Shark Tale

No late night for us, even though we are on a holiday. The sea food and red wine session at V&A waterfront had to be wrapped up early, so that we could be in bed by 9, sober enough to wake up at 4 am. Skip the morning shower as it is freezing cold. Have a couple of biscuits for breakfast and huddle ourselves inside the pick up van at around 4.30 am, all set for our trip to see the Great White Sharks in action at the "Shark Alley", near the fishing village of Gansbaai, off Dyer Island. It is around 160 km from Cape Town and the journey takes about 2 hours. I cannot tell you much about the journey though; as I promptly went off to sleep the moment I made myself comfortable inside the minivan. As and when I would wake up – mostly to pinch A, if he started snoring, I passed by some pretty scenery and picture perfect villages. I drift in and out of sleep, watching the sun breaking out in the horizon and admiring the freshly washed morning sky.

Cage diving with Great White Sharks is a popular tourist attraction off the coasts of Australia, South Africa, and Guadalupe Island in Baja California. A common practice is to chum the water with pieces of fish to attract sharks, while the divers are lowered in the water inside a steel cage, through which they can watch the action. Not sure if that is a good way to lure the sharks, but since I am in South Africa, and this is my only chance to see the Great Whites up, close and personal, I just had to do it.

We reach Gansbaai at around 7 – all charged up for the adventure. We are taken to a cottage – which serves as the office of the Tour Operator we have booked for the Shark Diving. There are plenty of operators running diving cruises and plenty of takers as well. We are about 20 in our group that range from a 10 year old kid to a 50 year old woman. We are served breakfast and briefed about the journey ahead. We are also given bright orange hoods to save ourselves from the Rain God, as the weatherman predicted some heavy showers during the day.

We are out in the sea by 8 and the rain starts pouring down on us by 8.15. Hallelujah. As I sit there, trying to save myself from the downpour, while balancing myself, along with my paraphernalia, in a very choppy sea, I ponder over my relationship with the Weather Gods. How they hate me! When I went whale watching last year, it rained so hard that the trip almost got cancelled. But we went ahead anyway in the rain, braving the cold. Then the balloon ride over Masai Mara – no one could save that from the wraths of the Wind God, who decided to blow a little more intensely that very morning. And today the Rain God had to strike again.

The already cold temperature drops further. The catamaran tosses and turns in the lashing waves like a paper boat. People start throwing up. I hold on to my pride for a while but soon, my breakfast and all the sea food I had consumed over the last 2 days come pouring out. I decide to spend some time in the toilet, getting sick and feeling miserable. The boat is now anchored near the seal island and the stink from a colony of hundreds of seals only makes the matter worse.

I manage to empty my stomach and make my way gingerly towards the deck. The first batch of divers is already in their wet suits and inside the cage in the water. The chum is in the water, a pound of tuna, soaked in blood, living a trail to attract the predator. No sign of the Great White, though. The poor divers sit in the rain and cold for almost half an hour. It seems like the sharks have also called in sick because of the downpour.

We are all getting restless when suddenly the captain shouts “Go under” – a call for the divers to get their heads under the water as a shark makes it way to the bait. I am expecting a “Jaws” like scenario – a triangle shaped fin zigzagging towards us, with the background score et al – but it’s nothing like that. Just the tip is visible in the distance and before we know it, we see it swimming near the cage. It seems harmless enough – more like the fish you catch sight of while diving or snorkeling. To prove us wrong, however, it suddenly brings its head out of the water, showing its ferocity, while it tears off the fish from the bait. It is the Great White Shark all right – you see it with its jaws open and you know it’s not wise to mess with it.

The first batch of divers is privy to another round of shark antiques, while the second batch gets ready. We, as in A and me, hold on to our patience and our innards and let the second batch have their buzz under the water. To say I am feeling miserable would be an understatement. I am so cold and nauseous that all I can think of is a warm shower and a cozy bed.

But, since I am here, I might as well do it, right. No point feeling sick and then regretting it later. We force ourselves to get out of the comforts of our heavy jackets and get into the wetsuits. I visit the toilet once more, so that I don’t make a fool of myself in the water. Heavy weights are wrapped around our waist, we put on our snorkeling masks and brave the cold and get into the cage. As we are lowered down into the freezing cold water, I can almost hear my heart beat. We position ourselves – holding on to the top of the cage and awaiting our turn to see the Great White in action.

