PLAIN SAILING?
PLAIN SAILING ... or was it?
My journey to Bolivia started off with a hitch: thirty minutes before I was due to leave home Roberto was stricken with a tummy upset which prevented him from taking me to the airport. Andrea to the rescue as she was able to provide the name of a taxi driver who, fortunately, was free and able to take me to Málaga where I arrived on time, albeit €100 lighter.
Things improved when my Spanair flight to Madrid left and arrived on time, and everything seemed to be going smoothly as we boarded the Aerolíneas Argentinas flight for Buenos Aires which took off only thirty minutes late which, given airline procedures, can be regarded as within the bounds of normality.
Things began to change about 40 minutes after take-off when on the screen showing the flight path the plane cuold be seen turning around and heading back the way it had come. It was some time before the captain announced that we were heading back due, he said, to the fact that a pilot light had come on. He did not know whether the fault was an electronic one or whether the fault indicated by the light was real in which case it was a serious enough event to prevent the flight continuing. We flew around for a long time jetissoning fuel in order to be able to land at Madrid airport.
The fire engines were waiting for us but fortunately their services were not required. The fault was inspected and we were told that we could take off again but, of course, we had to load up with fuel which took about two hours. At 3.45 am we took off again. We had scarcely passed into Portugal when the plane turned round once again - the same problem. The engine was making a strange noise and I opened the shutter to see whether we were flying horizontally or whether we were plummetting. Suddenly the plane bounced in the air sending our stomachs up into our throats. Some people began to scream. The captain had switched off the engine. Once again we jetissoned a full tank of fuel (Where is the energy crisis?) and landed in Madrid. This time the fire engines surrounded the plane and hosed into the engine. When it was deemed safe, we disembarked and were taken by bus to a nearby hotel -the largest hotel in Europe - where there were not enough empty rooms to accommodate all the travellers as there were several medical conventions taking place.
There we were served breakfast and lunch and there we sat around all day long without a visit from a single representative of Aerolíneas Argentinas. Nobody explained what was happening or what we might expect. Eventually at 6pm we were taken back to the airport by bus and finally, almost 24 hours after our original departure time, we took off. The transatlantic flight was smooth and uneventful, much to everyone’s relief. Some passengers had decided not to continue their journey and had gone home.
When we reached Buenos Aires, we realised that, even if we had arrived on time, we would have been unable to continue our journeys as the airline had been on strike and some people had been there for over 24 hours. As many planes were at the wrong places, my flight to Santa Cruz was delayed for several hours. The result of this was that when I got to Santa Cruz there were no flights: LAB (Lloyd Aéreo Boliviano), the national airline, is also in dire straits with planes being repossessed for lack of payment. I tried the other airline, Aerosur, and they were able to offer me a business class seat which I took. Finally, sixty hours after leaving home, I reached Cochabamba. The e-mails sent to warn people of the delays had not been received so the hotel had cancelled my reservation.
Having completed my programme in Cochabamba I wanted to go to the Chapare, the tropical rainforest area where we lived from 1993 to 1995. I took the bus, leaving Cochabamba at 9pm on March 14th. A true tropical deluge fell throughout most of the night, the sky illuminated by bright blue flashes of lightning. The ascent to the cloud forest at around 4,000m and the subsequent descent to the tropical rainforest was slow over the stony surface. In places the road had been washed away and, as traffic could only pass in single file, this led to considerable delays. Further delays took place at the anti-narcotics checkpoints where I was required to open my suitcase for inspection.
At 4am, seven hours later, we arrived in Entre Ríos, about 250kms from Cochabamba. The rain was pouring down so we took shelter under an awning in the hope of being able to catch a lift to Roberto’s house. I was amazed at the number of people sleeping in doorways and wandering around at that time. At last a car did happen along and we reached the house at 4.30.
Where would I sleep? All the rooms of the house are rented out to workers in the oil and gas fields which have been opened since we were there, and Roberto and his family live in a single room. I soon found out. Two girls were sleeping in one bed, Roberto, his wife and smallest child would sleep in another and I was given the third. New sheets, freshly purchased in Cochabamba’s Cancha market, sweetened this prospect. Exhausted, I fell asleep quickly ... but not for long. At 6 am we were up and shortly afterwards set off to visit Roberto’s land.
Things had changed considerably since we lived here. We did not take the old road to Villa Unión but the road from Cruce Andino. Now there are three access roads to Villa Unión which are maintained by the oil companies now working in the area. We explored the forest for a few hours, crossing the rivers by tree-trunk bridges and sometimes wading across when the trunks had been washed away by the rains. It was a refresher experience as I heard the sounds of the rainforest once again - the birds, the insects, the cracking of branches - and felt the “sensurround” experience of the damp heat touching my skin. This is the only environment I know where all the senses are engaged at the same time. As we walked through the last remaining stand of virgin forest, it was a bitter-sweet experience. The onslaught of colonists slashing and burning has now been compounded by the activities of the oil and gas companies, so who knows how much longer this little islet can survive when loggers try to crash in and remove the timber without permission, neighbours encroach as they slash and burn and hunters snare and shoot the animals who have found refuge here.
