Day 1: Manchester - Paris (- Johannesburg)

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Manchester

Some five months after returning from the Southern Hemisphere, I once again find myself leaving the house at some awful hour and heading to the airport. I’m off to the Southern Hemisphere again and, despite the fact that it’s 03h30, I really am looking forward to a long trip almost due south to Johannesburg and beyond.

In typical Manchester fashion, the balmy 5 Centigrade was offset by the light breeze driving the local drizzle into a frenzy! Standing in the rain resulted in a slight dampness, but moving forwards at any speed whatsoever resulted in a thorough soaking.

As so it was that I drove to the airport, windscreen wipers beating their rhythm in an effort to clear the apparent wall of water. I’d reserved a space at 04h30 and, on time, pulled into the car park. Donning my trusty walking boots, I left my shoes in the footwell, picked up my rucksack and camera bag and left the keys with the receptionist before heading off to check in.

Although I try and restrict my travelling to a few select airlines in an effort to maximise the reward points I get, I was travelling Air France this time and consequently have minimal points on the card. However, I did have a frequent flier card so decided to check in using the e-machines. After a very painless and quick set of procedures, I was directed to deposit my rucksack at the desk - behind a long queue of others checking in!

Having eventually arrived at the head of the queue, the very nice gentlemen initially checked my rucksack all the way through to Namibia. After some discussion, I had the bag checked in just to Jo’burg as that was where I was intending to stay the night. Little did I know, but that was the first mistake in a chain that was to last the entire trip!

Having checked in my bag, I was informed that I’d have to take it to another desk where it would be transferred to the airline. Three desks just to get a bag checked-in!

Security was the next area of concern. I don't usually wear anything metal at airports because of the machines, but my original combats were no more and these newer ones had a metal buckle. Without being prompted, I whipped my belt off, dumped my hat and camera bag on the conveyor belt and headed into the bowels of the machine. Emerging unscathed at the other side, I pulled my trousers up, collected my belongings and headed for the gate.

Manchester to … er … Manchester

The wait at the gate, considering the outside temperature, was surprisingly warm. I’d passed the time reading and was almost elated when we were called for boarding. Like a herd of elephant (which I later found out was not a good metaphor), we tore down the air bridge and flung ourselves on to the plane ready for the short hop across to Paris.

Some thirty minutes after the supposed departure, we were still at the stand. The pilot gave a long spiel in French and then said “we have a light on” in English. Some technical bods arrived, opened the bonnet, fiddled and twiddled, wiped the windows and waved us on our way.

Delighted, we set off around the perimeter and on reaching the end of the runway, were passed by several other planes. True to form, the pilot came back on the tannoy spouting French before concluding “we have a light on”. We trundled down the runway, off the end and back to the stand.

The boys with the screwdrivers returned, jacked up the front and prodded away, whilst the trolley-dollies did their best to entertain us with water and muffins, when all we really wanted was tea and a nice plate of bacon and eggs!

Manchester to Paris

Finally, with a very patient retinue on board, our 06h25 flight took off at 11h00 after having offloaded those commuters who had now missed their meetings in Paris. Our expected arrival time in Paris of 13h15 would mean that I would miss my 10h05 connection south. I, like several others, would need to consider whether to continue with the journey. Fortunately, I’d built in a 24 hour contingency and didn’t have to leave Jo’burg until 12h00 the following day but that was no consolation to those connecting to ships, etc.

On arrival in Paris, I legged it up the gangway and arrived first at the bank of personnel geared to deal with our onward flights. In fact, we had all been given the same outward flight some 24 hours later. This did not suit me and no matter how much I tried to explain, I made no headway.

I left the desk with a voucher for lunch, a phone card hotel accommodation and an evening meal voucher. So, heading off for my free lunch, I tucked in to a mug of strong coffee and a Parisienne to decide my next move.

A call from the UK informed me that there was an overnight flight from Paris which would get me in to Jo’burg in time for the next day’s flight - just. So, I headed off to the ticket desk and explained my predicament to a very nice young lady behind the counter. I have to congratulate her because she informed me that the 23h30 flight was full, but continued to hunt for the elusive seat. She informed me that a single seat rarely came up, but if she kept refreshing the screen, she’d find it. As expected, she got me that elusive seat and reinstated my onward flight to Windhoek. All that remained was to determine where my baggage would end up. Although my baggage label said Jo’burg, she assured me that it was checked though to Windhoek. Subsequent checks through two other independent sources also confirmed that fact.

Armed with a new ticket, I decided to head to the hotel where I would make use of the facilities, have a meal and then run away on the night flight!

Heading to the bus stop, I was greeted by a very unpleasant lady who wanted the world to know of the great injustice meted out to her. Nothing was right and nothing could be done to put it right - even though there were a few of us in a similar situation. I’d a good mind to put her on the wrong bus but thought better of it! We all huddled in the lee of the building against the cold biting wind trying to look as though we were enjoying our holiday.

Arriving at the hotel, I checked in, went up to the room and refreshed myself. It wasn’t the world’s most salubrious room, but it would do for the short time I was to use it; and for now, that meant having a short nap.

I awoke at 16h00 went for a short walk in the local village but, owing to cold wind, valiantly retired to the bar where I drowned my sorrows in several Café Longs. How ironic - 16h30 on a Friday afternoon and instead of sitting in my local coffee shop at home, I was doing something for which I wasn’t prepared - sitting in a French coffee shop!

Returning to my room, I set the alarm and rested on top of the bed, falling into a light slumber. Two hours later, the alarm told me that I needed to move so I grabbed the soap (fortuitously, as it transpired), headed for the bar and ordered an orange juice. I also called the hotel in Jo’burg and advised them that I would, sadly, not be arriving.

Retiring to the dining room, I used my voucher to purchase a light meal comprising salad, fresh bread and water and, on spying the transport at the door, made a bee-line for the bus.

So, here I am at 19h45, at Terminal 2F in Paris Charles de Gaulle, when I should really be preparing to land in Jo’burg.

With plenty of time, I confirmed again that my luggage had been diverted to meet me in Windhoek rather than its original destination and was advised in the affirmative. So, heading through passport control, I went flight side and settled down for a long wait for the 23h30 flight. A journey that should have taken an hour had already taken over 12 - the omens were not good!

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