We hear the captain shouting “Go under” and we follow his instructions promptly. As my eyes try to adjust to the water, I see a Great White coming towards us. My brain freezes, my adrenalin kicks its strongest and millions of sensations pass through my neurons. I watch with my jaws dropped – a scene from Nat Geo – but in HD and 4D. The most feared predator of all the seas has arrived. Everything else blurs as the Great White makes its way towards the cage, hovers around it for a few seconds, as if trying to decide whether to go for the bait or the 6 human bodies inside the cage. It decides on the former – the tried and tasted fish, which, any day, tastes better than human flesh. It rushes up, and in one single shrug, unhooks the fish, showing the inside of its mouth to us. The banks of razor edged teeth are but centimeters away - the huge gaping jaws revealing the true danger of the imminent encounter. My blood freezes – I am not sure if it is from the cold or seeing a shark in action so close to me that I can almost touch its nose with my outstretched hands.

The moment is over too soon. We get our heads out of water and catch up on our breaths. We look at each other – 6 strangers bound by a common experience that will be etched in our minds forever. We implore with the captain to give us another show. We wait patiently in the cold and rain – of course, all that does not matter now - looking for some more action.

Round 2 begins in about another 15 minutes that seems like eternity. We duck our heads inside the water and now that my brain is working again, I curse myself for not having an under water camera. The shark, for this show, is a smaller one and I remember the misadventures I have read about smaller sharks getting into the cage and spoiling the show. This one may be smaller but is as ferocious as the last one. Even with its mouth closed, it looks vicious. It gives us an equally thrilling performance – teasing us with a thump on the cage with its tail, as it leaves with the bait.

The show is over too soon again and we are hauled off the water. As we animatedly compare notes and see the pictures taken by some under water, our boat makes its way back to the shore. The rain has stopped by now, but the wind is still playing hard and cold with us. But I am way beyond feeling anything, but buzzed, and I chatter away with the fellow brave hearts. A not-so-warm shower and fresh dry clothes later, we sit down for some warm soup and are handed our certificates. Yes, we are certified “Great White Shark Divers” now – so what it was from inside a cage. The thrill that this experience has, is worth the entire chill that I endured through the morning.

The other day, I came across this list - http://www.lonelyplanet.com/australia/travel-tips-and-articles/76049?affil=fb-fan – that I have decided to put away in my travel folder for future reference.

Though I am not sure if I will ever visit Las Vegas – even if it is to get a high from the 110^th storey, I think the rest of the list is achievable. I have already ticked off one in the list and have only 8 more to go. My friends think I am crazy to dream of a holiday that entails running with the bulls and I tell them: 'Now you know why I took up running in the first place'.

The King and I

Hallo ladies. Look at your man. Now back to me. Now back at your man. Now back to me. Sadly he isn’t me. Look down, back up. Now look again.

Oh yes, the ladies look again and again. So do their men. I look at my man and find him swooning with admiration and delight - a look quite similar to that I am sporting. Can't blame him. Because you see, when the king of jungle sits in his regal throne some 6 feet away from you and gives you that royal look and imperial growl, you can’t help but feel mesmerized.

He is not the first lion we have sighted. In the last 6 days, every time we have gone out on a game drive – be it in Amboseli National Park, Nakuru National Park or Masai Mara Game Reserve, we have spotted a pride – sometimes more than one. But most of the time, we have seen the lionesses in action and the lions – the big lazy cats that they are – lolling in the sun or catching up on their post lunch siesta. One king did strut across us once - but he was about 50 meters away from us and we were not satisfied.

Yes, you do get greedy when you are in Masai Mara in August. Two million wildebeests migrate from the Serengeti National Park in Tanzania to the greener pastures of the Masai Mara National Reserve in Kenya during July through to October. The plains of Mara are abound with food aplenty for both the wildebeests and the predators that have a field day during this time.  So catching a pride hunting down an unlucky wildebeest or enjoying a hearty meal is a very common sight here, if you happen to be around during that period. And the more you see, the more you yearn for.

The King has already garnered an audience. There are 5 safari vans – all lined up with eager humans, lapping up this incredible scene, clicking away his every move. Our guide cum driver, Simon has managed to place our van strategically in front of the King and we have the best view. I feel as if I am in a Nat Geo documentary. Watching the King in action from such close quarters is, otherwise, unimaginable.

Action, however, is a wrong word to use, since our King is not really doing much. He just sits there and looks to his left and right, obliging us with the perfect profile to be clicked. He rests under a croton bush, tactically guarding himself from the morning sun. His mane is ruffled, giving him an air of sophistication and he looks at us with disdain – the lowly humans, who have gathered around to disturb his mid morning siesta. He is so close to us that two leaps and he can get right beside us. But instead of feeling afraid, we stand there (inside our jeeps of course) – hypnotized and awed by his regal presence.

