I was in that - 'wow, that was great, but it's time to go home now' kind of place. You know the one - reflecting on an amazing experience but keen to pick up the threads of one's usual existence, which one can't find in a giant orange tortoise.
Having said a sad farewell to my new #CartFriends, with whom I'd spent three happy hours, chatting, joking, discussing a plethora of interesting topics, as well as meeting most of the staff who work at the airport - Air Traffic Controllers, Immigration Officers (I was careful with my answers to their questions, just in case), Police and all sorts of others, I toddled off to check-in.
I noticed a tiny souvenir shop which had some postcards for sale - I did a deal and obtained a few. I then presented my passport to the staff who didn't even stop their conversation, then I joined the queue for check-in. It was just after 11pm at this point.
The lady on the check-in desk smiled warily as she requested my passport.
'Your passport' - she paused, looked confused (although that might just have been her face); she then looked at me and, unmoved, said those fateful words -
'Your flight was yesterday'.
My heart stopped, momentarily, then went into overdrive and I felt pores across my body open up and sweat ooze out. This was that adrenaline-overload, for all the wrong reasons. She went on.
'Today is 5th. Your flight was 4th'. I studied my thoroughly dog-eared e-ticket, the reference number barely visible. I checked the date.
Oh my goodness.
She was right. I was twenty-two hours too late.
I suppose it is better to make a mistake this stupid and affect the journey of one person - myself. Had I made a similar mistake leading a group, that would have been much much worse. I'm still not sure how this happened - I carefully worked out how long I was staying in each place, how I would travel there and approximate travel times. To me it was: three nights in Dakar / travel to Saly / two nights in Saly / travel to Foundiougne / three nights in Foundiougne / travel to Bijilo / two nights in Bijilo / then the night flight home on 5th. Somehow, I had booked the night flight home on 4th.
The lady called over her supervisor and explained. In the meantime, she continued to check-in other people, including two friendly ladies called Sandra and Dawn who I know will be reading - hi Sandra and Dawn! They were on their way back to Liverpool and it was lovely to hear two Liverpudlian accents in my moment of horror at realising my stupid error - I'm always reassured by a Liverpudlian accent. I like Liverpool. I went there once. I was also comforted to know that they had done the same with their flight in recent days and were in fact on their second attempt to get the flight, as I will be tonight. They were hoping with me that someone would cancel or not show up so that I could dance onto the Casablanca flight and get home.
But it wasn't to be. The flight was full. The supervisor made a call but to no avail - although I would find out later whom he had called.
I was crestfallen. I have travelled for twenty years, to around seventy countries, and had never made a mistake like this. But as the cliché says - there's a first time for everything. This was it.
My first thought was to go back to Kasumai where I'd stayed two nights - surely they'd have space for me. I'll call Kevin, the driver who'd brought me to airport - unfortunately, in the pages of contact details I have amassed in ten days, his aren't among them. I tried to call Kasumai direct - some woman chanted a recorded message saying my phone wouldn't work in this area, which I hadn't realised. Helpful.
Then I thought - I'll just turn up at Kusamai - they won't mind! But it was about half an hour away, plus, I have a whole thing about preferring not to travel on the road at night whilst abroad, although I considered this an emergency. Or was it? Maybe I could just go and hang out with my friends at the Cart all night.
I figured the first step was to get some cash, as I'd used up my final Dalasis at the cart and on the postcards - it wouldn't recognise my card initially, but then it did. A boy from a phone shop - everything had mysteriously opened when check-in opened, it no longer felt like an abandoned, forgotten shell of something that might once have been an airport - it was now an airport - asked me if I was ok. I explained that I needed to make a call but that my phone wouldn't work. He kindly lent me his, then I sat in the phone shop with him and his two colleagues, trying to get through to Kasumai. It was after 1am by now and not the most social time to call anyone. There are three numbers on the Kasumai website and none of them are right! Therefore apologies to the three people I woke up in the middle of last night asking if they ran Kasumai - I know now that they don't.
One of the phone guys casually said, 'there is always Woodpecker';
'What's Woodpecker?'
'It's a hotel near here'
'Is it walking distance?'
I can't quite believe I asked that - it's 1am and I'm asking if a nearby hotel is in walking distance, when I don't know the area at all, have no sense of direction, it's dark, plus I have all my stuff in my giant orange tortoise (and smaller trusty black rucksack). I do like walking, but this wasn't a time to walk.
They looked at each other quizzically, 'it's best you take a taxi'.
I was able to hotspot my phone to one of the phone guy's phones and get the number of Woodpecker, then one of the guys lent me his phone to call them.
'Hello?'
'Hello, is that Woodpecker?'
'Yes please'
'I am sorry to call so late, but I have missed my flight - do you have a room available for right now?'
