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Published: August 6th 2007
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Leaving the Maldives was hard enough. Arriving into Qatar (pronounced ‘cutter’) for a ten hour layover on our way to South Africa bordered on torture.
The desert nothingness that revealed itself on our descent wasn’t exactly what I would call “welcoming,” nor was the 44 degree C (110 degree F) heat blast that overwhelmed us as we deplaned. Having psyched ourselves out about spending a majority of our day parked in the desert oasis, Gina and I looked forward to a decent meal and the possibility of some Internet time at the airport.
No instructions were given by the airline’s ground crew as we entered the terminal building with the mass of passengers transferring to other flights, so like lemmings we followed them to the security queue. As we stood waiting our turn to pass through the metal detector, a man began yelling out city names, “Singapore, New York, Johannesburg…” before I stopped him mid-sentence and inquired what the fuss was about. Unsurprisingly, we were in the wrong line.
As the man pointed across the terminal hall at a line three times deeper than the security line in which we were standing, I knew it was going to be a long day. Still not completely clear on what the
other line was for, Gina and I followed his instructions and dragged our bags back across the terminal to assume a position at its end. The line didn’t move for the first ten minutes and it didn’t take long before I could sense Gina’s frustration. The children screaming, crying and running frantically around us only seemed to compound the situation, so I encouraged her to find a seat while I waited.
Ten minutes turned into thirty, then sixty and finally ninety before I spoke with a Qatar Airlines representative. By this point, I had gathered that the airline was transferring people to local hotels to pass extended layovers instead of making them linger around the airport. While the gesture was nice in theory, its execution was piss poor. When the representative lollygagged while entering our information into the computer, it took everything in my being not to lose my cool. A few more minutes expired before she printed out a voucher and advised me to pass through Immigration to meet a curbside transfer to the hotel.
Gina was sitting by herself reading a guidebook for Cape Town when I walked up to her and wearily said, “Let’s go.” Fortunately, the chaos in the terminal had died down and there wasn’t a single person waiting to pass through Immigration. However, the female Muslim immigration agent was fully involved in a conversation with three male suitors, clad in what Gina deemed
Jesus garb, when we approached, and naturally took her time processing our entry between flirting with them. In no mood to extend our stay in Qatar any longer than necessary, I thought better of berating the agent for wasting more of our day.
Exiting curbside, I peered down at the hotel voucher and compared the unmemorable name to various vans parked outside before asking a nearby security agent where our shuttle was. All he offered back was a blank stare and a nonchalant, “Soon.”
Over two hours had passed since we hit the tarmac in Doha and we were still at the airport. Frustrated, tired, hungry and altogether unhappy, Gina and I sat for the next half hour impatiently waiting for our hotel’s shuttle before again inquiring with the stoic security agent. Unfortunately, his non sequitur answer of “Lost and Found” sent me for a loop. Only after clarifying the response, did I discern he meant for us to ask about our shuttle at the
Lost and Found desk - where I found a sympathetic ear.
The woman behind the counter, sensing my irritability, promptly called the hotel and began shouting in Arabic. Her tirade yielded a less than comforting, “They said it’s on the way.”
Retreating to where Gina had setup camp on the floor near the exit, I noticed a group of other travelers that had congregated by her. A quick survey revealed that everyone was waiting for the same hotel shuttle. Another half hour passed before I spotted a van emblazoned with the hotel’s name entering the secure parking area and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to recognize that there were more passengers than space. Quicker than Gina could open her mouth to question what I was doing, I had her out the door hustling toward the shuttle. Somehow, my effort ended up fruitless as I soon found Gina on my lap to accommodate all of the passengers for the transfer to the hotel.
By the time we arrived at the hotel, twenty minutes later, Gina and I were drenched in sweat and pissed off. When the reception staff told us that our room didn’t have a window, I unleashed the fury that had been building over the past 3-plus hours. As the vein began to bulge in my head, a windowed room miraculously became available. Relieved that our ordeal had finally come to a head, Gina and I spent the next few hours relaxing and eating before our return transfer to the airport.
In no mood to repeat the earlier debacle, we arrived to the lobby ten minutes prior to our shuttle’s departure. A similar sized van was parked outside the hotel.
Not a good sign. When the concierge announced that those departing to the airport should climb aboard, Gina and I pulled-out-the-stops while pushing and shoving our way past people to ensure a seat. The van’s capacity was reached within seconds. Those left standing when the music stopped were less than thrilled and returned to the lobby to start yelling. Unfortunately, the commotion detracted the attention of our driver who left us to sweat in the un-air conditioned idled vehicle. Tensions rose.
Fifteen minutes later, I declared the situation “
fucking ridiculous” and left my seat in the van to berate the hotel staff. As the concierge tried to convince me that they were waiting for a second shuttle, I stopped him midstream with a burst of logic littered with expletives - mainly, that there was no reason for a van at capacity to wait for departure. While my outburst seemed to startle several guests in the hotel lobby, the Manager decided not to chance an escalation of my anger and instructed the driver to leave.
It isn’t often that I’m excited to board an eleven hour flight anywhere, but as I found my seat to Cape Town that night, I knew anything was better than our day in Qatar.
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Tamisha
non-member comment
WOW!
And I though my day was going poorly. You win! Can't WAIT to see the pics from the safari excursion!