Do you remember those old days when getting outof India (or getting in, for that matter) involved a series of choreographed steps that looked like complete cacaphony and chaos from outside but had a sort of rhythm once you knew the game?
Things have become a lot simpler that you can hope to accomplish this without aquiring a new vocabulary and a new set of best friends and losing all the pocket change. Thank the universal one-eyes lightness for that.
Getting out of Buenos Aires last week reminded me of that as I left last week.
First of all, plan on getting to the airport at least a year before the departure time to leave ample time to complete the "formalities."
First of all, the damn short ride from the center of the city to the International airport (Ministro Pistarini International Airport) in Ezeiza ought to take twenty minutes but it takes one hour. But I am not worried, because I have two and half hours to catch the flight, so why should I be worried?
I should be worried. I should be very worried.
I reach the airport and as I enter the departure hall, it resembles a cross between the emergency waiting room of a large hospital (without any chairs and bleeding people) and a Sunday market. people are running helter-skelter and everyone is looking worried. I am quite unfazed at this as I walk to the counter because I see that my counter is free. I have a "been there, done that" look on my face.
Not so fast, punk.
There is a woman stationed between me and the counter and she stands behind a lecturn and has stamps and papers with her. This is never good news, especially in the developing world. So I smile and try to be VERY VERY polite. Meanwhile, I glance and see that the line for economy is snaking its way to Colombia.
She begins with innocent questions like, "who packed your luggage?"
I answer very politely. Then the questions get harder and harder. I am kicking myself for not paying attention in my general knowledge questions in high school. Later she wants to know the birth dates of my great grand parents and a brief history of the manufacturer of my suit case.
Finally, she smiles, flips through my passport and hands me a piece of paper duly stamped and notorized for what purpose I do not know. I am relieved.
I get to the counter. Nobody pays any attention to the notorized piece of the paper as the counter-lady processes my ticket and gives me my boarding card. Then she says, "hurry, you don't have much time."
This is truly prophetic and ominous. I look at my watch and think, hmm, I have plenty of time so why would she say this?
Then I realize I have another line to stand on. This is an egalitarian line with everyone heading everywhere has to stand on regardless of destination or class of service. This is to pay $18 exit tax. This line also snakes its way to Columbia. So I get to the back of the line and wait my turn. Another eternity passes by until i get to the end of the line and I pay. She gives me another receipt. Nobody checks the first notorized paper. Now with all these papers, I head to the cambio to get some dollars back for the pesos. There are two counters and two people. But one of them has decided to just stand around and not necessarily help people for some reason. So there goes another 30 minutes.
Then the first line of emmigration. The counter number comes on except at a place where the person in the front of the line cannot quite see. So everyone behind them have to shout, look look, you go to counter number 14 and so on. As soon as they reach the front of the line however, they forget this whole thing and begin to assume the clueless look.
I get though that hurdle OK. Except noone checks for any of my growing lit of official papers. They just want to see the passport, not even the boarding card.
Then there is a customs line and a security line, which seems more for comical reasons than for any real purposes. Shoes and lapt-tops stay on and in... and every one gets a once-over pat-down. From the look of it, Osama could walk that line with a ton of explosives and will pass the line.
Oh, yeah, the path from this point to the gate passes through what looks like the ladies section of Robinsons May or some other mid-style department store. Store-ladies wait for attract the attention of wouldbe customers and you are running through isles of merchantise towards your flight.
At this point I have consumed all my buffer and I am worried. I need to go to the bathroom but I realize I have no time.
There is another security inspection within five feet of the plane. This is a tougher one, I assume specifically designed for US bound passengers.
I get patted down, my dirty clothes get one too.. I am happy to be finally on the OTHER side.
No more queues.
I walk into the plane and I have one minute to spare.
As I sit down and sip some champagne 9which I hate, but I secide I deserve to celebrate the triuph of persistence over beaurocracy) I realize that people are still walking in.
So the departure time is a mere suggestion.