There was a pause - I thought - what if he doesn't - what will I do then? I usually look quite carefully at where I am staying (these days, I didn't used to) - but there wasn't time for that.
'You are how many people?'
'Just one - just me'.
'Yes, we have room. Just come and we can sort it out'.
'How much is it?'
'Don't worry about that - just come'.
I wanted to burst into song.
But I didn't.
'Come - we can find a taxi', said the Phone Boy.
You have to careful with taxis at airports in Africa, as there are often touts who will charge you the earth to go not very far.
I walked with the Phone Boy for a few minutes, passed a huge line of taxi-men with signs, awaiting their passengers.
A man with a sparkly t-shirt came towards me - I recognised him as he had visited the cart whilst I had been sitting there.
'Helen - how are you? I thought you were going?'
'I also thought I was going, but I have made a silly mistake and my flight was yesterday'.
'Sorry, sorry', said the man with the sparkly t-shirt.
'So where you are going now?'
'I have booked a room at Woodpecker - they have a room for me'.
'Ah ok' - nodded the man with the sparkly t-shirt. He whistled at a group of men and shouted something in Wolof.
Another familiar face came towards me - this was Lamine, who I had also seen at the cart. We greeted each other. The man in the sparkly t-shirt explained what had happened -
'You have car?' I said, feeling myself reflecting the Gambian word sequence, quite surreally.
'Yes - I am airport driver', he replied, showing me his official ID.
We walked to his car, a relatively well-maintained dark green Mercedes - I climbed into the back with my giant orange tortoise. The Phone Boy climbed into the front - 'I want to make sure all is ok at the hotel';
'Ok - Lamine, will you drop him back here?'
'Yes, of course'.
We arrived at Woodpecker and I thanked Lamine and the Phone Boy for their trouble. The Royal Air Maroc superviser had said I had to go to the airport office in Serrekunda tomorrow at 10am to organise changing my flight. I asked Lamine if he could collect me at 9am. He was happy to do so.
It was as though the Woodpecker Resort had been expecting me all along. I had a perfect room - very secure, with a little single bed, with beautifully white linen and, unexpectedly, when I've had combine-harvester style fans whirring above my head for the last ten nights, air-conditioning! I showered then slept like a baby till breakfast time.
Lamine appeared at the appointed hour and I had happily breakfasted on bread, jam and a huge cup of tea. We headed to the Royal Air Maroc office.
There were a number of people in the queue in front of me, and the one lady (wo)manning the show didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. A man came in behind me, with a huge brown envelope. We greeted each other and chatted about Nigeria, where he is based. I asked if it was true that flights could only be paid for in cash, as this is what the supervisor had said last night - he said that it was true, hence wielding a huge brown envelope full of cash.
My turn came - I approached the desk and the lady said to take a seat -
'Good morning - my name is Helen and I have made a silly mistake. I missed my flight because I thought it was last night, but it was the night before'.
'Ah, you are the one I had a call about last night - the supervisor called me but I was sleeping because I have a four-month old baby.'
'Yes, that was me'.
'Last night's flight was full - you could not have gone'.
'So is there space on the flight tonight?'
'Let me check'.
Awkwardly, I got a bit overwhelmed at this point and started crying.
'It's ok, you don't need to do that - it will all be ok', said the kindly lady, 'I can tell that you are a kind person. I will help you, don't worry'.
She typed away furiously on her keyboard, then looked at me - 'there is space, don't worry'. I nearly cried again, this time with relief.
She told me the total I would have to pay. 'Is it true that you only take cash?' I queried, really hoping that something had been lost in translation.
'Yes, cash only'.
She processed the whole thing, printed me the ticket, highlighted the relevant bits, wrote 'check-in at 11pm, Mon 5th Aug 2019 - TONIGHT' in scrawly writing at the top.
'I will keep this for you, just come back with the cash'. Somehow, I was able to pay a penalty fee for re-booking, rather than a whole new ticket.
'Thank you, thank you, thank you', I insisted, as she pointed me to the nearest cash-point.
There were three cash-points in the immediate area. The first one didn't work at all. The second one gave signs that it would work, then changed it's mind. The third one only gave 'change pin' or 'return card' as options, which weren't overly helpful when cold hard cash is required.
Lamine had been waiting for me outside in the car. I went back to him and explained. He drove me to another cash point which would only let me draw a quarter of what was needed - it wouldn't recognised my travel cash card at all. My heart sank. What was I actually going to do if I couldn't get enough out? I could get someone to wire me cash, but that might take too long. I have a few pounds sterling, but nowhere near enough. This had gone through my head at breakfast, so I had found the British Embassy website and started following the British High Commissioner to The Gambia on Twitter - I call that friendship.
