Marie vs. The Zambian Airport

First off, thank you for your patience whilst waiting for new posts. 

I took the last couple weeks off but now it is back to writing for you every few days :)

Enjoy!

As many of you know, I had the amazing opportunity to travel with the Von Hagen's to Zambia and Zimbabwe from December 28th-January 1st. 

The trip (and company!) was flat-out INCREDIBLE. 

I saw and did things I never dreamed of doing. 

The next few posts re-tell my adventures from those unforgettable 5 days...

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Firstly, let's begin with the most simple (ha!) of all travel beginnings: The Arrival.    

I'd like to boast that my journey began with maturely reigned-in excitement, but if I am to be honest, it was nothing of the sort. 

The Von Hagen's flew to Livingstone, Zambia the day before I did and I was extremely nervous to fly there alone. Yes, I have flown to Nova Scotia, New York, and Cape Town all on my own but this felt different. I was entering a third world country where I had no safety nets to rely on should something go wrong. 

And I was freaking out that something wrong would indeed happen. And it did. Just my luck. (Maybe there is something to that whole "you create you own reality" philosophy...?) 

I tried to assuage my nerves by talking things through with Leah and Kern beforehand. They assured me everything would be fine seeing as it is a very small airport and I had scheduled transport pick-up with a reliable travel company. I even did a run-through with the travel agent, getting all the details as to where to go and what to do. 

I was told to bring $100 USD in cash to pay for my visa for Zambia & Zimbabwe. Yes, a Canadian actually has to pay for a travel visa for a trip lasting all of 5 days (while Africans get in free). It's a blatant cash grab. Grr. I was also told to pack a pen to fill out the immigration forms because the Zambian government didn't deem it necessary to provide ones for travelers upon arrival. Nice!

I was most worried about my luggage not arriving (my usual travel worry) and not finding my driver who was supposed to drive me to the hotel. I could think of nothing scarier than being stranded in a sketchy Zambian airport all alone. Little did I know...

The morning of my flight, I was feeling confident. Or at least I was faking confidence in the hopes I'd start believing it myself. 

Then the panic-stricken chaos which would eventually infiltrate my entire morning/afternoon began.

Once at the Joburg airport, I hopped into the South African Airways queue denoted "Domestic Flights". As I was standing there, I thought it best if I double check with the SAA agent standing at the front of the line to make sure I was in the right place. She assured me I was. 

15mins later, once I arrived to the check-in agents, I was snootily informed that I had to go to the "International" line. Whoops -- silly of me to trust that SAA agent to know how to do her job properly. 

So I schlep my bags back over to the Int'l queue and AGAIN confirm with an (different) agent that this is the line is where I should be checking in. "Yes ma'am", I was told. 

Nope. Wrong again.

20mins later I was standing in yet ANOTHER line, tucked away in a corner, that actually had "Livingstone" printed on the screen above it. Apparently, SAA has a check-in solely dedicated to Zambian flights. This is all great and dandy, except they might want to inform their employees that it actually exists.  

At this point, my first-world self was royally frustrated with SAAs deplorable customer service and increasingly panicked about boarding my flight in time. 

Which meant it took scrounging around in my left pinky toe for my last ounce of patience to NOT punch the SAA agent in the face who scanned my passport and proceeded to lip off and scold me for arriving "so very late" to board my flight. 

Ggrgrraaaaahhhh!!!

Because guess what? By this point, my flight was boarding. As in, right that very second. 

The agent was about to tell me that I was so late that I would have to forfeit my ticket, but I think he saw the death stare look in my eyes and thought better of it. Ha!

Ticket in hand, I took off sprinting to my boarding gate. Unfortunately, I totally forgot that I had to pass through SA customs first. Frig. 

I ran up to a security agent and explained that my international flight was currently boarding and asked if I may skip the queue (there was only like, 6 people in it anyway) because of the emergency. She rolled her eyes, shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. Thanks, lady. Your customer service skills are about as sharp as SAA's. 

After finally getting through customs, I bolted for gate A. Which just so happened to be at the farthest point away from where I was. Of course. A little sign above customs told me that -- at a walking pace -- it would take me 9minutes to reach my gate. I figured I was screwed.

