4. Musical chairs

Wednesday, 26 December 2018

Punta Arenas, Chile

Ever since I travelled from Braunschweig, Germany, to Salvador, Brasil, in 1999, via Hannover, Brussels and Lisbon, to discover that although I had arrived, my bags hadn’t, I have this fear that it will happen again. Consequently, I never now check my bags in and always travel with them as hand luggage. This fear is not unfounded as, for those that know me, I am 6’5” and not exactly slim and athletic. Hence, it’s not as though I can nip in to the nearest shop and buy clothes that fit. Unlike you normal people. As one of my friends remarked, I’m unnecessarily large. My bag was eventually found and I received it care of the gorgeous Selma from TransBrasil in Salvador, three days later. It’s not fun living in clothes that are three days old, I can tell you.

And that, dear reader, is why I will always take bags on as hand luggage. Bear that in mind as you read on. Coupled with the fact that I’ve got a load of polar gear packed which I really don’t want to lose the day before I fly to Antarctica.

I’m flying to Punta Arenas in southern Chile today. A 3hr flight. It’s a short hop across the road from hotel to departures and I soon join the long queue for airport security. Unlike a similar queue at Birmingham airport, it’s moving surprisingly quickly. I soon find out why.

I’m too used to the rigmarole at European airports where you practically have to undress and unpack your bags before being allowed through the scanners. Here, it’s a case of put your bag on a tray without taking out liquids, laptops and everything else and then walking through the body scanner fully clothed whilst your bag is X-rayed. It’s a doddle. But I suppose the Chileans don’t have the threat of Islamic terrorists wanting to blow them out of the sky.

As boarding approaches, the LAN Chile ground crew set up the queuing system. We’re going to be boarding by those in window seats first, then middle seats and finally aisle seats. I’m an aisle seat.  I’d recently read a news report about this type of boarding (https://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/comment/the-fastest-way-to-board-a-plane/) but never seen it in action. Until now. Having managed to get to the boarding gate with my 20kg rucksack, which is both oversized and overweight (yeah, yeah, bit like me), I’m now hoping that I can secrete it past that final check at the boarding desk but I see an officious airline woman walking up the queues looking at people and saying something. Soon realise that it’s a case of make sure you’ve got your passports and boarding cards ready. A few minutes later, a small weedy looking young lad (the irritating type that would get bullied at school) also wanders up the queue doing the same thing so assume it’s another reminder. Until he reaches me. He looks up. I tower over him. My bag is way too big apparently. No. It’s not. Yes. It is. As it’s panto season. Oh no it isn’t. I tell him that it’s OK and full of puffy polar clothes that will squash down. He replies with, ‘Show me.’ Erm. I don’t think so mate. I know full well that it won’t squash down to a smaller size. Tell pipsqueak in a very assertive and authoritative manner that it’s OK. Rather surprisingly, he gives up and wanders off. I’m not there yet though. Still have to run the gauntlet of boarding pass scan, the final hurdle in my quest to get my overweight and oversized bag on as hand luggage.

It then occurs to me that we’re the last group to board. There’s lots of people with large daysacks and I fear that by the time I get on board all the overhead lockers will be full. All the window people are ferried to the aircraft by a bus, followed by middle seaters on another bus. Us ‘aislers’ are on the final bus. I manage to get my bag on bus without further challenge and make sure I’m now at the front right door of bus, as that’s usually prime spot for decanting bus to aircraft steps first. There are six doors on the bus (front, middle, rear, each side), so it’s 50/50 as to whether we decant left or right, though usually right in my experience. I’m in prime position.

Ho ho ho.

Bus arrives at aircraft from the front meaning the left doors will open. Sod it. To make matters worse, only the rear left door is open so I’m one of the last to decant. Sod it. There’ll be no space for bag in overhead locker and it’ll go in the hold, which at this stage is a negligible risk of going astray enroute. I’m one of the last to board and some eager baggage handlers are relieving folk of their smaller bags as it’s a full flight. Hmmm. Turn towards to handlers so my bag is out of sight, out of mind. Ascend the steps. Yes. Done it. I am on board with bag. Walk down the aisle. Rather stupidly, the aisle seaters who are already seated lean in to the aisle to see what’s going on and as I progress down the aisle my bag ricochets off heads and shoulders.