On the return trip we took the old familiar road through Villa Unión. No longer any need to manoeuvre the car wheels over two tree trunks. The oil companies have improved the road and made the whole area much more easily accessible – a mixed blessing surely.
After a shower and a quick bite to eat, I made my way to the main road to wait for the buses travelling from Cochabamba to Santa Cruz which begin to pass after midday. The second bus had a free seat. The three and a half hour journey to Santa Cruz was smooth since the road surface is much better on this flatter terrain. The only hitch was the Bulo Bulo anti-narcotics checkpoint where all passengers were required to disembark and the policewoman stuck a metal prong into everyone’s baggage (Tough luck if you were carrying fruit to sell in the market!).
Late afternoon found me in Santa Cruz, this relaxed but dynamic town in the tropical area of Bolivia.
After a short but welcome respite in Santa Cruz it was time to undertake the return journey. Would it be less gruelling than the outward leg? I certainly hoped so.
Things did not start off too well. The plane had not arrived from Buenos Aires so our departure was delayed three and a half hours. As we embarked we were cautioned to go to the transit desk “in case our boarding passes would have to be changed”. An alarm bell rang but I muffled it. On arrival in Buenos Aires with only 40 minutes to spare before take-off, a stewardess urged us to hurry to gate 11. However, I decided to go to Transit just in case. The girl there knew nothing of what was to happen to us except that our flight had been cancelled. Eventually another member of ground personnel arrived with a list. I was lucky. I was to travel on the flight due to leave at 11.30pm. Other passengers were not so lucky. Some were sent to Rome and others simply had to wait.
I made my way to Gate 11. It was impossible to get near the gate and in the lounge a veritable revolution was in progress. Hundreds of passengers were milling around, standing on the seats, screaming their heads off, whistling and generally making their disaffection abundantly clear. The airline staff were huddled behind their desk for protection. Two earlier flights had also been cancelled and the long-suffering passengers were making a last-ditch stand to get home. At last those of us who had been issued with boarding passes were allowed to board the plane which took off on time.
The remainder of the journey was uneventful except for the fact that I was suffering from a tummy upset and shortly after take-off all but one of the toilets was declared out of order!!!
The inevitable did happen. When I reached Málaga there was no sign of my suitcase. I filed a claim and waited. In the end I found out where the holding store was and this morning, three days later, Robert had to go and collect the case as he needed it to return to Damascus.
So, the moral of the story is NEVER FLY AEROLINEAS ARGENTINAS.
March 2006
My journey to Bolivia started off with a hitch: thirty minutes before I was due to leave home Roberto was stricken with a tummy upset which prevented him from taking me to the airport. Andrea to the rescue as she was able to provide the name of a taxi driver who, fortunately, was free and able to take me to Málaga where I arrived on time, albeit €100 lighter.
Things improved when my Spanair flight to Madrid left and arrived on time, and everything seemed to be going smoothly as we boarded the Aerolíneas Argentinas flight for Buenos Aires which took off only thirty minutes late which, given airline procedures, can be regarded as within the bounds of normality.
Things began to change about 40 minutes after take-off when on the screen showing the flight path the plane cuold be seen turning around and heading back the way it had come. It was some time before the captain announced that we were heading back due, he said, to the fact that a pilot light had come on. He did not know whether the fault was an electronic one or whether the fault indicated by the light was real in which case it was a serious enough event to prevent the flight continuing. We flew around for a long time jetissoning fuel in order to be able to land at Madrid airport.
The fire engines were waiting for us but fortunately their services were not required. The fault was inspected and we were told that we could take off again but, of course, we had to load up with fuel which took about two hours. At 3.45 am we took off again. We had scarcely passed into Portugal when the plane turned round once again - the same problem. The engine was making a strange noise and I opened the shutter to see whether we were flying horizontally or whether we were plummetting. Suddenly the plane bounced in the air sending our stomachs up into our throats. Some people began to scream. The captain had switched off the engine. Once again we jetissoned a full tank of fuel (Where is the energy crisis?) and landed in Madrid. This time the fire engines surrounded the plane and hosed into the engine. When it was deemed safe, we disembarked and were taken by bus to a nearby hotel -the largest hotel in Europe - where there were not enough empty rooms to accommodate all the travellers as there were several medical conventions taking place.
There we were served breakfast and lunch and there we sat around all day long without a visit from a single representative of Aerolíneas Argentinas. Nobody explained what was happening or what we might expect. Eventually at 6pm we were taken back to the airport by bus and finally, almost 24 hours after our original departure time, we took off. The transatlantic flight was smooth and uneventful, much to everyone’s relief. Some passengers had decided not to continue their journey and had gone home.
When we reached Buenos Aires, we realised that, even if we had arrived on time, we would have been unable to continue our journeys as the airline had been on strike and some people had been there for over 24 hours. As many planes were at the wrong places, my flight to Santa Cruz was delayed for several hours. The result of this was that when I got to Santa Cruz there were no flights: LAB (Lloyd Aéreo Boliviano), the national airline, is also in dire straits with planes being repossessed for lack of payment. I tried the other airline, Aerosur, and they were able to offer me a business class seat which I took. Finally, sixty hours after leaving home, I reached Cochabamba. The e-mails sent to warn people of the delays had not been received so the hotel had cancelled my reservation.