I morphed into that annoying person in the airport who is noisily and angrily sprinting full tilt through the airport, clutching onto unruly purse straps and papers while trying not to breathe out of their mouth like a raging bull as they scan gate numbers for the one they so desperately need to find. It was not pretty.

I made it onto the loading bus just in the nick of time. Thank goodness!!

That hurdle came to a close as I met my next one.

The plane's wheels had just lifted SA soil when my stomach fell to my feet and an audible gasp escaped my throat in my horror of realization: I had forgotten all of my American cash at Justin's house. I had all of 50 Rand on me, plus my debit and Visa card. 

I wanted to cry. 

The money was the one thing I couldn't afford to forget. Well, minus my passport. I knew right away that it was going to cause issues, though I wasn't prepared for how much of an issue it truly became. 

We touched down in Zambia after a quick 2 hour flight. I had my pen ready to go -- at least I got that part right. 

The heat was intense as I walked my way across the tarmac to customs. Once inside, I began filling out my paperwork while taking in the surroundings. The arrivals area was very, very small. About the size of a small backyard. The two customs officers sat at a plain wooden desk and luggage from the plane was simply unloaded in a bunch on the floor. No air con. 

I walked up to the officer and kindly explained that I didn't have cash to pay the $80USD visa fee. His response was to mumble something intelligible and point to the doors behind him. After getting him to repeat himself three times, I was able to make out the word "bank". Okay. Bank. Bank is good. 

I grabbed my luggage and made my way to the doors. Before they could slide open, I was shouted at by a guard. He demanded I show him my visa and customs stamp in my passport. He told me it was illegal for me to leave the arrivals area without them. 

I tried to stay calm as I explained the situation. He finally let me out to go to the bank. As the doors opened, I was immediately intimidated. I was met with a sauna-like, dingy, cramped hallway reception area that stunk to high hell of body odor. It was full of black men. The hallway was lined with plexiglass cubbies of what I figured were businesses (such as car rentals, etc). Nowhere did I see a bank.

I walked up to a random dude and asked where the bank was. He pointed to an ATM machine half-way down the corridor. I felt awkward and leered at as I pulled my red suitcase down the length of the hallway. I came to realize that it wasn't just airport-people sitting and standing around but that the airport served as a hub for people of the community to do certain business, such as booking vacations and sending parcels.

It didn't feel safe. 

As I approached the ATM, I could see men staring at me from the corner of my eye. I just wanted to get my cash and get out of there asap. 

One problem: the ATM refused my bank card. As well as my Visa card. 

Now what?!

I read the signs around me and found a "bank" (not sure you could call this make-shift plexiglass cubicle a bank, but whatever...). After telling her that her ATM was refusing my cards, I was met with the same rude indifference I had been facing all day. She said there was nothing she could do to help. 

I walked back into the stifling hallway feeling totally alone and desperate. I snatched my cell phone from my backpack only to realize that it gets no reception in Zambia at all. With no cash and no phone, I felt so scared and so alone. 

I walked back into the arrivals gate to talk to the guard again. After no less than 3 full minutes of trying to get him to understand my plight, he suggested visit the currency-converter place. Back into the stinky, creepy hall I went again.

The lady there also tries my cards, which also don't work for her. 

F&%#!! 

At this point, I am on the verge of tears. It has been 30 minutes since I touched down and the row of drivers I saw lined up in the arrivals area have dwindled dramatically. I'm thinking that my driver has left, thinking I didn't show up and now I am totally abandoned. 

My voice was shaking as I asked -- more like pleaded to -- the girl behind the counter as to what I should do. She gave me a board, blank stare and told me she had no clue. 

An American girl standing behind me in line stepped up and suggested I go into town and find a bank there. Thank God someone was coming up with helpful advice! 

Unfortunately, town was a 10 minute drive away and I did NOT feel safe getting some random taxi driver to take me, alone. Not to mention I had no money and the guard told me I wasn't legally allowed to leave the airport grounds.