I’m in seat 26J, the final third of the aircraft. An emergency exit seat with lots and lots of leg room I am assured by the airline bod I checked with yesterday. I’m just waiting to discover that there’s no overhead locker space for my bag and after all that lugging it about, it will have to go in the hold. But. Someone is looking down on me. There is sufficient space. However, the joy of discovering space for oversized and overweight bag is overridden by the realisation that seat 26J is not an emergency exit seat with oodles of leg room. It’s a bog standard seat. I don’t do bog standard. I’m way too tall for bog standard. My 36” inside legs don’t do bog standard. I attempt to sit down. I can’t physically sit down. My legs don’t fit.

Sod it.

Right then. Time for a bit of Taurean charm. Stand up. Survey the extra leg room seats. 25B, C, J & K have a metre of leg room. 26A and 26L have about three metres of leg room as there is no seat 25A or 25L as it’s the exit door. 26K is a big bloke. So no. 26A is a petite Italian lady. Taurean charm on its way. At the same time as I’m positioning myself to pop the question, I see that a stewardess is also pointing in that direction and see that she’s trying to swap a Michael Moore type character (very big American director) who is also oversized for a bog standard seat.

Swiftly is my middle name. I make my move. I ask. She fully understands my predicament and very kindly agrees to swap her 26A with lots of leg room to my 26J with sod all leg room. She stands up and moves into the void created by an absent 25A so I can move into 26A. At the same time, stewardess sees what we’re doing, which has buggered up her planned chess move. She gabbles on in Spanish. Tell her I don’t understand and explain in English that we’ve swapped. It’s all agreed. Job done. Move on. Plonk my bum in 26A. Fasten seat belt. Possession and all that. Earphones in. Magazine open. Head down. I’m not moving.

Italian lady is still standing and dithering. Point to 26J across the aisle and tell her that was my seat. She sits down. So. All good. I’ve wangled prime seat. But then. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another stewardess coming towards me. Gabbling in Spanish. I’m not relinquishing this seat now. She approaches. Here we go. I’m going to get turfed out for my little unofficial seat swap. But no. She talks to the Italian in 25B (friend of 26A). It’s clear that Miss Italian doesn’t speak English or Spanish. Ooh. That’s done it. She has to move. You have to speak English or Spanish to sit in an emergency exit seat.

I remember this from my trip in 2005 when I wasn’t allowed to sit in an exit seat as I didn’t speak Spanish. Back then it was Spanish only. I still remember the smug little airline steward’s name from that escapade, Bernardo. It’s ingrained in my memory.

So, middle aged Italian in 25A has to move elsewhere. I get an upgrade. A sexy, young, blonde American girl now diagonally in front of me. Italian who swapped with me and is in 26J also has to move, as it’s classed as an exit seat, even though it’s not. She buzzes off somewhere and is replaced by a not so sexy, scruffy bearded young student lad.

Stop the music!                                                                                              

There ends today’s musical chairs.

We can now take-off. It’s a 3hr flight so really glad for the extra leg room.

Three minutes after take-off, the woman next to me (a Russian living in LA) reaches for the sick bag. Oh. Dear. God. That’s all I chuffing need. Vomiting Veronica next to me for 3hrs. Except. She’s only spitting out her chewing gum. Thank God for that.

The arid valley of Santiago surrounded by snow capped peaks, gives way to the lush green of the Chilean Lake District, which in turn gives way to the glaciers and lakes of Torres del Paine National Park. Everyone is now trying to see through the port windows. I have prime position for photographing the landscape. And soon become the official photographer for rows 23 to 27.

It’s stunning scenery and we fly over the actual Torres del Paine, the three large monolithic towers of stone from where the park gets its name. Absolutely stunning scenery (see photos below).

Land at Punta Arenas and as my grandfather would say, it’s a top coat colder here than the 33C heat of Santiago. Now a chilly 13C. Quick drive to Cabo de Hornos hotel, in the centre of Punta Arenas.

For those that haven’t been to Punta Arenas, it hasn’t changed much in the 13 years since I last came. Think northern Scandinavian town. Without the expense. And it’s still daylight even now at 2230hrs.