Something rustles behind the bush and we see the Queen. She cat walks up to her man, surveys the situation and does not seem to be too pleased with it. The lazy slob is at it again! Making a show of himself while she is out there, shopping for their lunch. Disgusting! She grunts in contempt and settles down under a branch.

The King, in a second, turns into a cat. The regal air is gone. He seems nervous. Gives a look that I have seen A give me every time I take an upperhand. Yes, the King starts behaving like any husband would do in such a situation. He tries his best to satisfy the miffed wife. He looks at her, sniffs her, even sings a love song in their language. The Queen acts pricey, ignoring the man. She looks away and sulks.

The King gives one last try and looks seductively into her eyes – a look that will put all the romantic heroes from Bollywood to shame. And it works. After all, which woman can resist such a charmer? The Queen seems to cool down a bit, happy with the attention she is getting. She gets up and goes round the bush. The King, slightly embarrassed to be caught in such a situation in front of a live audience, lowers his head and follows her. As the old jungle saying goes – even the King is scared of his wife.

The two of them go around the bush a couple of times and then, as we look at them with our dropped jaws, snuggle up to each other. Oh yes, my kingdom for just that moment. They stay like that for a few minutes, as if giving us lowly humans a few more moments to cherish. Peace returns to the household and the two settle down under two branches and look out at the horizon where a herd of buffaloes, unaware of their presence, are happily grazing around.

I am still trying to process what I just saw, when I hear a rustle from behind. I look back and I see another lioness walking up. She is just in front of our vehicle, and her face is all red – not from seeing her man necking another woman but from a recent kill she’s had. She slowly crosses us, ignores the other lioness that is resting under the branch and goes up to the King. Rubs her nose against him, as if to inform him that she is back from the hunt and places herself beside him. The King acknowledges her return by snuggling up to her – while the other lioness looks away. She has had her time with her man and does not care about the other woman, as long as she’s got a wildebeest or two tucked away in some bush. The new Queen sits with the lover boy, nuzzling up to him, as he licks her lovingly. Enough love exchanged, she gets up after a couple of minutes and finds her own space under another branch.

You can imagine our delight. All we can do is squeal like little kids. We are spell bound by what just happened in front of us.

The buffaloes, meanwhile, have grazed quite close to the trio and the greedy us ask Simon if we will be privy to a kill now. Yes, yeh dil maange more (the heart wants more). Simon answers in negative since it seems that the second lioness is just back from a kill. So they have enough food for the time being and would not mess with the buffaloes, which are, anyway, a challenge for the lions to hunt down because of their size. A buffalo spots the trio and runs to warn the rest of the gang. The trio, however, seem least bothered with the humans or the buffaloes surrounding them and they look into the horizon, admiring the golden plains of Mara.

There are more than 5 jeeps in the spot now and Simon says we must move since as a rule, only 5 jeeps can congregate at any point of time. Also we have been here for almost 30 minutes now and it is only fair that we give the other viewers a chance. Simon promises to bring us back to the pride later and we reluctantly agree.

We spot two more prides, and the usual flocks of zebras, wildebeests, gazelles, water bucks, antelopes, hippos and elephants. We also witness a river crossing by the wildebeests and continue our hunt to track down the elusive leopard, albeit unsuccessfully. On our way back, Simon drives us to catch a last glimpse of the King, with his royal consorts. We spot one of the Queens first, sleeping under the bush. The other one is a few feet away, dreaming about wildebeests and zebras. The buffaloes have cleared out of the scene – hopefully the herd intact. 

And then, there he is - the King of the jungle, the most revered and respected. On his back, with his belly up and paws facing the sky, snoring away to glory. Gone are the regal air and awe inspiring, blood chilling looks. The man of the pride, after sharing a hearty lunch with his Queens, has shed all his pride and retired for the day. He does not care how silly and vulnerable he looks – as long as he is left alone to sleep. He needs his rest – and he needs it badly. After all, he has to take care of the emotional needs of two wives and ask any man worth his wildebeest and he will tell you how tough a job that is. Court dismissed.

Lavender Fields Forever

A million thought blurbs are swimming over my head – trying to simultaneously recall the ‘conjugasions’ of several verbs that I have learnt in my French class. I am trying to, at the same time, listen, recognize, comprehend, think, form the answer in English and then translate it in French. In between there are verbs and tenses and moods and structures to think of. Yes, life is definitely not a holiday for me right now. So much for learning French.

