Indirect flights can be cheaper, but they can also be gruelling. Khaled Diab came from London the hard way.

January 2000

Wanting your money to take you that extra mile can make you do strange thing and take stupid risks. Shopping for plane tickets in Cairo, I noted that it was significantly cheaper to get to and from London via Eastern Europe rather than direct. A free agent must bear the consequences of his actions; I have only myself to blame. However, may be I can do penance for my failure by trying to warn off other reckless fools.

After five weeks in England, I was set to return home along the same arduous route, via Sofia, to Cairo. I hauled myself down to Heathrow Airport, trying my best to conceal my excess baggage. After successfully persuading the check-in girl to overlook my not-so-slight oversight, I braced myself for a long and agonising trip home.

Stuck on one of Balkan Air’s middle-aged Russian jets, I sat ready to start the first leg of my journey. But the first leg refused to get off the ground. For some inexplicable reason, we were held up for an hour before take-off. Feeling restless, many of the passengers stood in the aisles engaged in idle speculation, while the stewards and stewardesses attempted in vain to intimidate them back into their seats with withering glances and strong imperatives rather than the usual aperitifs.

The long wait brought back haunting memories of my flight from Cairo. We’d had an equally inexplicable hour-and-a-half-long delay in the sweltering summer hear – expiring under a downpour of sweat and rapidly diminishing oxygen supplies until the rear emergency doors were finally opened.

I knew better than to ask questions. Information, like some many other commodities, is rationed in Bulgaria. (“Ours is not to question why…” I didn’t want to think about the second part.)

We were finally airborne. The crew patrolled the aisles like a platoon of would-be (or wannabe) hijackers. I looked out of the window to afford myself some distraction from my captors’ dry and mirthless countenance.

Terminal is perhaps the most apt description of Sofia Airport: a grey, depressing building where retired aircraft go to rust in peace. If you were expecting the labyrinthine distractions of a modern airport, you’d be sorely disappointed. The airport boasts all of two cafeterias, two poorly stocked duty-free shops, and a small kiosk selling Bulgarian souvenirs and folkloric CDs. Its one redeeming feature is that things are cheap. Five dollars will get you enough vile-tasting tea and coffee and stale cheese sandwiches to kill time through a stopover of four or five hours.

As we approached the terminal building, we were surprised to find that the lights were out. We got off the bus to be greeted with darkened passageways and empty desks. Where was everyone? The Balkans region is known for being volatile, and my mind began to formulate dark and sinister theories. We grew more agitated as the minutes ticked by.

Apparently, ours being the last plane to come in that evening, the customs officials had had to return to work – albeit rather late – especially to check us through. With breathing so much as a hint of an apology, they got on grumpily with their jobs.

I spent the painful hours until my flight reading in the cafeteria. For a while, I joined in the friendly banter that always ensues when there’s a bunch of Egyptians stuck together for any period of time. Aeons later, it was finally time to board the plane. An hour or so on, we were still on the tarmac.

Again, nobody bothered to explain to us what was going on (except to tell us mysteriously that there was a problem in the baggage hold). The passengers soon formulated their own theories. One popular idea was that there must have been a serious mechanical problem – some of the passengers started demanding a change of aircraft.

The crew eventually herded us, like so many cattle, out of the plane. They said that the contents of some crate had leaked all over the luggage hold. We were driven back to the now-deserted terminal – all the ground staff had gone once we’d boarded the plane – to wait while they got another plane ready. The passengers, all Egyptian, were having their legendary patience and good-humour tested to the limit. Talk abounded of mutiny, anarchy and vandalism.

On this strategic stretch of Bulgarian turf, Egyptians outnumbered natives about fifteen to one. I suggested we instigate a coup and declare the airport Egyptian territory. My idea was dismissed by another passenger who asked, quite fairly, what we would do with a rundown airport like this. In the end, we settled for a game of football in the lounge area, much to the annoyance of the few lingering airport staff.

We arrived at Cairo Airport at 4:45 am, over three hours behind schedule. I knew I was home when I found myself at the tail-end of a long and winding queue. I didn’t actually get out of the airport until about 6 am.

At passport control, they told me to wait while they ran a check. I sat there for an hour with rising concern. Why was I being detained? Nobody would give me a straight answer. Perhaps my name was similar to that of a wanted criminal or terrorist. I’ll never know. Finally, an official returned my passport and told me I could leave. He didn’t proffer further explanation.

Bedraggled, I stepped out of the airport building. Yes, I was certainly home. I haggled with a taxi driver. On the way, he continually tried to engage me in conversation. I was too exhausted to respond with more than grunts, but that was all he needed. I realised that, due to my Bulgarian misadventure, I now faced a 12-hour workday with no sleep, and prepared myself for a caffeine pump up.

All along al-Oruba Street, heading into the city, were signs telling me what it meant to be a modern-day Egyptian who will be a little less ambitious when bargain-hunting so far as international travel is concerned.

This article appeared in the 27 January-2 February 2000 issue of the Cairo Times.

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