Chapter Seven: It is really going to happen...
So many hurdles
12.03.2021 - 12.03.2021 85 °F
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Just after midnight on this new day, wheels down in Dubai right on time—it seems that Emirates is always right on time. Exiting the behemoth A380 aircraft an Emirates Executive Services staffer—Ajay—had an iPad with my name on it. His job, he said, was to get me to the First Class Lounge (along with two other passengers both headed for Australia in a couple of hours. You think I’ve got a long trip going; think of the 15 hour flight ahead of those two.
I said to Ajay, “Change of plan for me. I have to get a PCR test.” I expected confusion on his part or, possibly, frustration but he showed no emotion whatever. “May I ask why? You’re coming from Paris. It is not needed.”
I explained. He said, “OK. Let’s get these two gentlemen taken care of and then we will see to it.” Ajay got the three of us onto an electric cart driven by another man and off we went to deliver them to a security checkpoint. Ajay explained to them that the entrance to the First Class lounge was right after security. This checkpoint had nothing to do with them leaving the sterile part of the airport to enter Dubai. This one was just to make sure that the security checkpoint back in Paris had done it’s job correctly.
Them taken care of, I was whisked to that area for incoming passengers deemed a covid risk—from a specific list of countries that are having issues with the coronavirus. When we arrived there is was empty except for a handful of employees—literally a handful. It was set up to handle hundreds of tests in quick fashion but nobody was there.
How can it be that nobody knows this is here for me? Ajay walked me to the head honcho and explained my situation. That guy took it in stride asking for my passport and ongoing boarding pass which I gladly presented. After a couple of minutes of typing on his computer he asked me for a credit card, ran it, handed me a form and sent me 10 feet across the way to a testing lady who swabbed my nostrils and it was done.
Getting the results is the tricky part. I am supposed to go back to this area in a few hours but Ajay says he has a better idea. “You have a long layover. Why don’t you consider getting a room at the airport hotel to get some sleep. I’ll try to arrange with the personnel there to come back here and get your results so you can have them when you check out of the hotel in time for your flight.”
I’ve got the personnel list to staff the best Starbucks on the planet and they have been helping and guiding and calming me for the better part of, what is it now, two days? This planet is filled with all kinds of people. The bad ones are the ones who grab the spotlight. The kids who kill other kids, the politicians who are against something because their rivals are for it, the driver who won’t let you slide in to make the turn you need to make but you weren’t in the correct lane to make it and the security people at the world’s airports who really aren’t very nice as a group—or so it seems to me. Join me in counting the good people with whom you interact between now and the end of this miserable year. They’re out there but they go unrecognized. I’m going to do better at being one of them to pay it back for what they’ve achieved on my behalf these past several hours.
Off we went to the hotel. I checked in and Ajay went on his way. My plan was to get some sleep but sleep would not come. I showered. I watched a bit of TV. I called B4 to catch up. And then I decided to write this. It is 3:48am. My alarm is set for 7:00. My flight Is at 10:00. I am going to shut the lid of this MacBook now and see if I can coerce some sleep, albeit just a bit. If sleep won’t come, well, so be it.
At 6:42 a strange electronic musical sound jolted me awake. An alarm? I fumbled for the light. By the time I realized it was a bizarre ring tone on the room telephone, the caller had given up. I dialed “0.” Nothing. In my stupor I undoubtedly did something wrong. I dialed again. The operator said I had no messages but that she would connect me with “Reception.”
It was indeed “Reception” that had been trying to reach me. “Mr. Paul, can you please to inform me at what gate your PCR test was taken? We cannot find it.”
I scrambled to locate the receipt I had been given but it showed no “gate” location. “No problem, sir. I will send someone to collect the receipt and we will find it.” The line went dead before I could say thank you.
In ten minutes, the doorbell on my room rang. It was, if I may say so, much more subtle than the ringing of the phone. I had dressed at that point so I opened the door wide and handed to the tiny young lady in her grey uniform the document that would, I hoped, assist her in locating the vital test document.