My fellow travelers – A, his cousin T and his wife N, who have travelled from Germany to join us in Cannes for the weekend, have officially designated me as their trip planner cum guide cum translator. Well, the first two designations – I comfortably fit in to. It’s the translator bit that’s giving me hiccups. But I have committed now – there’s no turning back. So from ordering food to asking for directions – I am the one who’s responsible, while the other three crowd around me with a smirk on their faces, waiting for me to make a fool of myself.

However, I have been lucky so far. A typical conversation would go like this.

Me: Bon Jour. Nous – mmm - aimerions commander des …mmmm….repas…no no…. boissons maintenant.

Waiter: Sure. What should…mmmm….would zou like?

Me: Nous voulions..no no…voulons café, s'il vous plait.

Waiter: Café? Sure. Zou would want zee café withz or withz no milk?

Me: No milk. I mean…err…. je veux dire - sans lait.

Waiter: Thank you.

A: I think I will have a beer.

T: What did you just order? Coffee? I will have a beer too. No...make that a rosé.

N: I want my coffee with milk.

Me: Excusez-moi (shouting after the waiter).

You see, like I have been taking French lessons, it seems these French have also been taking English lessons. And like I am eager to show off my French vocab, these French are also showing off the same way – the result – me speaking in French and they, in English. Not that I am complaining.

So, having settled down in this daily routine of practicing my French with English speaking French people, I am suddenly at loss when I am confronted by a sweet old French bar keeper, who, obviously, has missed his English classes and speaks only in rapid French. But his astonished look and encouraging smile when I declared I know ‘un peu’ French persuades me to try honestly to speak the language.

We are on our way to the lavender fields. I have been trying to do this trip for 3 years now. We have been at the right place at the right time – south of France in end June – when the lavender fields are in bloom. But since we don’t have the right mode of transportation – lavender fields are not possible to access unless you have a car to drive around – I have been missing it always. 

This year, when T decided to join us, I was super excited. He is a very dear friend and good fun and all that, but more importantly, he’s got his European driver’s license recently and is willing to try his hands on the steering wheels across any place in Europe. However, my joy is short lived. It has been an unexceptionally rainy summer in the south of France and I have been warned by my forum friends not to expect much of lavender fields when I started my holiday.

I make sure I let my travel partners be aware of the situation, lest they dump me in the fields once they find them empty. Well, the drive across Provence amidst the Verdon Gorges promises to be exciting and the few little villages I have marked on the way as stopovers sound charming enough. So we decide to give it a try anyway.

We start on a bright sunny Sunday morning, which soon turns cloudy and eventually stormy, the moment we pass through Grasse. The A8 Auto route is so washed out that we have to stop our car and wait for the rain to blow over. We follow N85 Route Napoleon from Grasse, which, true to its name, was the route taken by the great Napoleon in 1815 on his return from Elba. It is a scenic route, with vast golden wheat fields adorning either side, with odd villages nestled in between.

After about an hour and half drive, we reach Castellane, our first stop - located at the cross-roads of the Route Napoléon and the Upper Verdon road. My travel partners drop me off at the Office de Tourisme, while they look for a parking spot. I get on with my job and collect all the information needed about the lavender fields and the Verdon Gorge. Between broken French and equally broken English, I figure out that the lavenders are blooming late this year. Looks like lavender is not ever going to be my favourite colour.

We stop for a coffee and then graduate to rosé and beer at the little café by the village square. The village is charming but has nothing much to offer other than the Romanesque Eglise St-Victor dating back to the 11th century. It is, however, an important stop since the “Grand Canyon” of Europe, Gorges du Verdon starts from here.

Recuperated and reenergized, we start the second leg of our journey. This part of the journey promises to be exciting since it crosses through the gorges. However, the boys have just realized that there is a Brazil vs. Côte d'Ivoire match in the evening and they are more concerned about yellows and greens than lavenders. 

They are promptly shut up once we hit Route des Crétes that cuts through the Grand Canyon du Verdon. Sheer massive slate coloured ravines, intercepted by lines of green in between greet us a few minutes into the journey. The Verdon river flowing down the gorge is the only sound that we can hear. Occasional cars zoom past us as we veer through the meandering road. The immensity of the canyon hits us and we are all rendered speechless.