At some point in the night, we must have departed because when I woke up I was no longer in Argentina.
And here I thought Indian procedures were the worst!
Things have become a lot simpler that you can hope to accomplish this without aquiring a new vocabulary and a new set of best friends and losing all the pocket change. Thank the universal one-eyes lightness for that.
Getting out of Buenos Aires last week reminded me of that as I left last week.
First of all, plan on getting to the airport at least a year before the departure time to leave ample time to complete the "formalities."
First of all, the damn short ride from the center of the city to the International airport (Ministro Pistarini International Airport) in Ezeiza ought to take twenty minutes but it takes one hour. But I am not worried, because I have two and half hours to catch the flight, so why should I be worried?
I should be worried. I should be very worried.
I reach the airport and as I enter the departure hall, it resembles a cross between the emergency waiting room of a large hospital (without any chairs and bleeding people) and a Sunday market. people are running helter-skelter and everyone is looking worried. I am quite unfazed at this as I walk to the counter because I see that my counter is free. I have a "been there, done that" look on my face.
Not so fast, punk.
There is a woman stationed between me and the counter and she stands behind a lecturn and has stamps and papers with her. This is never good news, especially in the developing world. So I smile and try to be VERY VERY polite. Meanwhile, I glance and see that the line for economy is snaking its way to Colombia.
She begins with innocent questions like, "who packed your luggage?"
I answer very politely. Then the questions get harder and harder. I am kicking myself for not paying attention in my general knowledge questions in high school. Later she wants to know the birth dates of my great grand parents and a brief history of the manufacturer of my suit case.
Finally, she smiles, flips through my passport and hands me a piece of paper duly stamped and notorized for what purpose I do not know. I am relieved.
I get to the counter. Nobody pays any attention to the notorized piece of the paper as the counter-lady processes my ticket and gives me my boarding card. Then she says, "hurry, you don't have much time."
This is truly prophetic and ominous. I look at my watch and think, hmm, I have plenty of time so why would she say this?
Then I realize I have another line to stand on. This is an egalitarian line with everyone heading everywhere has to stand on regardless of destination or class of service. This is to pay $18 exit tax. This line also snakes its way to Columbia. So I get to the back of the line and wait my turn. Another eternity passes by until i get to the end of the line and I pay. She gives me another receipt. Nobody checks the first notorized paper. Now with all these papers, I head to the cambio to get some dollars back for the pesos. There are two counters and two people. But one of them has decided to just stand around and not necessarily help people for some reason. So there goes another 30 minutes.
Then the first line of emmigration. The counter number comes on except at a place where the person in the front of the line cannot quite see. So everyone behind them have to shout, look look, you go to counter number 14 and so on. As soon as they reach the front of the line however, they forget this whole thing and begin to assume the clueless look.
I get though that hurdle OK. Except noone checks for any of my growing lit of official papers. They just want to see the passport, not even the boarding card.
Then there is a customs line and a security line, which seems more for comical reasons than for any real purposes. Shoes and lapt-tops stay on and in... and every one gets a once-over pat-down. From the look of it, Osama could walk that line with a ton of explosives and will pass the line.
Oh, yeah, the path from this point to the gate passes through what looks like the ladies section of Robinsons May or some other mid-style department store. Store-ladies wait for attract the attention of wouldbe customers and you are running through isles of merchantise towards your flight.
At this point I have consumed all my buffer and I am worried. I need to go to the bathroom but I realize I have no time.
There is another security inspection within five feet of the plane. This is a tougher one, I assume specifically designed for US bound passengers.
I get patted down, my dirty clothes get one too.. I am happy to be finally on the OTHER side.
No more queues.
I walk into the plane and I have one minute to spare.
As I sit down and sip some champagne 9which I hate, but I secide I deserve to celebrate the triuph of persistence over beaurocracy) I realize that people are still walking in.
So the departure time is a mere suggestion.
At some point in the night, we must have departed because when I woke up I was no longer in Argentina.
And here I thought Indian procedures were the worst!