A few minutes later, as I finished my duties in the bathroom, my Apple watch lit up with this message: “Dear Paul Martin Russell, registered MRN 923246418 Greetings, your Covid19 PCR test result from 03/12/2021 is,” and that is all that would fit on the watch screen. I scrambled for my phone, now lying on the bed, to tap the text button, find the incoming message and figured it couldn’t be the one from +1 (888) 680-2738 because that is the U.S. country code and a toll-free number. But there were no other unread texts. I clicked.
Now all I need is the printed document that says the same thing as the text says but with all the required details. The document that shows that the test was just taken. The document (in English) that would prove to the Ugandan border authorities that this wretch who has presented himself at immigration was bringing a camera and some muck boots but not coronavirus. The document that is, I believe, the final piece of the puzzle that, once solved, delivers me to the introduction I have so long sought: to a family of mountain gorillas.
I finished packing and made my way to “Reception.” There I waited. Finally, after what seemed to be forever, at 8:15, a young man—not the young woman who had picked up my receipt—wearing the same crisp grey uniform approached me with a single piece of paper. This one.
The Government of Dubai has delivered.
I have time to make it to the Emirates First Class lounge for a fast buffet breakfast and much needed “Americano” coffee and then it is time to make my way to Gate B6 which is mercifully very near to the lounge. The Dubai airport is a shopping mall with jetways. It is vast. There is so much to tell the visitor that the signage is almost overwhelming. It is, if this hasn’t already been coined as phrase it should be, “direction overload.”
90,000 people work here. Most of them undoubted earn far less than it would take to fly through here, staffing the world’s largest duty-free store(s). It is a transit zone between 260 destinations across the world for more than 100 airlines with its own five-star hotel inside the building. I stayed overnight at the Dubai International Hotel and my accommodations were wildly expensive yet spartan. Be that as it may, the 87 million passengers who pass through here annually (pre-covid) speak a plethora of languages. Getting them where they need to go is a monumental task. Blessed to be an English speaker, I find that mine is the default language.
At precisely 9:10, I leave for B6. Why couldn't we have gone out of B4? At 9:20, I arrive to a mob scene. As I reach the bottom of the escalator, they are calling for boarding groups A and B. I am A but there are no lines, no sense or order. I make my way forward and eventually the sea of Entebbe-bound humanity momentarily parts and I am welcomed through the checkpoints, onto the jetway and into seat 1F. Samar is the flight services manager and I ask that, should a window seat become available, I might have it. He opines that they are all taken but should that change he will call for me. Looking around, I see that, unlike previous Emirates 777-300 aircraft I have been aboard, there are only four window seats among the only eight first class seats. We are informed that the flight crew today, under the command of a captain from the UK and a first officer from South Africa, include individuals from ten countries who speak ten languages.
Samar comes to see me. “The woman in 2A has requested to be seated across from her mother. Hers was a window seat. Would you care to have it?” I would. When I arrive she has taken all her belongings to 2F except for her shoes. Once we have that sorted out, I settle in, happy that when we arrive in Uganda—and let it be known that I am now highly confident that we will arrive in Uganda—I will be able to bear witness to it. The truth? I am, for the first time, both happy and confident. This is going to happen.
Now, to let you in on a little secret. My original "FINAL" Itinerary, the one I provided B4 so she could feel more informed, the one that would be followed to the letter, the one that was totally destroyed by the shutdown of Morocco and all the scrambling you have been reading about for the past few days, the one that David at Natural World Safaris arranged specifically for me, the one that was rescheduled three times due to covid, that one; it called for me to arrive in Entebbe...tomorrow.
When Morocco went into lockdown, my planned trips to Kasbah Mohavut at Merzouga, and to Ifrane, and to Rabat for two full days were all canceled to facilitate my repatriation. All the disappointments heaped upon me by Royal Air Maroc and El Al and Qatar Airways were all just eating up Moroccan time, not Ugandan time. The reality of that shocks me; does it shock you as well?
To be sure, David had filled those extra days and then unfilled them. The man is a saint for tolerating me as a client. His life has been, I suspect, mayhem for 18 months. And, just as it seemed things were falling into place for him, my travel disruptions became his life disruptions. I wonder if he would work at the world's best Starbucks--as manager perhaps?