Except for my dear A, who after a while feels like having a beer. He also manages to spot a little café amidst this solitude and it is here that I manage to floor my cynical fellow travelers with my French vocab. The old man insists on giving me directions to a spot from where the view of the canyons is awe inspiring. He makes me repeat his instructions to ensure that I do understand his language. While I try and form sentences in a very complicated language, I see from the corner of my eyes that the smirks are gradually disappearing.

However, my sense of triumph is short lived. As I tell A and the others about the place that the old man was talking about, they go back to their former mocking selves. Apparently I confuse between my left and right in English – hence they don’t trust me with my French directions. To think, I have been the navigator all through and though we have got lost sometime, I would like to pin the blame on the GPS and not me. But we do stop en route several times to admire the ravine and I would like to believe that we did make it to the spot the old man suggested. It is hard to tell though, since every view is overwhelming.

About an hour later, we reach Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, a charming village, sitting below a narrow indentation at the base of rocky cliffs, astride a rushing mountain stream that divides the two halves with a narrow rocky canyon. 

The village is packed with summer tourists but it has its own charm. The Notre-Dame de Beauvoir chapel sits atop the village, behind the ruins of the ancient defensive walls, and there are several viaducts that run across the village. As we make our way through the pebbled narrow vaulted roads, looking for a place to eat, we girls indulge in a little shopping. Moustiers is famous for "faïence" ceramics – typical of Provence. We find a café and relax a while, watching the world go by. Buzzed on rosé, we explore the village – the highlight of which is the 12th-century Notre-Dame church, topped by a four-level Lombard Romanesque bell tower, carved from golden-brown tuff.

The clock is showing 4.30 now and according to my itinerary, our next destination should be Puimoisson, where the lavender fields are located. But the local tourist office was not too sure of the bloom and we debate if we should continue further or head back home. I can see the guys panicking as they are sure they will miss the match. I decide not to press harder, as, by now, I have resigned to the fact that “champs de lavande” are not for me. I ask around still and even the locals shake their heads in dismay and suggest that we come back after 10 days or so to catch the beauty.

So, we take the road back. We stop at Pont de Soleils, near Rougons, where the distinct divide between the water running through the canyon and the main river can be seen – the former is muddy and brown and then suddenly transforms into crystal clear azure blue. 
Once we hit civilization, we pass through the vineyards of Provence and small sleepy villages that I would have liked to stop by. But by now, the agenda has shifted, we need to be back home by 8 to cheer the Auriverdes.

My mind, however, has already started working on a plan. If I find myself in this part of the world again sometime in future, I know exactly how to do the trip without a car. It will take a couple of days but I think I have worked out how to reach the lavender fields. Hopefully it will be a bright and hot summer and the lavenders will bloom on time.


PS: Yellow and Green were, afterall, the colours of the day. 

Snapshots of the Riviera.

I have been too lazy and too busy over the last one month. Back from one holiday and off to the next. In between, hosting friends and playing the part, taking French exams and starting new level, running from one consulate to the other to get the visas done - you get the picture. Life has been very hectic.

So I thought I will take the lazy way out this time - do a photo essay on the last holiday I had. So without much ado (because I am too lazy to feel like writing), here goes.

Cannes. And its most ugly but famous structure - the Palais. Before the mad ad world descends upon it, a couple walking down the red carpet.

Flower festival at Le Suquet, Cannes.

After the flowers come the fruits. Paella with fruits de mer. 

Day 2 and we are off in the search of the lavender fields of Provence.

We stop on the way in Moustiers - Sainte- Marie.

The lavender fields had not bloomed yet - but we managed to feel the essence. This hand drawn cart is still used to collect lavenders.

And everything that we saw was painted in the colour of the season - lavender.

The Verdon Gorge. The drive through it was worth it.

The Italian Riviera is a stone's throw away from the French Riviera. The medieval town of Dolceacqua. The name means sweet water.

Further down, the village of Rochetta Nervina. 

I finally made it to Gourdon this time. A bit touristic - but charming, none-the-less.

This lady with the pipe has fascinated me for the last few years, whenever I have visited St. Paul's Vence. Caught her up, close and personal this time around.

Rosé - the only wine I like.

Another day, another medieval town. Chateauneuf-Villevieille.

Webbing its charm on me.

The colours and smells of Marché Provençale, Antibes.

Cannes - when the sun goes down.

And the sunworshippers retire to party.

Watching the waves in Ville Franche Sur Mer.

Terminal Tantrums

‘Sir, any particular reason why you are travelling with an empty laptop bag?’
Sorry…what…err…no…but…why…WTF!!???
A and I look at each other in despair. The last 3 hours play out in flashback in front of our eyes.