Having completed my programme in Cochabamba I wanted to go to the Chapare, the tropical rainforest area where we lived from 1993 to 1995. I took the bus, leaving Cochabamba at 9pm on March 14th. A true tropical deluge fell throughout most of the night, the sky illuminated by bright blue flashes of lightning. The ascent to the cloud forest at around 4,000m and the subsequent descent to the tropical rainforest was slow over the stony surface. In places the road had been washed away and, as traffic could only pass in single file, this led to considerable delays. Further delays took place at the anti-narcotics checkpoints where I was required to open my suitcase for inspection.
At 4am, seven hours later, we arrived in Entre Ríos, about 250kms from Cochabamba. The rain was pouring down so we took shelter under an awning in the hope of being able to catch a lift to Roberto’s house. I was amazed at the number of people sleeping in doorways and wandering around at that time. At last a car did happen along and we reached the house at 4.30.
Where would I sleep? All the rooms of the house are rented out to workers in the oil and gas fields which have been opened since we were there, and Roberto and his family live in a single room. I soon found out. Two girls were sleeping in one bed, Roberto, his wife and smallest child would sleep in another and I was given the third. New sheets, freshly purchased in Cochabamba’s Cancha market, sweetened this prospect. Exhausted, I fell asleep quickly ... but not for long. At 6 am we were up and shortly afterwards set off to visit Roberto’s land.
Things had changed considerably since we lived here. We did not take the old road to Villa Unión but the road from Cruce Andino. Now there are three access roads to Villa Unión which are maintained by the oil companies now working in the area. We explored the forest for a few hours, crossing the rivers by tree-trunk bridges and sometimes wading across when the trunks had been washed away by the rains. It was a refresher experience as I heard the sounds of the rainforest once again - the birds, the insects, the cracking of branches - and felt the “sensurround” experience of the damp heat touching my skin. This is the only environment I know where all the senses are engaged at the same time. As we walked through the last remaining stand of virgin forest, it was a bitter-sweet experience. The onslaught of colonists slashing and burning has now been compounded by the activities of the oil and gas companies, so who knows how much longer this little islet can survive when loggers try to crash in and remove the timber without permission, neighbours encroach as they slash and burn and hunters snare and shoot the animals who have found refuge here.
On the return trip we took the old familiar road through Villa Unión. No longer any need to manoeuvre the car wheels over two tree trunks. The oil companies have improved the road and made the whole area much more easily accessible – a mixed blessing surely.
After a shower and a quick bite to eat, I made my way to the main road to wait for the buses travelling from Cochabamba to Santa Cruz which begin to pass after midday. The second bus had a free seat. The three and a half hour journey to Santa Cruz was smooth since the road surface is much better on this flatter terrain. The only hitch was the Bulo Bulo anti-narcotics checkpoint where all passengers were required to disembark and the policewoman stuck a metal prong into everyone’s baggage (Tough luck if you were carrying fruit to sell in the market!).
Late afternoon found me in Santa Cruz, this relaxed but dynamic town in the tropical area of Bolivia.
After a short but welcome respite in Santa Cruz it was time to undertake the return journey. Would it be less gruelling than the outward leg? I certainly hoped so.
Things did not start off too well. The plane had not arrived from Buenos Aires so our departure was delayed three and a half hours. As we embarked we were cautioned to go to the transit desk “in case our boarding passes would have to be changed”. An alarm bell rang but I muffled it. On arrival in Buenos Aires with only 40 minutes to spare before take-off, a stewardess urged us to hurry to gate 11. However, I decided to go to Transit just in case. The girl there knew nothing of what was to happen to us except that our flight had been cancelled. Eventually another member of ground personnel arrived with a list. I was lucky. I was to travel on the flight due to leave at 11.30pm. Other passengers were not so lucky. Some were sent to Rome and others simply had to wait.
I made my way to Gate 11. It was impossible to get near the gate and in the lounge a veritable revolution was in progress. Hundreds of passengers were milling around, standing on the seats, screaming their heads off, whistling and generally making their disaffection abundantly clear. The airline staff were huddled behind their desk for protection. Two earlier flights had also been cancelled and the long-suffering passengers were making a last-ditch stand to get home. At last those of us who had been issued with boarding passes were allowed to board the plane which took off on time.
The remainder of the journey was uneventful except for the fact that I was suffering from a tummy upset and shortly after take-off all but one of the toilets was declared out of order!!!
The inevitable did happen. When I reached Málaga there was no sign of my suitcase. I filed a claim and waited. In the end I found out where the holding store was and this morning, three days later, Robert had to go and collect the case as he needed it to return to Damascus.
So, the moral of the story is NEVER FLY AEROLINEAS ARGENTINAS.
March 2006
posted by Mary | 11:49 AM
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