Uniforms of Destination.

You might have supposed that the Inca Trail would start somewhere within the shores of South America, possibly within the cultural boundaries of the Inca's vast historical domain, certainly at a place with a degree of Andean altitudinal elevation. In spite of the fact that the god-king's empire stretched from southern Equador to northern Argentina, and was laced with a network of trails that would allow his civil servants to administer his dominion, only this plethora of trails has now been reduced to The Inca Trail and its official start at km84. Or so I had assumed.

"KLM are pleased to announce.....", "we will start to board through gate .... and invite those travelling with small children....", "we ask all remaining passengers to remain seated....". It's the bugler's reveille, the call to arms, all to rise and form a queue, to create a human plug that clogs the departure gate. The supercilious, the travel snob, or at least those who are ear-budded into their iPhones remain seated and so get their first sighting of The Inca Trail. An incongruity, this vision of goretex-jacketed, day-sac-backed, stick-waving Trailers, is that the line is not in Lima or Cusco, not even Aguas Calientes, but in Amsterdam's Schipol airport.

A collection of individuals who have yet to bond into a shared-experience group, as evidenced by a lack of group selfie photography. A demographic defined by fitness, grey hair and a lack of carry-on plastic bags stuffed with duty-free cigarettes. All in contrast to the neighbouring departure gate that's loading a Miami-bound cargo of Caribbean Cruisers. The blue-rinse brigade of flowery shirts, white cardigans and inappropriate shorts. A contrast that is stark as they all emanate from the same north European street, out of a similar pay grade. Only their waistlines and leisure uniforms differ.

All of which leads me to consider our supposedly anonymous, chameleon-like attire. Of course, our clothing doesn't shout "Trailer", "Cruiser", or "Vacationer". It's only with a bit more inspection that I can't help but notice the outdoor-branded trousers, the walking (read 'sensible') shoes and an industry-standard Ortlieb pannier. It's this last item that is giving me some concern. It's new, shiny, never used, brand new. It will scream 'newbie', 'innocent', 'virgin' to the first long-distance cyclist that we might encounter. Hopefully we will have acquired some Atacaman dust to add a patina of experience. The problem is, they're German made. Experience dictates that it will take years for them to acquire their street cred.

We're off on our travels again, heading back to collect our bikes from their southern wintering home, to head off in some as yet undefined direction. Only we're already twenty eight hours behind our ticketed schedule. But that's another traveller's tale, one that has yet to be resolved.

For the moment we all have our own itineraries, our own identities, all defined by our own uniforms, with our own trail to follow. We join the queue.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Long haul

It started so well. The 104 bus into town turned up on time. The city hotel had our reservation. We woke up at an un-godly red-eye hour and caught the airport shuttle ahead of time. So far all is as planned. Too early, we wander the near silence of the cavernous check-in hall, yet that too was part of the plan. What wasn't was the blanket fog that has enveloped northern Europe.

Seven hours later and we've progressed all of two hundred metres. Only now we're outside on the concourse, sitting inside an aeroplane, on the runway and have been for the last hour and an half. Being entertained by a pilot whose frustration is palpable, as he relays the latest excuse from the ground handling staff. Apparently the baggage total might either be over or under the passanger head count, that he's truly surprised that luggage loading, it transpires, had somehow been neglected. So he has promised "to fly in a straight line", If we ever get clearance to take off. This frustration is a mere taste for what is to come.

Of course we've missed our connecting flight. It flew long before we even got off the ground in Edinburgh. Now the flight's purser has advised us to make our way to the transfer desk where staff will be on hand and happy to help with rebooking our onward journey. Only he omitted to mention that there would several thousands of other travelers who are being offered similar advice. It was probably as well that we didn't know, when we attached ourselves to the end of the 'transfer desk's queue, that the waiting time would be nine hours.

Survival, or at least sanity, requires a shift into that wired world of traveller's suspended animation. There is zero point in getting upset, everybody is in the same predicament. Which doesn't stop some travellers from trying to remonstrate with the airlines' staff. People watching: it can be entertaining, actually it is the only entertainment, the pain of an objecting lower back having already neutralised concentration in a Kindle novel. The pin-strip gent in the yellow corduroys is doing better, started his holiday read in Edinburgh's departure lounge, but will finish long before he reaches the front of the line. Maybe he should have opted for 'War and Peace'. The lady who tries to negotiate, in an attempt to be advanced, comes up against that most intractable of objects.....'the KLM Matriarch'. She, the remonstrator, is from Texas and, judging from her reactions this is her first encounter with one of these indomitable ladies, exuding their own brand of Dutch customer service. She's been repulsed like a North Sea wave hitting a Dutch polder dyke, and scuttles deflected, deflated back to her place in line. It leaves me smiling, remembering that first time I witnessed a similar performance. Our first flight into South America. A cabin full of holiday makers had left in the Dutch Antillies, replaced with Latino businessmen. On touching down in Lima, the said businessman had surged from their seats and started to unpack the overhead lockers. Two of these matriachs had marched, one down each isle, ramming each gent back into their seats:"Down!...Down!...Down!" When we did come to standstill, I half expected one quivering gent to put a hand up and ask for permission to leave.

Our onward progress will now be via Peru, instead of Brazil, only its going to be the following day. So by way of compensation and a light distraction, we have the excitment of a late Friday evening scamper through the streets of a partying Amsterdam to an hotel. It takes conscious thought not to wander into the cycle lanes, for to do so can only invite injury and enrage the streams of elegantly attired, Lycra-free, hands-free iPhone texting, cycling Amsterdamers. They and we weaving through clouds of sweet spliff reek, negotiating around the boisterous crowds over flowing from crowded pubs and clubs. A short night. Next morning, with a hard light and a chilly dawn, we wander back to the airport, the city's cleansing depament hosing down the detritus of a night-time, the early computers peddling over hump backed bridges and at Centrum train station, an utopian vision, a triple storey ziggurat of parked bikes ranked in infinite files. Which explains why the first 'happy snaps' of these travels, feature canals and cycles, and not the now traditional dismembering and reconstruction of a bike in Argentina and a visit to theocracy bike shop.

We do eventually make touch down in Buenos Aires, a dawn arrival. Only one day late. We at least arrive, inevitably and predictably our hold luggage doesn't. But, it would appear that the trickster gods have had their play, for the present, for the shuttle bus into town and the metro train back out depart with perfect timing, moments after we climb aboard. Back into the flat to what will be a twenty-four hour siesta.

 

Posted with Blogsy