Sweating at the cash-point, poised with my very own brown envelope for stashing the inches of currency required, I had a thought - I wonder if it would let me withdraw a quarter of what was needed, four times...
Having said a sad farewell to my new #CartFriends, with whom I'd spent three happy hours, chatting, joking, discussing a plethora of interesting topics, as well as meeting most of the staff who work at the airport - Air Traffic Controllers, Immigration Officers (I was careful with my answers to their questions, just in case), Police and all sorts of others, I toddled off to check-in.
I noticed a tiny souvenir shop which had some postcards for sale - I did a deal and obtained a few. I then presented my passport to the staff who didn't even stop their conversation, then I joined the queue for check-in. It was just after 11pm at this point.
The lady on the check-in desk smiled warily as she requested my passport.
'Your passport' - she paused, looked confused (although that might just have been her face); she then looked at me and, unmoved, said those fateful words -
'Your flight was yesterday'.
My heart stopped, momentarily, then went into overdrive and I felt pores across my body open up and sweat ooze out. This was that adrenaline-overload, for all the wrong reasons. She went on.
'Today is 5th. Your flight was 4th'. I studied my thoroughly dog-eared e-ticket, the reference number barely visible. I checked the date.
Oh my goodness.
She was right. I was twenty-two hours too late.
I suppose it is better to make a mistake this stupid and affect the journey of one person - myself. Had I made a similar mistake leading a group, that would have been much much worse. I'm still not sure how this happened - I carefully worked out how long I was staying in each place, how I would travel there and approximate travel times. To me it was: three nights in Dakar / travel to Saly / two nights in Saly / travel to Foundiougne / three nights in Foundiougne / travel to Bijilo / two nights in Bijilo / then the night flight home on 5th. Somehow, I had booked the night flight home on 4th.
The lady called over her supervisor and explained. In the meantime, she continued to check-in other people, including two friendly ladies called Sandra and Dawn who I know will be reading - hi Sandra and Dawn! They were on their way back to Liverpool and it was lovely to hear two Liverpudlian accents in my moment of horror at realising my stupid error - I'm always reassured by a Liverpudlian accent. I like Liverpool. I went there once. I was also comforted to know that they had done the same with their flight in recent days and were in fact on their second attempt to get the flight, as I will be tonight. They were hoping with me that someone would cancel or not show up so that I could dance onto the Casablanca flight and get home.
But it wasn't to be. The flight was full. The supervisor made a call but to no avail - although I would find out later whom he had called.
I was crestfallen. I have travelled for twenty years, to around seventy countries, and had never made a mistake like this. But as the cliché says - there's a first time for everything. This was it.
My first thought was to go back to Kasumai where I'd stayed two nights - surely they'd have space for me. I'll call Kevin, the driver who'd brought me to airport - unfortunately, in the pages of contact details I have amassed in ten days, his aren't among them. I tried to call Kasumai direct - some woman chanted a recorded message saying my phone wouldn't work in this area, which I hadn't realised. Helpful.
Then I thought - I'll just turn up at Kusamai - they won't mind! But it was about half an hour away, plus, I have a whole thing about preferring not to travel on the road at night whilst abroad, although I considered this an emergency. Or was it? Maybe I could just go and hang out with my friends at the Cart all night.
I figured the first step was to get some cash, as I'd used up my final Dalasis at the cart and on the postcards - it wouldn't recognise my card initially, but then it did. A boy from a phone shop - everything had mysteriously opened when check-in opened, it no longer felt like an abandoned, forgotten shell of something that might once have been an airport - it was now an airport - asked me if I was ok. I explained that I needed to make a call but that my phone wouldn't work. He kindly lent me his, then I sat in the phone shop with him and his two colleagues, trying to get through to Kasumai. It was after 1am by now and not the most social time to call anyone. There are three numbers on the Kasumai website and none of them are right! Therefore apologies to the three people I woke up in the middle of last night asking if they ran Kasumai - I know now that they don't.
One of the phone guys casually said, 'there is always Woodpecker';
'What's Woodpecker?'
'It's a hotel near here'
'Is it walking distance?'
I can't quite believe I asked that - it's 1am and I'm asking if a nearby hotel is in walking distance, when I don't know the area at all, have no sense of direction, it's dark, plus I have all my stuff in my giant orange tortoise (and smaller trusty black rucksack). I do like walking, but this wasn't a time to walk.
They looked at each other quizzically, 'it's best you take a taxi'.
I was able to hotspot my phone to one of the phone guy's phones and get the number of Woodpecker, then one of the guys lent me his phone to call them.
'Hello?'
'Hello, is that Woodpecker?'
'Yes please'
'I am sorry to call so late, but I have missed my flight - do you have a room available for right now?'
There was a pause - I thought - what if he doesn't - what will I do then? I usually look quite carefully at where I am staying (these days, I didn't used to) - but there wasn't time for that.
