Tibetan Buddhists believe that when they die and their ‘soul’ leaves their body, it is very disconcerting. This spirit wanders confused, afraid and dazed, in a state that exists between life and death called the Bardo. Long haul transit to the other side of the planet tends to replicate this state.
After a somewhat chaotic boarding in Melbourne, the 14 hours 35 minutes flight to Doha felt more like 40 hours. The chaos ensured from the fact that a great many passengers were men of a certain age [30-50], and a much smaller smattering of women, who had attended the Melbourne F1 Grand Prix. Many appeared to be attempting to access earlier flights. It was unclear whether the flight would get off the ground with the extra weight of testosterone.
Get off we did, the long night was marked by minimal service, aching necks and legs, and the growing concern as to whether this was actually fun or not. Arrival into Doha was at 4.00am, time for a $10 cup of coffee and stealing ourselves for the next leg. International airports of this size and status [and there are many], are perplexing. Glittering shiny shops, dozens and dozens of them, with high end luxury products sold at eye-watering prices, and not a single punter in sight. Many people strolling past looking into a world that is both bewildering and strangely foreign, who are these creatures who can afford or even want this stuff. They seem like palaces built to the glory of a dream that, at least to me, seems to have long passed. It reminds me of the Supertramp album cover from the 70s, “Crisis, what crisis
The flight from Doha to Paris CDG was quite different to the first leg. Service was pleasant and attentive, we had three seats between us, and being daylight we had a very good view for the first few hours of flight. The flight path took us up over Kuwait City, and over Kuwait. Off in the distance there was a long black plume of smoke, training off for hundreds of kilometres. One of the oil wells that has been burning for decades. In an era when we worry about every bit of fossil fuel consumption this feels particularly obscene. At the time of the war there were over 700 oil wells set on fire by the retreating Iraqis. The pollution from oil spills and toxic fires has ruined hundreds of square kilometres of soil and grazing land. The satellite photo below captured some of the fires at the time.
Then over Iraq, Basra, Baghdad, Kirkuk and Mosul. Places with very long and interesting histories. Basra is one of the hottest cities on Earth with summer temperatures going over 50 degrees, it is also said to be the port from which Sinbad the Sailor set forth on his journeys. Founded in the seventh century and presiding over a golden period of Islamic history.
Archaeological findings have shown that Kirkuk was home to a thriving Neanderthal population living in the Shanidar Cave system. The city has been at the heart of many different empires over the past 5000 years, right up to British occupation in 1918. It was finally absorbed into the Kingdom of Iraq in 1926. Mosul is another city with a long history back into the fog of time. It is also known as “the pearl of the North”, and “the city of a million soldiers.” The area was settled around 6000BC.
Sadly, to a whole generation of westerners, these names only conjure up images of war and the deaths of many people, both combatants and civilians.
Much of the desert, where it is flat enough, appears to be used for irrigation. Whilst there was evidence of canals in some areas, much of it must be feed from aquifers. Unfortunately much of it also showed the tell tale signs, at the edge of the fields, of white phosphorescence caused by soluble salts rising to the soil surface. Houses appear to be clustered together in small villages with field fanning out on all sides. Off in the near distance, but in the thin air seeming much closer, an Ethiad flight kept us company for at least 20 minutes before peeling off towards the south.
Soon enough we had crossed the border into Turkey, with the cloud cover increasing slightly, we were greeted by the vast central mountain ranges of Turkey, generously covered in snow. Some 53 years earlier I had passed this way by road, a passenger on an elderly French tour bus full of hippies driven by a crazy French smuggler (a reality that we were unaware of at the time). Somewhere here in central Turkey we had paused to sleep the night under the shadow of Mt Ararat, illuminated by a magnificent full moon. Mt Ararat, the tallest mountain in Turkey, is fabled to be the resting place of Noah’s Ark
At this point the cloud cover became almost complete, and our panorama was once again reduced down to the metal tube in which we were hurtling through the air towards the city of lights.
Arrival into Paris CDG was suitably chaotic, with very few immigration staff dealing with several arrival flights. Eventually we managed to enter the EU, collect our luggage, and find the train transfer to Terminal 3 and our hotel room for the night. The room was cheap, adequate and welcome. The interesting thing was that it seemed to be full of French tourists who were on their way to other parts of Europe. Rather than have to rise very early and make their way to the airport, many appear to prefer to go and stay at the airport the night before departure. This meant that the dining room/bar was really jumping with atmosphere.
The next morning was an unmitigated debacle. Firstly we queued in the wrong place to check-in, we were then directed to the right place, where of course, the queue was very long. Then as they began the check-in process the airline staff decided that we all needed to go to the other side of the terminal to check-in. There was a chaotic foot race (with luggage) to the place indicated. Several queues merged, clashed and became muddled. Near to us a French woman was desperately trying to get her dog and her elderly frail parents, one of whom clearly suffered from dementia, onto the flight. This was all exacerbated by a school group (the most diverse group of kids I’ve ever seen – in every respect) of 16 year olds. Somehow they ended up at the front of the queue corralled by their teachers, their self preoccupation and magnificently indifferent attitude to everyone meant that the process was slow and painful. This was not helped by the staff who, throughout, laughed, joked and generally looked very pleased with themselves. Thoughts of grievous murder lurked in the minds of many of those patiently waiting, well in mine anyway.
Once checked in we had to go through a security check. This was the most chaotic, officious and thorough check I think I’ve ever been through. Striped almost naked, with belongings scattered over half a dozen tubs, we were shushed through machines, touched up and generally demeaned. I began to reconsider the need to travel and experience other cultures. When we finally got onto the plane there was a problem with starting it. The Spanish pilot came onto the intercom and placed the blame squarely on the French company supposed to provide the generator thingy that starts planes, he confided that this was not the first time this had happened. When the plane finally got going we had lost our take off slot and had to wait another 20 minutes for another. The pilot finally drove the plane out to the runway like a WW2 RAF pilot driving his MG down to the village pub after a difficult mission. He ripped that plane into the sky like a MIG fighter pilot.
Originally we had a stopover time in Barcelona of 7+ hours, and so I had paid for access to the VIP lounge to give us a little respite and peace. Due to changing schedules, delays and so forth, our stopover was reduced to a couple of hours. We hastily made out way to the lounge, the airline had failed to give the lounge our details but the woman on the desk, when I showed her my receipt, took mercy on us and let us in. We walked into an oasis of peace and civility, good food and alcohol. Although we only had about 45 minutes we managed to have a pretty decent lunch. I also managed two and a half glasses of excellent Rose. Forty five minutes earlier I had been in grave danger of becoming a serious misanthrope. This faded into love of my fellow human beings and their quirky natures. I’m not proud of this fact, one would have thought that 50+ years of meditation would have taken care of this issue, but in the end I was saved by a decent French Rose!
Arrival into Porto was straightforward. We caught the Metro into the heart of the city and our AirBNB was a five minute walk from the station. We had been in transit for 50+ hours, fatigue began to kick in, and we still had to find somewhere to have some dinner. But we had finally arrived.
I really enjoyed reading your very entertaining, humorous and informative blog Mike. Thank you and stay safe you two while you enjoy your adventures.
Cheers for now from Joan