking of EATING their tax money’s worth…
Not sure whether the hotel contracted in SZA staff to serve the passengers at the restaurant, because besides being a heavy smoking restaurant in the middle of the casino, the service was to die from, with many people still going to bed unhappily, even after all the airline had done for them. Ingrates.
Day 1
By the dawn of day 1, it had already been too long. 31 years dreaming of my Hadj - my mission to aviation mecca, Oshkosh
The last few hours before dawn were spent dreaming, eyes open – about swarms of Mustangs, homebuilts, and everything else that could fit into Whitman airfield’s 13000 odd parking spaces.
As has become the norm in so many households worldwide, flying SAA (aka South Zimbabwe Airlines) is done when all other options, including uni-cycling, leopard crawling and / or swimming (if you’re not a PDI) have been exhausted. The tour had booked SZA, and thus in order to facilitate easier transits and baggage dependability; I booked SZA for my flight from Durban to JHB.
I WAS BLOWN AWAY. The flight left exactly on time, and arrived in the same fashion, however what really made me wonder whether I was perhaps cruel in my judgement of the South African tax-payers pride, was the in-flight service. It was impeccable. Friendly faces, courteous manners, and most importantly, a clearly visible pride in the job at hand. I could not believe it, as all previous experiences riding on the SZA gravy planes, had been less than worth writing home about. I couldn’t figure it out, but once I opened my newspaper that was handed to me with a smile, it all fell into place.
No I hadn’t traveled back in time to the days when the SZA was a nation’s pride, I realized that today a COSATU mass action was taking place, translating into what I can only hazard must have resulted in SZA contracting in PEBBPA ( previously employed before becoming previously advantaged) cabin crew to stand in for the ama-strikers. You see, in our colour blind rainbow society, I had missed one glaring fact. The cabin crew was made up of middle aged, pale ladies. I have nothing more to say about that, other than, COSATU, please keep on doing what you are doing, so we can enjoy flying SZA again.
Having been so pleased with the service on board; the fact that I was later to encapsulate myself in Airbus’ most torturous plastic traveling tube, the A340-200 almost seemed survivable. The name “A340-200” itself does not instill the fear and loathing I am trying to bring across. With an entertainment system recovered from Mt.Ararat, off the Ark Mk.I, and seats that could make a prozac powered, greenpeace dwarf kill baby whales, the -200 is SZA’s not-so-secret shame – or at least it should be, but then again the fatcats running the show would never set foot in “that part” of the aircraft. They are not missing much as they wouldn’t fit into the cushioned torture device anyway.
With eagerness running at high levels, I decided to check myself in six hours before the flight, in an attempt to convince the sullen faced, monosyllabic chappie-clicker behind the counter, that I required an emergency exit seat. Success! Deciding to while away my morning watching the aircraft movements from the aircraft viewing deck, I was mildly surprised to find that the entire viewing deck area, save for two or three seats had been taken over by a large flock of Yellow Vested Chicken Chewers. I have to admit that being airport security / ramp staff must be extremely tiring, and famishing, hence the mass migration to the viewing deck where chicken could be chewed, and fingers licked. The one or two seats I mentioned that were not annexed by the YVCCs were taken up by what seemed to be the corpses of other random airport workers – all very understandable , of course, considering the fact that these poor souls are tormented by boogeymen and tokoloshes all night. Where better than to ‘die’ for a few hours than the bench on the viewing deck, during work hours – a time when no self respecting tokoloshe would make an appearance. With the viewing deck out of the question, I made my back to the lounge, leaving behind the sounds and smells of finger lickin’ and rainbow chickin’.
Roll on boarding time, and once more Mr.Eager has ensured that he is right at the front of the gate…camera gear takes up loads of room in the overhead, so its always good to get onboard ahead of the other self loading freight….of which there were interestingly, only about 120. At the gates the staff were furtive, casting sneak peaks from behind a corner to see if we were still there. Forty minutes after the planned boarding time, a staff member, perhaps in dire need of some finger lickin chickin, stuck his head around the corner to see whether all 100 and something of us had somehow miraculously disappeared. Alas, but for him, an irate American passenger, whom I had been placating (albeit pointlessly) about time and its total irrelevance on the African continent, took it on to himself to walk to the corner where the staff were hiding to enquire as to the delay.
This had a rather strange effect on the staff member, who proceeded to walk the 30 yards to where the pax lined up, and closed the door in their faces. Ironically the fact seemed to go amiss on our service providing fellow that the door was made of glass and fully transparent. While chatting furiously on their radios, I watched as various levels of “couldn’t’ give a ****”, “they should be thanking us for allowing them to flysaa” , and “oh ****, what do we do now?!” washed over their faces….it was clear that all was not what it should be.
Finally after much deliberation as to whom will be the bearer of bad news, a brave soul detached itself from the huddled group, threw open the glass doors and uttered these life changing words: “Flight is cancelled”.
Now in most society it would be considered couth to remain in place after making such a profound statement. Not this lady. Before I could look around to inquire as to the nature of such a remark, she had Marion Jonesed it out of sight. This left a dilemma for the three remaining on the other side of the glass door. There were now 120+ angry travelers demanding answers – betweem them and freedom, and possibly a piece of the Colonel’s crispiest.
One by one they flung open the glass door, and bolted their way through the crowds, roughly the same mantra being uttered by each swastika that blurred its way past us: “Flight is cancelled”. “Flight is cancelled.” “Flight is cancelled”. For a brief moment real panic set in; Flight – and everything the Wright brothers fought for , CANCELLED? That would mean Oshkosh cancelled, and OMG how the hell would I get back to Durban…?
