Long haul flights are mind-numbingly boring not least because of those predictable routines: take-off; meal; enforced sleep time; B movies played over tiny screens with appalling sound; and another dreadful meal. (If you’re really lucky — on really long flights you may be able to cram in a third really terrible meal — for the record my worst ever was a dish of boiled meats that a Quantas flight picked up in Bahrain — Bahrain is not a place I’ve ever had the subsequent desire to see).
Yet, there are occasional delights, wonderful sights glimpsed often more by luck than judgement. On one occasion I was on a flight to Hong Kong and met a rather disorientated Glasgow man at Gatwick — have you ever noticed how it is that wherever you go in the world there is a Glasgow man? Anyhow, this chap was on his first really long flight and spent most of the time at the back of the 747 looking out of a port hole window. The good thing about these 747s is that you can relieve the boredom by having a walk down to the port hole. Each time I strolled down there my friend and I would gaze out of the window and my job would be to estimate where we were. On one occasion I was invited to look out onto a wonderful looking delta. “Where’s that then?” I reckoned it was the Ganges delta. It was certainly a magical, mystical sight from up there. Well, I thought it was. My Glasgow friend just shrugged.
There have been other great sights like that as well. Once my flight made its way East, following the line of the Danube as dusk fell. The landscape below was flattened by the low contrast of the evening, hues and shades of dark blues. Every now and then a great city would shine radiantly from the gloom and beyond them industrial sites and plants would give off a different light. Most wonderful of all was the sight of the giant river discharging itself into the Black Sea the lights of settlements following the unmistakable form of fishing villages the world over. On another flight I found myself flying right down the East coast of Africa, gazing out on a landscape that belied the stereotypes of a draught torn continent, all lush green canopies and rivers (of course, the reality was probably very different).
The last time I came to Brasil I flew from Heathrow, the jet following the western line of the Europe to the Canaries before heading of SW towards South America. Not too much to get excited about there. But this flight simply hopped to Lisbon for its connection and was all together more interesting.
We left Heathrow in morning darkness and arrived in Lisbon as dawn was breaking. A sky of pinks and vermillions glowed with a seasonal splendour. All around tree lined hills floated on early morning clouds. It was a landscape the cried out for a tiny pied-a-terre in the city or villages. I’d have been quite happy here. At that moment Porto looked the most romantic place on the earth.
But it was Africa that was the star of the trip — as it so often is in life. Our plane crossed to Morocco had then flew south before turning west somewhere around Senegal. Thousands of feet below me the wonderful beaches of North Africa stretched out for miles on end and behind them sat the famous red earth of the continent. At first the ground was covered for hundred of miles with what seemed to be polly-tunnels. I guess when we buy fruit labelled Maroc it comes from here. Quickly cultivation gave way to rugged, rocky, hills, their sandy hollows and ravines festooned with tracks — animal or vehicle it was impossible to tell. The horizon was punctuated by the snow covered peaks of the Atlas mountains. Civilisation on the ground was sparse now and soon the rugged high ground gave way to the windswept sands of the Sahara proper. This was one of my best arial sightseeing trips yet.
As the plane set itself to fly over the Atlantic Ocean the blinds on on the windows were lowered so that we could pretend it was evening. I suppose this is partially to help nervous flyers forget that they will be flying — for hours — over deep, open, ocean.
Daylight ‘returned’ when we reached the landmass of South America. Africa’s red soils were still here but this landscape was green, lush and vibrant. It was the end of the day when we landed and we were greeted with one hell of a lightening display which led into one hell of a tropical storm. Africa and this part of the world were once joined together of course. How the West of Africa could do with all of this water.
It seemed to take hours to get out of the airport. There were long queues for the baggage, long queues for immigration and long queues for customs. Inside the concourse non of the ATM machines worked. Having just 300 Reals on me I plumped to hire a taxi from a booth festooned with VISA, American Express and Master Card signs. Cash only I was told! The journey on the highway from the airport to Leblon seemed to take hours. The roads were buffeted in driving rain and hundreds of vehicles on each hundred metres of road seemed to compete with each other for the accolade of Rio’s aquaplaning champion of the day. As we got closer to Copacabana grid lock struck. It was Sunday evening, goodness knows what it will be like with a World Cup and an Olympics!
With rather surprising ease the taxi driver simply pulled up outside of our small apartment block. A wonderfully friendly concierge was ready for us, introduced himself as Francisco and struck me as a real friend in the making.
The storms of the evening carried on into evening, washing away the humidity of the day. I write this at 8.00 am the next morning and already the heat and the humidity is beginning to climb
Today will be a day of orientation and local exploration. I shall adopt the pose of a colonial brit, striking out with North Face sandals, Paramo shorts and a Philosophy Football T-Shirt (Trotsky No. 4 Humph). I shall top it all off with my trusty, worn, Tilly Hat. I shall make my way to Mike Pitt’s favourite bar, the Café Jobi, which is also the favourite of the relative who owns this apartment!
But that’s a story for another day. Have to rush. My skin isn’t half red/pink enough yet!
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