We are at Heathrow Airport – one of the most ill organized airports in the world, if you ask me, next only to Charles De Gaulle in Paris. We are on our way back from a nice, if a bit hectic, 3 weeks holiday. In the last 3 weeks, after A has finished his work in the London office while I have enjoyed the autumn leaves of London, we have crossed the Abbey Road several times, paid tribute to the Mojo at Père-Lachaise, drunk beer by gallons at the OktoberFest and been overwhelmed by the splendours that are called “The Lion King” and “Moulin Rogue”. We have also had an overload of fish and chips, schnitzel and baguettes and simple home cooked meal of rice and dal is gently calling us back.

We have patiently gone through the torture that is called security checking. Did our strip act without any complaints. Then we had excitedly spent the 2 and half odd hours browsing through the Duty Free shops. We also spent all the loose change of pence and pounds on coffee. Remembered the ugly looking fridge magnet gifted by a colleague on her trip abroad and picked up some chocolates from the Duty Free as a return gift. Checked out the toilets and paid a visit to the smoking lounge. In short, we have done everything that one would usually do when one has 2 hours to while away.

The flight is at 12.05 pm and we dutifully present ourselves for boarding at 11.25 am. The last round of security check happens. And it is precisely here that the ‘penny is dropped’. My dear husband, the seasoned traveller and the perfectionist, either in a hurry to get into the plane that would take him to his rice and dal or enthralled by some blonde in uniform giving him a smile – has left his laptop miles and miles away at the first security check. And then has roamed around the next 2 and half hours with an empty laptop bag.

Now if you know Heathrow, you can sympathize with me. We have traversed through several terminals, walked through labyrinths of passageways to finally be where we are standing now. Going back there – at the initial security check in counter – seems an impossible task. We start reasoning with the attendant; ask him to provide us with a buggy ride or something. Seriously, had this been India, they would have already established an auto rickshaw route, with trade union and everything – the distance is such.

A: I have left my laptop at the security check.
Airport Attendant: My condolences, sir.
A: I need to get it back.
AA: Not possible, sir.
A: Give me one of those carts you use to move around in the airport – I can make it back in time.
AA: I am sorry sir – those are only for invalid passengers.
Me: (Under my breath) And A will fit right in that category in another two seconds.
Me: (Aloud) Just go… don’t waste time arguing with them – we have only 15 minutes left to board the flight.
A: (To me) But I don’t know where to go! (And I believe him because if you know him, you will know that “Men can read maps” is yet another myth perpetrated by men)
A: (To AA making one last effort) Please, I have left my laptop at the security check.
AA: My condolences, sir.

The stiff upper Brit lips don’t move. After more precious minutes lost, when it is finally clear that the conversation is not taking anyone anywhere, they agree to spare a trainee to guide A back to the point of disaster. I am left behind to wait for my husband to make a heroic return.

And I wait. The scheduled departure time arrives and departs. A man approaches me and asks if I am willing to fly without my husband, since it is quite obvious that he has deserted me. I remember my wedding vows of ‘till death do us part’ and refuse him. Also, I think if he gets to miss the flight and stays back in London for one more day, why should I miss out on the fun? My mind starts planning – if I call my brother now, who is halfway to Sussex after dropping us off, I might just be disowned by him. Not a good idea. My friend is in London – but did she not mention that she’d be holidaying in Dover this weekend? I might have a pound or so tucked away somewhere in my pockets – but will that be enough to see us through till the next flight? All kinds of questions cloud my mind as I try to reason with the Airport Attendants as to why they must wait for us.

A senior and serious looking guy comes up to me and asks me if I can identify my luggage which will be unloaded in the next 5 minutes if my dear hubby does not show up. The flight is already 25 minutes behind schedule, thanks to us. The Sardarji, who, while checking my passport when we had entered the departure gate, proudly cooed to me “East or West, India is the best”, is giving me dirty “these Indians” looks. I have no option but to put up a worried face, though deep inside, I am, in a perverse way, very thrilled. I am all geared to ridicule A for the rest of his life for this mess – something which is highly expected of me but definitely not of him. I am also more alarmed at the prospect of losing all my holiday photos that were downloaded to the laptop the night before rather than feeling sorry for A for maybe having lost all his work data.