Luckily I came to my senses, realising that no matter how defiantly Khaya Nqcula can lie straight faced on tv, no matter how the company pilots believed they could walk on water, and no matter how much the cabin crew could perpetually appear to hate flight – SZA could never cancel flight. Only important companies could pull off such a move.
Ok, so its just OUR FLIGHT that was cancelled, not FLIGHT in its totality, though one could have been excused for believing otherwise, the way the staff disappeared in clouds of dust – perhaps believing that along with FLIGHT being cancelled, the airport would collapse too.
So there we were…we knew it had been cancelled, we knew we were going nowhere, and we also knew that inevitably our onward flights from Heathrow had gone down the tubes. What we didn’t know is : what next??
Finally the announcement we had all been waiting for:” Bla bla bla SZA wishes to announce bla bla – technical reasons. Technical reasons – the world’s most perfect excuse, employed by SZA to explain anything from baggage abortions, to flights being cancelled, to the reason they need another 5 billion (yes billion) rand bailout from the taxpayer each year. Very technical indeed.
Anywhere else in the world, you would expect to be guided to the next step of your aborted departure by somebody in a position of authority. Not with SZA. In times of turmoil, not only does anyone do all persons in positions of authority vanish, even all the positions vanish, including the janitor, pop-corn girl, and the CEO’s praise singer.
Enquiring from ACSA (another clown show afoot) as to our next move was met with a mixed batch of shrugs, tongue clicks and one rapid fire instruction:” you must go back and clear back into customs.
Now anyone who has had any dealings with the Sarcophagi that man the booths of hell, will know that negotiation is futile. Your mere presence is a waste of their important time, not to mention now having to explain arriving from a flight that never landed, let alone boarded. After first appearing at the wrong counter, and being reprimanded sternly for disturbing the one man 2010 dream session that was happening behind counter #1, we were told in no uncertain terms :” Go there “(which was accompanied by a finger, pointed somewhere between 70 degrees and the vertical, with a mild easterly inclination.”
So off we trudged once more, walking sticks, wheelchairs and kids akimbo – a cursing mass, with no guidance. On arrival at terminal 2 customs, we were once more refused entry into the country we had never left, and once more ignored by vast tracts of staff, who were interested in the inner working of their nostrils, the coke vending machine, and in ensuring that the walls of the building did not come crumbling down, due to no one propping them up.
Finally a voice of authority boomed out over the loadspeakers:” bla bla bla SZA apologises bla bla…all go to the business class lounge…” Which of course we did. We were told that those in wheelchairs had been accommodated on the next flight, which although it may seem crass, I believe is a bad move, as there were a large number of passengers who had to catch connecting flights for business, presentations and performances, in other words, keep the global cogs turning. This was made all the worse by one of the old coffin dodgers sporting a shirt saying :” I might be old, but at least I don’t have to go to work tomorrow. If that’s the case, you don’t need to be on the flight either – cheers.
The rest, well, we were to be transported to hotels in the vicinity to spend the night. Fine. So how do we get out of ORTIA ( overbearing reason to incite anger)? Well back to ructions and mutilation to have our passports stamped back in to the country…and to collect our bags before being spirited away in taxis that were reportedly tearing their way down to ORTIA to appease SZA’s loyal cash cows.
We waited, and waited, and when we felt like waiting no longer, we waited some more, as all three the booths, although manned/womanned were trying their utmost to convince us that we had since become translucent -or maybe the poor things were just night-blind, but I was nearly convinced that I was invisible. Once more, when the patience wore thin, a passenger approached the desk to enquire as to the reason for our delay. As all highly trained ORTIA operatives have been taught to speak, the easter-island-statue grunted in one syllable, “no GENDEC”.
Now anyone who has worked on the front end of international travel will know that when clearing customs and immigration, a very special piece of paper is required. This list containing passenger names and points of departure, truly a mystical piece of paper, stood between us, and freedom. The officials know where to get this paper, the passengers don’t, but due to a total lack of SZA positions in the area, and absolute hatred of the ructions and mutilations staff to do anything other than stamp and grunt – we were once more stuck up a creek with no GENDEC.
An enterprising and somewhat brave passenger decided to take an official grasp on the situation – well, he actually took an official in his own hands and instructed him to lead him to an office where the illusive GENDEC might be found. Like a prize fighter clutching the severed head of his opponent, the passenger returned bearing the GENDEC aloft, much to the dismay of the stoic stampers, who seemed most disappointed that they have to exert themselves, by granting us access back into the country we never left.
Due to the arrival of inbound flights, and the lack of carousel infrastructure to handle one cancelled flight, along with the rest of the usual scheduled traffic, our bags were found in a massive pile in the corner of the arrivals hall, arranged, so to speak, in what reminded me of a funeral pyre – to service, and staff that care about more than just putting money in their pocket at the end of the month. Another hour spent jostling with passengers to get out of customs and into the land of the free, saw us once more gathering at the front of the airport building. Three by three, the thankful passengers mounted the wave of taxis that descended upon the airport, to whisk us away to a destination yet unknown (which was luckily only a km away).
Check in was remarkably smooth, no doubt thanks to the lack of SZA intervention, however it was made blatantly clear that we were allowed to eat a meal to the value of $ 16, and no alcohol would be included. Understandably, because trust me, at midnight, angry passengers aren’t exactly thinking of EATING their tax money’s worth…
Not sure whether the hotel contracted in SZA staff to serve the passengers at the restaurant, because besides being a heavy smoking restaurant in the middle of the casino, the service was to die from, with many people still going to bed unhappily, even after all the airline had done for them. Ingrates.