Upon arrival at Entebbe Airport, twenty minutes early at 2:00pm, we are waved into our parking spot by a guy standing on a pile of pallets. This ain't O'Hare. I am met, as promised by Natural Wold Safaris contractor; Irene. She's a gem and she knows the ins and outs of this airport. The normal border crossing formalities are observed but with a different twist. Stand in this line for this, stand in that line for the other thing; pay over here for a service but go over there to receive the service; it is here that the new Dubai PCR test was to be required along with that Ugandan Government Health Form--the one B4 scrambled to help me complete all the way back at the Marrakech Starbucks store--so very long ago. They didn't ask to see the PCR test and I had downloaded the wrong Ugandan Health Form. All that stress--and expense--unnecessary. But they both sure made great stories, huh? I am assisted by Irene--again, she's a gem--to the airport's testing facility where I must now take still another PCR test ($30 U.S.) I must pay in cash with notes published the year 2016 or newer. They rejected one of my $20 bills not because it was too old but because it didn't look new enough. Yes, you read that correctly. Months ago I went to two different banks to amass enough "new" money to facilitate this idiosyncrasy. Then to the usual immigration but there is an absence of customs. It's all done in the African way.
I am transported by Mike a short distance to Hotel No 5. We pass the "old" Entebbe Airport--the spot where the "Raid on Entebbe" occurred. Arriving at No. 5, Rachael handles my bags and gets me a welcome drink (Mike got one too! I loved that.)
Then Peace checked me in. No 5 is a boutique property with only ten rooms. I am in No. 1. There is a pool (from where I now write), a spa, a gym, a restaurant and a bar. A birthday party was being held when I arrived; everybody looks dapper and happy. Dinner is included. Here, for the first time in a few hectic days, a distressed traveler can truly relax.
A wonderful and totally unrelated thing happened. Upon opening my Travellerspoint blog spot I find some comments recently posted but they are not about this blog. The first several, from Vic_IV (I know not who that is) I get high praise for things I wrote nearly four years ago when I went swimming with whale sharks on St. Helena Island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. He, somehow, stumbled across the blog paulej4StHelena.travellerspoint.com Anyone who wishes can view that one and all the others by going here: https://www.travellerspoint.com/users/paulej4/
Thanks Vic_IV.
I am not one for souvenirs. But this, I cannot resist. An absolutely beautiful banknote: 50,000 Ugandan schillings. The gorilla caught my eye at once. But, if you look more closely, you can see a man wearing at Karamojong headdress. The independence monument, a crested crane, a map of the country where the equator crosses the country are all mixed in. An expensive souvenir though. At today's exchange rate 50,000 Ugandan schillings equal about $15 U.S.
Then, another unexpected treat. There is a note on my pillow. It reads, "Thank you for your perseverance and incredible commitment to this trip. David and the whole NWS Team wish you a wonderful time in East Africa." I admire their perseverance and commitment through all of this COVID mess more than my own. If this keeps up, we'll have the best Starbucks ever.
The final event of the day is the briefing by Judith of Far Horizons, the in-country agent for National World Safaris. It is Far Horizons that does--and did--the legwork to bring all the details together. She tells me that I will be getting to know Abdul who will be my driver for my entire time in Uganda. She confirms that I am the solo client. When we do our gorilla treks--which you will read about as soon as they occur--you will learn along with me how many other tourists are on each encounter; the limit is eight. I will not be, nor I desire to be, solo on those expeditions.
Judith is a delight and I could have talked to her for hours but there is a 7:00pm curfew in effect here and she needs to get off the road prior to that time. I was able to talk her into sharing one glass of champagne from the bottle that was my welcome gift. She had a gift for me as well. It is so heavy that I asked her to hold it for me because it would put me way over the weight limit for my airstrip flights later this week. She agreed. But it is one very cool gift and I will just have to keep you in suspense until the reveal...a week or so from now.
I am tired. I am looking forward to dinner here but I am going to post prior to that so that I can collapse right after. Last night's "couple of hours" of sleep, along with a couple of glasses of champagne this afternoon and evening are starting to catch up with me. But, tired or not, know this: I am overjoyed to be here. I am anxious to see the gorillas--and experience all the other things in store for me. This trip, a sure thing that became a long shot that dissolved into impossibility that then resurrected itself has now come to fruition.
How lucky can one man be?
