People change; I get that. Over the years we get weathered and beaten into the true forms of our current self – a process taking decades, turning us into outcrops of smoothed boulders on the windy Karoo, or jagged, sea-swept personalities under the pier of life. As a constant, slow transformation and cementing of our habits, principles, nuances, desires and beliefs from life, these changes seem all but static when viewed under the microscope of a few hours during the decades of our formation. Yet, why then, does all of this become absolutely irrelevant the moment someone decides to book a plane ticket?
Observing the activities of the average air traveler is a baffling and excruciatingly nonsensical display of idiocy. There is such an unexplainable series of events surrounding the actions of the passengers themselves, that understanding the inner workings and mechanical genius of the 6 million parts inside the very aircraft they are about to be squeezed into, becomes elementary.
Let’s start with Mr. Hand Luggage. Here is a man (increasingly ladies, but we’ll get to you in a minute) who no doubt understands the concept of mass and gravity and how it affects not only the 9kg of hand luggage he is allowed to take on board, but also how it affects the relation of the plane’s total weight vs. its airborne intentions. One would also assume that the size and volume of hand luggage in relation to the lightweight plastic binnacle above his, and fellow passengers’ heads, is disproportionate to his desire to smuggle on board a gas oven under the ruse of “hand luggage”.
Hand luggage is so called because it can be easily lifted with one hand and not a TLB. If you are so concerned with the security of your belongings, may I suggest you separately courier it, insure it, wrap it, or do whatever you need to in order to ensure you do not take up the luggage space of three passengers during your flight and cause a 400-ton Boeing 747 to run out of takeoff runway because you decided that you’d like to bring a library on holiday. These same general rules apply to stowed luggage. A fee is charged for anything over 20kg, I believe it’s around R150/kg. A fee is also charged when the plane crashes into the Drakensberg due to overloading, I believe it’s called over 300 lives.
Next is Mrs. Hand Luggage Plus. Now of course this could be a “Mr.” but generally speaking the fairer sex seem to fall prey of selective blindness when it comes to the definition of “one piece of” more than us males. Airlines allow one piece of hand luggage. Not one piece of hand luggage plus your (oversized, garish, label-infested, overpriced) handbag. Not one piece, plus your laptop bag. [Actually, they do allow that – Ed.] Not one piece plus your overnight bag, make-up kit, laptop bag, handbag, iPad, hat box and rucksack. No, you cannot say to the check-in person “This is my hand luggage. Oh this? That’s just a few things from my wardrobe in case the plane adopts a more formal theme”.
A general pet peeve of mine is queues. If ever there was a way to waste away one’s time, a queue would be it. Therefore, I will spend as much effort avoiding them as possible, but the average Mr. Queue Leader seems to not share my sentiments. This is the guy who, when the announcement is made that his gate is open for boarding, insanely springs to life, ticket in hand and Wimpy coffee asunder, to get to the boarding gate. Now, I can only assume that he has been told by his friends that there is a special prize for the first person to board the plane (there is actually – you get to look like flying third class is the most important thing you have ever done in your life).
I would also assume that no one explained to Mr. Queue Leader that the ticket has a little number on it which, much like the local Ster Kinekor, dictates whether or not he will get a window spot with extra legroom, or a midget sized stool above the jet engines. Boarding first or last will, alas, not change this number, so why rush? Wait for the queue to settle, amble along and board comfortably. If you’re worried about losing hand luggage space by being at the back of the line, remember that you have a right to that space, so feel free to shift, squash, deform or remove oversized luggage to accommodate yours (as long as we are dealing within the aforementioned hand luggage guidelines). Also remember that you have every right to recline your seat without guilt, except for taxiing, takeoff, descent, landing and meal times (so pretty much never on any domestic flight).
Mr. SuperQueue also loves to stand in the aisle of airplanes for as long as possible and will therefore, once the plane has landed and safely taxied down the runway, the nanosecond the seatbelt light goes off, bounce out of his seat and into the aisle (often over passengers because he landed that treasured window seat). Here, he will slowly realise that it takes a few minutes for the air-stair to be attached to the door. It takes a few more to conduct the safety drills, reduce the engines, lock down the safety hatches, flush the toilets, check the lotto numbers and clean the windscreen (or whatever they do between stopping and letting you off). My good people, this will always take at least five minutes, so sit tight, relax and wait for the doors to actually open before assuming you can pass through them.
Mr. SuperQueue also likes to make use of his standing time by getting loud SMS alerts and maybe even making a loud phone call, which not only lets everyone on the plane know how important he is and that he could very well be bucking the on-board electronic device policy, but also lets Bob on the other end know that he’s landed so that he can pick him up/have that report ready/book him a hotel.
Prior to landing, however, you will have dealt with Mr. Rebel Flyer. A usually placid soul on the ground, in the air he is at liberty to become the Charlie Sheen of commercial flight. This is the guy that deliberately waits until the final boarding call before checking in and may even hope to hear his name being called because it makes him feel so important that the plane could not possibly leave without him. Once on board (obviously with as much luggage as possible, shattering the shackles of the oppressive F.A.A. in a defiant act of rebellion and freedom of choice), he will duly find his way to his designated seat without fuss (since he has already spent 45 minutes arguing at the check-in about why he is being told where to sit, before being reminded that it’s seat 6J or cellblock 4C).
