Airport Hi-jinxs

Fortunately most of the time I get to avoid airports, neither having the money to indulge in a carbon loaded hop from one place to another, nor the inclination to be suddenly lifted from one place and deposited not long thereafter in another entirely foreign place and suffer the consequent culture shock generated by such rapid dislocation. It still leaves me bereft as to how it is possible to spend more time getting to and then through an airport, than actually in motion. Hence whenever I succumb to the necessary evil of plane flight I am intrigued by what goes on in airports, and the recent last minute cancellation of a flight served as a reminder that it is often more than you would think.
Unusually for me I managed to arrive on time for a change, I felt luck was on my side that day, having connected with three different forms of transport to get across New York without more than a two minute wake. Thus it was a shock to peer up at the flight listing board and see the rather ominously looking "CANCELLED" written in bold red letters next to my flight number. Having never been in that situation before I wondered to myself, I pondered as to the significance of that word to my travel plans.  As I made my way to the airline counter I noticed a line that was a microcosm of the world, closer to the counter their was an arrow like sinuous line, starting from the single person being served and fanning out across the walkway, populated by boisterous travellers, each trying to seek any advantage they could be sneaking their trolleys trolleys piled high with suitcases in to any gap in the line they could find, whilst talking loudly to their mobile phones or each other about the importance of them arriving on time - it felt like being in an Indian railway station. The line then gently petered out across to the other side of the walkway where even more passengers were corralled into the standard airport queue ribbons, which seemed to suck all of their energy leaving them with a much more resigned and lethargic look, as they lounged on their luggage and trolleys, seeking whatever comfort they could find for the long wait ahead. After eventually finding the end of the queue, and a short wait, an airline official appeared and informed us that due to bad weather the flight had never left Abu Dhabi and therefore there was no return flight (I was heading to Johannesburg via  Abu Dhabi). She passed around a phone number and suggested we call the airline in order for them to book us on another flight. Being the only person without a mobile phone I headed off to find a public phone (yes, they still do exist) and after a 45 minute wait on hold I got through to a helpful consultant who booked me on to the evening flight with South African Airlines direct to Johannesburg, leaving me thinking that every rain cloud surely does carry a rainbow. Unfortunately in order for me to obtain my ticket I had to return to the line and have the airline issue me with some kind of pass that I needed in order to get on the rebooked flight, a process that wasn't really made all that clear to me.
I returned to the line, as the last in line at 9am, and it wasn't until 2pm that I finally reached the counter and was served. Somebody had decided that the best way to managed about 150 people who were waiting for a flight was to not give them any information about what was going on or what arrangements would be made to get them to their destination, and to serve them one at a time, each person taking about 20 minutes to be served. During the waiting I did manage to make a few new friends, most of my fellow travellers were Indians, living in the US and on their way home laden with the bounty of the first world. The poor fellow in front of me had been awake since three am that morning, having flown in from Boston, with his wife and young child, it immediately made me think that a 6am start for me was flamin' luxury. Another passenger was on his way to his brother's wedding in Chennai, he was dressed in his best Paki leather jacket and white faux leather pointed shoes, and was extremely stressed that as he had planned to arrive on the Friday and the wedding was on the Saturday he would now miss the wedding. He made a repeated series of attempts at reaching the counter to pry out at least some information about what was likely to happen to him, but he was rebuffed each time and ended up back with us at the end of the line, each time a little more despondent than before. We began to share a camaraderie that somehow arises between complete strangers when they are thrown together in such circumstances; rules were laid down implicitly, each waited their turn in the queue, baggage was watched when the owners need to go to the toilet or get something to eat, we started to share our stories - where we had come from, where we were going, shared advice then lead to shared food and shared experience led to shared emotions. We all shook our heads and tut tutted at the stupidity and frustration generated by the the airline staff not giving us any information; we all sighed and and  collectively thought there but for the grace of god each time a frustrated passenger lost his cool and was reprimanded for raising his voice in discussion with the airline staff who would dare to leave the relative safety of the counter to carry out some pointless act of bureaucracy - like having us write down our names; we all chuckled to ourselves when New York's finest appeared and try to exert their authority by informing us we couldn't form a line that occupied a small part of the 8 metre wide entrance doors, and we all then worked together to return to the exact same spot we had been in as soon as the cops walked away; we all shared in the joy of somebody making it to the counter and getting a new ticket, wishing them good buy and a safe trip. As the last four or five of us reached the counter I think we all shared a little sadness, our little community thrown together by happen stance was now dissolving, we had come together as strangers and now we were saying good bye to friends.
When I finally arrived at the counter I was greeted by the particular way of bureaucracy that has been perfected by decolonised Arabs. It reminds me of an article I once read about a study done in Egypt that found that on average an Egyptian public service does about 30 minutes of actual work a day - and I am sure that about 20 minutes of that is simply stamping forms. There were 7 people working behind the counter but only one was dealing with a passenger, two stood behind him having a chat to each other, one was operating another computer, another was completing forms which were then passed to another who duly copied the information on to another form, which she handed to another who's job appeared to be to simply collate these forms, separating the relevant parts and stapling them together. Every once in a while the managed would wander in, cast a supervising eye over the workers and then disappear. The operation was so high tech they even had an old dot matrix printer (with a ribbon) churning out more printouts to be copied and collated - not exactly inspiring any confidence that if I had flown with them the actual aeroplane not have been of the same vintage.
I gave my details for the fifth time, and they then sent me in to a panic because they weren't sure if I could get on the SAA flight, however this was only momentary as a call confirmed that there was space. So a computer print out was made, given to the first woman who copied the details, gave it to the second woman who appeared to do likewise, and I ended up with piece f paper that politely requested that SAA put me on their flight. By this time the checkout for the SAA flight had not only opened, but had also cleared the initial crowd. So I wander over and after another moment of panic before the SAA staff called and confirmed they would take me, I was all checked in and ready to go - after another three hour wait !
Using the vouchers I had been given by the airline I picked up some processed chemicals called food and found a seat  in the dining area, in front of a large glass wall looking out on to the tarmac, with a queue of planes waiting in line for their turn to have a go at taking off. As I was munching away I noticed a neat, anorak and pleated nylon trouser wearing, greying, bespectacled, middle aged man, who was regularly checking the line up with his binoculars. Every once in a while he would dive in to his 70's travel bag, pull out a encyclopaedia thick book, check through the binoculars and check the picture on the page. After a couple of repeats of this I noticed the book was a "All the Planes Ever Made" publication, and I had a real life plane spotter in front of me. The thought did occur to me, perhaps because I had recently visited the World Trade Centre site, that with all the  Orwellian please-inform-us-if-you-see-something-strange propaganda, it was a risky activity in this day and age. Not five minutes later two official looking figures, one a guard and one a private security worker appeared, and started wandering about as if they were looking for something. One had a full page of written notes in his hand, which could be nothing other than a dob-'em-report, and after about thirty seconds they located the plane spotter. They started questioning him in that particularly aggressive American way, had a good look at his binoculars and searched through his bag. It was excruciating watching him trying to explain that "It's just a hobby, something I like to do in my spare time", knowing that they would have no comprehension of even the quaintly British habit if spotting machines. Finally they gave him a stern warning, telling him he wasn't allowed to do that, and that he should cease and desist forthwith. After they left the poor guy looked a little embarrassed, "I have been here for four days" he explained to interested on-lookers, "and I have been here for the last three hours." Rather than fear, perhaps all we need fear is those authorised to ensure that a general sense of insecurity is maintained.
As I ate the remainder my meal I noticed the cop return to surreptitiously check if his order was being obeyed, and it was then that the Puerto Riquena sneaked up next to me on the bench. She was a typical older Latina "mama", not much over 5ft tall, stocky, with a head of red-dyed hair clearly not hiding the grey, hands and face marked with the lines of a life of honest, hard work.
When she discovered that I spoke Spanish, she was off with her life story. After I told her I had been in New York for a week, she told me she had been "there" since Saturday (it was Thursday) and it took me a while to work out that there for her was the airport. She had come to New York for a medical procedure which was completed early, and when she asked her travel agent he said that if she went to the airport she could pay $100 and take an earlier flight home. When she arrived at the airport, she was then informed it would be $250. Rather than fork over the cash, she decided to wait until the airline brought the price down. On the Tuesday she went back, and they said she could go if she paid $150, but "I told them I had spent the money on food while I was waiting, but of course I still have the money, but now I don't mind waiting" she said, winking conspiratorially to me.
"It's not so bad here" she explained, "the first two nights I was in the other terminal and there were no comfortable chairs, and at night everybody left, so I was afraid that security would throw me out. But then the cleaners told me to come over here, and this space" she said, indicating the corner of the bench I was occupying, "is very comfortable. There are always people here so I don't have to worry about security. The cleaners are very friendly, and I have made friends from all over the world - a couple from Germany, an English backpacker, a Filipino woman, two Mexican priests and an Israeli girl who was worried about spending the night in the airport, who then bought me dinner and we spent nearly the whole night talking. And now an Australian. I have all of their address in my notebook, so now I have friends all over the world." As if this wasn't enough, the wait had had a curative effect, " When I arrived I was very stressed, and my back was always hurting me. But now I have spent a week relaxing, not having to worry, and I feel much better, my back doesn't hurt, and I have learnt to be patient."