And then, my brave hero arrives. I am all set to blast him but actually burst out laughing – seeing him, limping his way back, with a proud smile of having accomplished the mission. Apparently he had performed some heroic stunts like jumping over racks of luggage and running through crowds, while knocking a few unsuspecting people down – the scenes we watch over and over in the last 15 minutes of most Hindi movies – where the climax ensues in the airport with the hero trying to stop his lady love from flying away forever. Here, of course, A’s aerobatics were for his beloved laptop and in the process, he had twisted his ankle. And he is drawing solace from the fact that there are at least 10000 odd feather brains like him, with hearts large enough to donate their laptops to the security people. So he gets into a tale of how he had to rummage through several similar looking models, before he finally found the one that belongs to him.

We enter the aircraft– which is well over an hour behind the schedule now. I can feel the dirty looks from all around – similar to the ones I have given a number of times – to that last couple that enters through the door. We find our seats and my tired hero promptly goes off to sleep, leaving me to handle all the glares. The flight finally takes off – 3 hours behind schedule – all thanks to one man and his precious laptop.

Since I am talking about airport horror stories and mentioned CDG somewhere, let me also add another story to this piece. This one happened while we were flying home from the worst airport in the world – Charles de Gaulle. I am not sure when CDG came into being but over the years; it has grown like an un-pruned tree – branches added here and there, without any rhyme or reason or plan. If Heathrow is a nightmare, CDG is hell.

We are again on our way back. We have braved the overcrowded Airport RER from the city and arrived at the airport well before the stipulated time. You see, if you are travelling from CDG, you might as well arrive before time, you never know where and how you might get lost in that mess. So, we dutifully get lost and eventually find our way to the check in counter. The check in counter in question looks like a queue to buy tickets for the first day first show of an Amitabh Bachchan starrer. There is only one counter functional for the flight we are taking and the queue winds and rewinds to a few kilometers. Not to worry – we have 3 hours at our disposal before the scheduled flight. So far, so good.

While we are waiting at the queue, wondering why is it taking more than 30 minutes to issue boarding tickets to each passenger, we hear some ruckus. We look up to see a group of people, all with red flags, chanting some slogan in French. Reminds me of my good old Calcutta, where such scenes are very familiar. People protest at the drop of the hat, go on strike whenever they don’t feel like working. We ask around and find out that there is a similar situation happening here – the ground staff is on strike and hence the delay. Ah well, we take solace from the fact that after all, we Indians, and especially Bengalis, are not the only ones with a penchant to protest.

After almost an hour and half, we are privileged enough to present ourselves at the check in counter. The girl at the counter inspects our tickets and passports and asks us to put our luggage on the conveyer belt. Our luggage travels 10 meters and the conveyer belt stops. The girl makes some frantic phone calls and informs us that the protestors have firmly lodged themselves on the conveyer belts and hence this situation. As she takes out our belongings from the belt and keeps it aside, assuring us that they will be loaded on the flight eventually, I take one last look at my baggage. I make a mental note of all the things that are there inside and do a rough calculation of the value all the things that just might get lost. I can live without that pair of shorts, though it’s my favourite, but how can I replace my sapphire blue strappy sandals for which I had paid a fortune, unknown to A? So far, not so good.

We forgo the opportunity to browse through the Duty free shops and go through security check and board the flight – without any major incident. The flight is scheduled to take off at 12.30 pm. It is 12.45 now and I fix my eyes at the gate so that I can give nasty looks to that last passenger who walks past it. There is a bit of commotion going around that area and we see a few uniformed workers getting in and out of the aircraft. At 1.30 pm, we ask the air hostess what is happening and are informed that because of the strike, it is taking a while to load the luggage. My sapphire blue shoes flash in front of my eyes and I decide to forgive them for the delay.

2 hours have passed since we have entered the air craft and it has not moved an inch. People are getting restless but, like the well behaved Europeans, are bearing it with a smile. Had this been India, a riot would have ensued by now, with some crew members assaulted. We again summon an air hostess and are told that there is some problem with one of the drainage pipes in the lavatory which is being fixed, pouring water to all the stories I have been conjuring up in my head all this while - about bombs being found on the aircraft or secret information of terrorists being hidden on board or such!

1 more hour hence, A has lost it. The air hostess is summoned again and we ask her if they can at least be kind enough to put on the entertainment system so that we can at least do something other than staring blankly at each other. We are told that it cannot be done. Some refreshments perhaps? A starts his patented "You are in a service industry" speech - and those who know him knows that this particular speech never fails to arouse emotions. Most of the speech is however, lost in translation to our French air hostess. But by now, our fellow passengers, encouraged by A’s initiatives, join the protest. Trust a Bengali to organize a demonstration, given the slightest opportunity. The air hostess relents and after a while, we are given some beverages and tidbits to keep our mouth shut.