'You are how many people?'
'Just one - just me'.
'Yes, we have room. Just come and we can sort it out'.
'How much is it?'
'Don't worry about that - just come'.
I wanted to burst into song.
But I didn't.
'Come - we can find a taxi', said the Phone Boy.
You have to careful with taxis at airports in Africa, as there are often touts who will charge you the earth to go not very far.
I walked with the Phone Boy for a few minutes, passed a huge line of taxi-men with signs, awaiting their passengers.
A man with a sparkly t-shirt came towards me - I recognised him as he had visited the cart whilst I had been sitting there.
'Helen - how are you? I thought you were going?'
'I also thought I was going, but I have made a silly mistake and my flight was yesterday'.
'Sorry, sorry', said the man with the sparkly t-shirt.
'So where you are going now?'
'I have booked a room at Woodpecker - they have a room for me'.
'Ah ok' - nodded the man with the sparkly t-shirt. He whistled at a group of men and shouted something in Wolof.
Another familiar face came towards me - this was Lamine, who I had also seen at the cart. We greeted each other. The man in the sparkly t-shirt explained what had happened -
'You have car?' I said, feeling myself reflecting the Gambian word sequence, quite surreally.
'Yes - I am airport driver', he replied, showing me his official ID.
We walked to his car, a relatively well-maintained dark green Mercedes - I climbed into the back with my giant orange tortoise. The Phone Boy climbed into the front - 'I want to make sure all is ok at the hotel';
'Ok - Lamine, will you drop him back here?'
'Yes, of course'.
We arrived at Woodpecker and I thanked Lamine and the Phone Boy for their trouble. The Royal Air Maroc superviser had said I had to go to the airport office in Serrekunda tomorrow at 10am to organise changing my flight. I asked Lamine if he could collect me at 9am. He was happy to do so.
It was as though the Woodpecker Resort had been expecting me all along. I had a perfect room - very secure, with a little single bed, with beautifully white linen and, unexpectedly, when I've had combine-harvester style fans whirring above my head for the last ten nights, air-conditioning! I showered then slept like a baby till breakfast time.
Lamine appeared at the appointed hour and I had happily breakfasted on bread, jam and a huge cup of tea. We headed to the Royal Air Maroc office.
There were a number of people in the queue in front of me, and the one lady (wo)manning the show didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. A man came in behind me, with a huge brown envelope. We greeted each other and chatted about Nigeria, where he is based. I asked if it was true that flights could only be paid for in cash, as this is what the supervisor had said last night - he said that it was true, hence wielding a huge brown envelope full of cash.
My turn came - I approached the desk and the lady said to take a seat -
'Good morning - my name is Helen and I have made a silly mistake. I missed my flight because I thought it was last night, but it was the night before'.
'Ah, you are the one I had a call about last night - the supervisor called me but I was sleeping because I have a four-month old baby.'
'Yes, that was me'.
'Last night's flight was full - you could not have gone'.
'So is there space on the flight tonight?'
'Let me check'.
Awkwardly, I got a bit overwhelmed at this point and started crying.
'It's ok, you don't need to do that - it will all be ok', said the kindly lady, 'I can tell that you are a kind person. I will help you, don't worry'.
She typed away furiously on her keyboard, then looked at me - 'there is space, don't worry'. I nearly cried again, this time with relief.
She told me the total I would have to pay. 'Is it true that you only take cash?' I queried, really hoping that something had been lost in translation.
'Yes, cash only'.
She processed the whole thing, printed me the ticket, highlighted the relevant bits, wrote 'check-in at 11pm, Mon 5th Aug 2019 - TONIGHT' in scrawly writing at the top.
'I will keep this for you, just come back with the cash'. Somehow, I was able to pay a penalty fee for re-booking, rather than a whole new ticket.
'Thank you, thank you, thank you', I insisted, as she pointed me to the nearest cash-point.
There were three cash-points in the immediate area. The first one didn't work at all. The second one gave signs that it would work, then changed it's mind. The third one only gave 'change pin' or 'return card' as options, which weren't overly helpful when cold hard cash is required.
Lamine had been waiting for me outside in the car. I went back to him and explained. He drove me to another cash point which would only let me draw a quarter of what was needed - it wouldn't recognised my travel cash card at all. My heart sank. What was I actually going to do if I couldn't get enough out? I could get someone to wire me cash, but that might take too long. I have a few pounds sterling, but nowhere near enough. This had gone through my head at breakfast, so I had found the British Embassy website and started following the British High Commissioner to The Gambia on Twitter - I call that friendship.
Sweating at the cash-point, poised with my very own brown envelope for stashing the inches of currency required, I had a thought - I wonder if it would let me withdraw a quarter of what was needed, four times...
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