Airport Blues

Circa '94

I flew back from the USA to South Africa via Brazil on Varig Airlines.

The first leg was an eight-hour schlep from Miami, Florida, to São Paulo.

The ticket price included a twenty-four-hour layover in São Paulo, return airport shuttle, and “3-Star” accommodation - which turned out to be some stinky-dinky little hotel in the old part of town.

I have a pet hate for old, past-century buildings renovated into cottage-style bed & breakfasts. They stink. They’re the same the world over. No matter how cute they look, each has its own signature odour.

Some on the lower end carry a musty bouquet of mould, occasionally spiked with aggressive lemon or lavender detergent - chemical warfare disguised as housekeeping.

Others, like this particular establishment in São Paulo, carried a repulsive aroma reminiscent of urinals in the men’s room of a packed bar during Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street.

Anyway...

​With a day to kill, I got up early and ventured outside.

​São Paulo may be fascinating, but I limited my exploration to the touristy little shops lining the cobblestone streets within safe walking distance of the stinky-dinky inn.

For lunch I found a sidewalk café and ordered steak, egg and chips from the proprietor. The steak was good - from what I can remember.

I was already contemplating the final eight-hour economy-class stint to Johannesburg. The sardine can. Not something I was looking forward to. So I did what I always do in that situation. I started drinking early. And enthusiastically.

A few Jamesons later, I made my way back to the stinky inn and asked the elderly gentleman at reception to call the airport shuttle.

I waited in the reception area - a space consisting entirely of the ever-potent piss-pong, two small tables with two chairs each, and a glass showcase displaying what looked like fake Spanish Conquistador relics priced as though authentic.

Perhaps my assessment of their value was influenced by too much whiskey and too much idle contemplation.

Two more drinks in, I started getting edgy. It was already dark. The shuttle was late. The smell was intensifying.

Minutes dragged like hours.

The shuttle eventually arrived - twenty minutes late - in the unanticipated form of a clapped-out beige Volkswagen Scirocco with a young woman behind the wheel.

I’ve had some dodgy taxi rides in my time, and this one felt like a disaster in the making. But with no better option, I tossed my bag in, climbed into the passenger seat, and told her to hustle.

She gave me a blank look and gently coasted downhill.

WTF...?

Then - dump clutch. Bump start. The Scirocco fired on the first try, obnoxiously loud like only an inline-four with a broken exhaust can be.

“Problema com a bateria.”

Either the battery, the alternator, or both were stuffed.
 
And so began my shuttle ride to São Paulo airport - in the dark, with no headlights, and apparently no intention of stopping at intersections.

I’ll admit, my ass tightened up at first.

But I’ve always been able to sense when someone has proper car control. And this little senhora - from Senna’s old hometown - could drive. Her heel-and-toe downshifts were clean and instinctive...

​On the highway she went full pedal-to-the-metal lunatic, snapping through lanes, maintaining momentum with surgical precision.

I hung on.

She flicked the headlights on intermittently, diving into split-second gaps that would make seasoned racers blink twice.

She even demonstrated proper high-speed cornering in an underpowered front-wheel-drive car - tyres squealing as she overtook slower traffic around the outside shoulder of the off-ramp toward the airport.

At one point she induced lift-off oversteer. When the rear stepped out, she simply buried her right foot - exactly the right move in a front-wheel-drive car.

Bang...!

The journey ended abruptly as we T-boned a small passenger bus directly in front of the main terminal.

The Scirocco’s nose crumpled.
Fluids spilled everywhere.

“Falha nos freios.”

Brake failure. No shit.

Running late for my flight, I grabbed my bag, muttered “Tchau, Senhora,” and jogged toward the terminal - only to discover the next surprise.

Chaos. - Airport officials were on strike. Outbound flights were delayed. A skeleton staff was attempting damage control.

I was late but fortunately my flight was also delayed.

I checked in. Found the nearest bar. Ordered more Jamesons.

I secured a seat at the back, next to the toilet - prime position for my tried-and-tested strategy: drink, pass out, wake up in Johannesburg.

Truth be told - I like flying, but I’ve never liked airport commutes.

The boredom gets me.

- Pierre Martins

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