7 hours wasted on an air craft, while you are in Paris, of all places – time spent staring vacantly at the air conditioner duct while you would rather roam aimlessly on the streets – it is announced that despite all their efforts, the drainage pipe could not be salvaged and the passengers are advised not to use Toilet no A. With that, the air craft finally takes off. I did contemplate suing Malaysian Airlines for those 7 precious hours wasted in an aircraft in Paris – but decided to forgive them when I got back my luggage intact – with both my favourite pair of shorts and the sapphire blue shoes.

The last story in the series of Airport woes. We are on our way back from Saigon. It is an office trip and since both A and me are working at the same office at that time, it is a paid vacation for both of us. The holiday is as it should be – like any other office sponsored holiday, where copious amounts of alcohol have been consumed and every one has a bad hangover. We check in, go through immigration control and are on our way to look for a pub to have the last drop of beer before boarding, when we hear A’s passport number being called on the PA.

I give A one of my famous “I-told-you-so” looks. You see, while in Saigon, we had gone a bit overboard with shopping. But if you are a movie buff as much as we are, you will understand. How can one resist the temptation of picking up the entire work of Kubrick, Woody Allen or Truffaut or the entire collection of Oscars from 1929 to 2000 – for only $1 per DVD? We could not and we ended up buying some 150 DVDs. When A’s name was called, we are sure that all those DVDs will now be confiscated, since it is illegal after all.

We make our way through the crowd again (by now, A has become quite a pro) and we present ourselves to the security officers.

Security Officer: Callying fiel alms.
A: Sorry, alms for what?
SA: Gun? Bang bang. Fiel alms.
A: Sorry, alms for what?

I, with my experience, am wise enough to see this conversation going nowhere. They also figure that out after a while and put A’s luggage through the X-ray machine. And point out 4 spots and repeat the words “Fiel Alms”. Oh…fire arms! Our first instinct is to laugh – but there it is, in front of our eyes – 4 bullet like silhouettes and again, the last 4 days flash in front of our eyes – in rewind mode.

From Saigon, we were taken to Củ Chi tunnel – which was the Viet Cong’s base of operation during the infamous Vietnam War. Apart from the usual touristic activities of actually going underground and crawling through the tunnels, A also got lucky to accomplish his lifelong desire to be in Rambo’s shoes – by getting to fire an AK47. A real AK47, none the less, with real bullets – 4 shots for $5. Having been there and done that, my man proudly retracted the empty cartridges as souvenirs and threw them aimlessly into his bag before leaving for a night of wild partying.

The next scene is as embarrassing as you can imagine. The two of us, in the middle of a crowded airport, throwing soiled under wears everywhere, so that we can retrieve those bullets. After 15 minutes, the bullets are found, hiding in 4 remote corners of the bag and handed over to the security. We are warned that it is an offence to carry even empty cartridges while flying and let off with a warning.

We are not even 5 minutes away from the scene of crime when we hear A’s passport number being announced again. While we enact the climax scene from Hindi movies again, we are sure this time that the DVDs have been discovered. We are told again that A’s bag contains more firearms, this time, a hand grenade. Now imagine our predicament. Two law abiding people, whose only tryst with anything illegal is to buy pirated DVDs and download songs for free from the internet, are being accused of concealing weapons in their luggage. We again deny vehemently – though now I start to doubt if it has indeed been planted to put us in a quandary. I also visualize a scene with A behind the prison bar, in those zebra striped prison garbs and find it quite funny. But this is not a time to laugh; we are in a pickle, all right.

We again rewind the last 4 days – this time we stop at day 3, the day we visited the ill fated Củ Chi tunnel. And realize that the grenade in question is actually a souvenir we had picked up from there – a lamp that looks like a hand grenade. We find it from the corner of the bag and hand it over to them with much protest. We had paid $5 for it, after all. Now we are told that it is illegal to carry anything that might even bear any resemblance to any kind of weapon. And again let off – this time with words spoken in a very stern voice, half of which we could not make out.

We conclude that the souvenir shop at Củ Chi tunnel has stopped producing the lamps long time back – our confiscated lamp will find its way back to the shop window to be sold to some other unsuspecting tourist. But we can’t complain. We walk away with a sigh of relief – our 150 pirated DVDs intact.

I have another story where A's luggage failed to arrive from Paris to Nice and we had to wait for over 3 hours at the airport, for the next flight to bring his stuff. But that story ended with free beers and free lunch, courtesy Air France - so I will not include it in this list.