I dragged my stinky, sweaty body and bag back into the arrivals gate and over to the customs officers once again. I actually teared up to the point of crying while slowly, desperately asking them a very simple question: What. do. I. do.?. And again, they said I must find cash and that they had no further suggestions.   

It was shocking how completely useless the airport staff were to me. Over the course of an house, I spoke to no less than 5 people and each one did nothing to help. It was like they were incapable of stepping outside their day job to assist a clearly distressed traveler. I was/am throughly disappointed in the utter incompetence of these people. 

I lug myself back into the hallway and walk into the car rental cubicle. After 5 minutes of communication-barrier issues, I convince them to allow me to use their phone to call the hotel so that I can try to get a hold of the Von Hagens. They don't have internet so they can't look the phone number up online and they get pissed off at me for not having it on me. So-rry.

The chick pulls out a phonebook and flips through page upon page until I realize that she doesn't actually know how to use it. I take it and find the number. To which I call, get put on hold, and then dropped after no less than 6 minutes of waiting on the line later (I know because I timed the damn thing!!). 

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! 

The rental lady was making it clear she wanted to get back to texting on her phone, so I left, having gained nothing. 

I must've looked pretty disheveled and upset standing alone in the hall, because an Australian girl came up to me and offered me her Blackberry to call for help. She said that she had seen me running back and forth and thought she should help. THANK THE LORD ABOVE FOR KIND PEOPLE LIKE HER. Seriously, just the fact that she offered to help meant the world at that point. 

Sadly, Leah didn't answer the call and the girl had to leave with her tour group. Oh, and did I mention that she had just arrived on a second flight?? It was about 50 minutes now that my flight had come and gone. 

My options were quickly disappearing so I figured I may as well try and find my driver (if he was still there).

I walked over to the line of guys that I had passed about a dozen times by now. I stood in front of them like an idiot waiting to be shot by a firing squad, and nowhere could I see the name "Tichborne". Nowhere. 

I grabbed my travel itinerary and double-checked the company's name who was responsible for getting me to the hotel. I recognized it on the shirt of one of the dudes and pretty much fell into his lap, asking if he knew what happened to the "Tichborne" booking. 

He rounded up all his guys to show me their signs. Buried four down on one of them was "Von Hagen x1". Of course it wouldn't be in my name. Ugh. Whatever, at least I had found my driver. 

He was all smiles until I informed him that I couldn't leave the airport because I hadn't paid for my visa yet or got my stamps. It also took a while to get him to understand my money situation. The sad thing is, I in my frantic state I stupidly asked him if I could borrow the money from him personally until I got to the hotel -- totally not factoring in the fact that $80 USD was probably more than he makes all month. I never felt more ignorant in my life. fml.  

He ended up getting his manager on the phone to talk with me. She assured me she would get cash to me somehow. FINALLY! Someone who was actually being proactive in helping me!

30 minutes later, a man arrived bearing an envelope with four crisp American $20 bills. Turns out she had to call her boss's boss, get written & signed permission to use company cash, drive down to the bank and withdraw it, and then send a guy in a company car to the airport to drop it off. What a mission! I was so, so grateful. 

It was now 2 hours that I had been trapped in that hell hole of an "airport". I rushed over to the customs desk, plunked down the money and forms, and in literally 2 minutes, had my stamps and visa in my hands. What a relief!!

From that point on, I just wanted to see Sarah and her family. I was in desperate need of familiar faces.

Surprisingly, the drive to the Livingstone Hotel was lovely. The guy who had been helping me sort out money with his manager for the last hour was kind enough to come with. He gave me an introduction to the town's history and main attractions. He was truly a great person to be so nice to me after dealing with an angry, frustrated, panicky Marie for the last 60 minutes. 

Needless to say, I tipped him well.

When I arrived at the hotel and caught my first glimpse of its stunning grandeur and serene beauty... I could have collapsed with joy. 

And when I came upon the Von Hagens and Jason lounging on the patio, I pretty much did. 

It felt so good to be back in their company and back in a place where I felt safe, happy, and looked after. 

From then on began adventures that were decidedly more positive :) ...

More to come on that tomorrow! :)