At this point, Mr. Rebel Flyer takes out his Blackberry, laptop, iPod and Sinusoidal Wave generator and begins tapping away. This is fine for the first 33 seconds before the plane must take off (now somewhat rushed due to them having to call three times for their last passenger), at which point he is instructed to turn them off. Grumbling and huffing but full aware of the requirement, he puts away the laptop and starts sending an SMS. The flight attendant, Jacky (there’s always a Jacky), politely tells him that it too must be turned off, resulting in more huffing. Mr. Rebel Flyer taps a few more taps and continues – you see, he now has put his phone on “Flight Mode” – and needs to be reminded a third time that this is unacceptable. If the phone had a “Takeoff” or “Landing Approach” mode, that would be fine (actually it does, it’s called ”Off”), but must be shut down and put away, because the plane needs to get onto a runway. Mr. Rebel Flyer duly complies and can now reveal that, despite audio and visual requests, his seatbelt is not fastened. Jacky comes over for the fifth time and asks him to please put on his seatbelt – add one to the score! To celebrate, Mr. R. Flyer reclines his seat and pretends to nod off. Not only will this rouse the attentions of the stewardesses, but it will force them to infringe on his personal space and right to take a nap whenever and wherever he wants to. Duly admonished, the seat goes back up. But now, he figures he needs, and has the right to use, the toilet…
Next is the far reaching influence that airline travel has on everyone’s appetite and constitution; why is it that we may have gorged ourselves on a lovely, hearty breakfast beforehand, or simply not be hungry, and yet when we are offered anything at all to eat, drink, chew, suck on or otherwise ingest, we cannot say “no thank you”? I’ve tried it once when asked what option I would like for breakfast and my fellow passengers looked at me as if I’d calmly announced “I have Ebola and I’m about to regurgitate my insides all over this plane”. Jacky was obviously untrained for such an event, because she paused for a second, twitched and reset her robotic personality by asking me the same question again, in the same tone, with the same smile. I replied that I was not hungry and my fellow passengers’ attention now shifted towards Jacky herself; how would she handle such a creature that does not take advantage of packaged, reheated, dehydrated bacon and eggs, especially when it is free?
In the interest of airline safety and the avoidance of bodily harm via mob justice, I settled for a croissant and orange juice, which placated Jacky and slightly calmed the bewildered passengers. I had learnt my lesson and so, like everyone else on that flight, I ensured that I took full advantage of every item that passed my way. Peanuts, juice, coffee tea, chips, extra chocolates and yoghurt, along with a few shots of exotic hard spirits and a local beer or two passed my lips as the cart rolled its way past ravenous passengers who seemingly had no control over their appetites.
This uncontrollable urge to eat from the shiny box extends even to Mr. Executive, the laptop tapper who will write emails, draw graphs, set appointments and trade stocks with wild elbow gestures throughout the flight, ensuring all around know that his time off terra firma is so precious, he must continue to get his work done, lest the world spin off its axis. Nemesis to Mr. Executive is Mrs. Best Friend, who insists that during the flight you and her are destined to become lifelong companions, wanting to share family histories, childhood tales and carrot cake recipes. Mrs. Best Friend never shuts up until told to, which is rude, so I beg of them (you know who you are) to please just know that, even if Oprah Winfrey is sitting next to you on a flight, she doesn’t want to talk with you.
And what’s with the little curtain between First Class and us cattle-class travelers? Are we of such a disgusting nature to the more privileged that they cannot bear to even see us during their flight? Then they force us all to pass through it on our way to and from our own cramped seats, just to show us what we have been missing (three more inches of leg room, a cup holder and about R14 000 apparently). I always imagine that those little curtains, looking just like those found in hospital wards, hid some evil human organ trafficking activity, where the co-pilot heads up a team of Cuban doctors who operate against the clock in the sky. Maybe Jacky is the nurse, jumping into scrubs in between delivering pillows and peanuts with scalpels and swabs.
On that note, I have often wondered what actual study or career path Jacky-the-waitress-in-the-sky followed to get where she is, serving meals and flailing limbs about on an airplane. Sure, I guess after a while one gets to waitress on bigger planes which carry you to further away places, but you’re always doing the same thing. There are no chefs, no maître’d and no manager positions to aspire to, and I highly doubt her ability to actually fly her cramped restaurant in the sky, so what exactly happens to an aging air hostesses (they are not allowed to be over the age of 31 without significant surgery I hear)? I’m sure there is a certain level of skill required beyond a few months at the local Spur and one thing is for certain is that she, like every other qualified air hostess out there, has graduated from the “How To Make People Think I Want To Sleep With Them” University.
This is where applicants are carefully selected and trained to give the impression that there is a good possibility this attractive person finds you irresistible and wants you right now, or at least as soon as the plane lands. It defuses the danger of the flight scenario, for sure, and, given their related industry, I can understand why the same qualification is required of car rental employees, but I don’t know why it is so actively pursued by estate agents and dental assistants. Unlike Jacky, they don’t have to calmly reassure people that the pilot’s message of “in case of a water landing” does not mean the same things as “crashing into the ocean”.
Speaking of which, that would be fine because your pillow can be used as a flotation device and you get a funky yellow life jacket with a flashing light, too. So it looks like the good folk at Boeing have taken care of everything needed should you suddenly be surrounded by Pacific ocean and not Cumulus Nimbus, but that doesn’t really help me on my flight from Bloem to Cape Town, does it, unless the pilot finds the nearest dam on his fiery descent and aims for it. I’d rather have a parachute than a lilo on this flight, thank you very much.
So all I ask, people, is that when you next book your airline ticket, act like you would if you were climbing in your own car to go to work. Keep to yourself, obey the rules, and, if you are so inclined, enjoy the trip for what it is. Flying is a cramped, noisy but necessary way to get things done, so don’t make it worse by acting like an ass. It’s just a couple of hours, after which you can get back to whatever it is you do without thinking everyone is looking at you, and what’s more, you’ll also have a good day. Because Jacky will tell you to.
- Kevin Willemse
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