Feeling a little guilty about having stolen her space, after a while I bid her farewell, wished her luck on her journey home, and headed off to find my gate. The queue for security was quite long, and as I weaved my way through the cattle gates I had plenty of time to observe my fellow travellers. When I finally reached the security check, and disrobe sufficiently - no shoes (including double-pluggers), no jackets, no belt, no hat, no sunglasses, laptops out of their cases in a separate container, I passed through without a hitch and stumbled on a scene which later left me in stitches, as I redressed myself. Standing at the counter, with her bag open was an Egyptian "mamma" dressed in her full length djellaba, and head scarf, she was looking at the security guard with a lack of complete dismay and incomprehension, as he held about 20 gold plated butter knives above a box of cutlery taken from her bag. Another guard walked passed and said to the guard, "La. That means no in Arabic". The guard duly tried that out, but the woman kept talking away in Arabic, apparently holding the same belief as the guard - that if you said enough eventually you would be understood. The passenger behind me reluctantly responded to the security guard's request for an Egyptian speaker, he listened to her explanation and then informed the guard that she was saying that it was a wedding present, she is taking it to her son's wedding.
As I walked away I heard the security guard speaking over the Arabic pleading of the woman, "I can't let this through, I would get fired if I let this through. My managed would kick my ass".

That was enough adventure in an airport to last me for a while yet.