Practically everyone here can agree that the flight from the U.A.E. (Dubai, Abu Dhabi, take your pick) is one of the nastiest flying experiences outside of Africa or rural China. Consider the gradual but determined way in which most passengers give up on conventions of polite public behavior and begin picking their noses or farting like engines, not because they think no one is noticing but because they think no one is judging. We’re heading back to Pakistan, and so all bets are off. Fart away!
I scored an exit seat, which has extra legroom but is also next to the bathrooms, so you can do the math. After an exhausting 10-hour layover in Abu Dhabi I had bought too many Toblerones and was so ready to get the hell out of what can only be described as the Ugliest Airport Ever. While I was in the line for boarding I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find a young guy with blue eyes and white-blond hair and a massive backpack, holding something I had dropped. I began chatting with Aaron as the line inched forward. Aaron was coming to see friends from college and had been to the kind of countries that bring to mind bed bugs, so I watched his dreadlocks for movement while we conversed. Eventually we parted ways as I thought how marvelous it is that we still have tourists coming by, despite everything.
I sat down and closed my eyes, simply exhausted, and dozed off happily until I felt another nudge.
“They shot down an Etihad flight, did you know?” This piece of information had issued from a high-pitched voice to my left.
I’m just not gonna do this. Not now. I’m going to pretend to be asleep.
But the voice went on: “I think you have to fasten your seatbelt. You didn’t fasten your seatbelt. Did you know that if your plane crashes your seatbelt can save you? My dad says you should fasten your seatbelt. Like in that flight that was over Peshawar but then I don’t know how bullets can kill people. Did you know that sometimes you can survive a plane crash but then die on the ground? My friend told me that the Malaysian Airlines…”
I opened one eyelid to confirm my worst nightmare: a nine-year old boy was sitting next to me.
“…That is unless you’re in the sea and the plane crashes but then floats, like a boat.” The talking had stopped. But it resumed: “I can see your eyes move, my mom says that means people are awake or dreaming. ARE YOU DREAMING! Oh, you’re awake! I’m awake. I’m Amir, what’s your name? My parents are in Lahore. I’m traveling alone…”
Eventually he shut up. The food arrived and as Cho Yun the hostess was bending over to serve me my bread-rolls, we all heard an earth-shattering shout from the back of the plane.
“Allah-o-Akbar!”
Dread.
But then again: “Allah-o-Akbar!”
The flight attendant’s face went from pale to ice-white, and I felt my heart sink into my bottomless well of fears. I’m going to die, I thought, I’m going to die on a discount flight to Lahore and when they find me I’ll be wearing sweatpants.
Cho Yun made a small Noise of Terror, dropped my bread-roll and ran to the cockpit, where she pulled across a heavy duty door with bars and locked it, and then ran to the back of the plane, this time with more terrified air hostesses following her.
“Oh my god there is a terrorist on the plane! They want to kill us! This is going to be like 9/11!” shouted Amir, the child-demon seated next to me.
“Dude,” I whispered as sanely and soothingly as I could, “no one is going to die. It’s going to be OK.”
Having said that, I turned around very slowly to see where the sound was coming from. And guess what: it was an enthusiastic rendition of the Arabic call to prayer. The first person I made eye contact with was Aaron, my erstwhile travel companion/military-grade spy-to-be, who was sitting three rows head of the bearded young man with no mustache singing his heart out. Aaron was looking straight ahead, completely still but with widened eyes. I wish I could have taken a picture of his face. It was the face of someone who thought himself two minutes from a beheading.
In the end Cho Yun asked a woman what exactly the man was shouting, and with great chuckles and guffaws people told her it was OK, he was only delivering the beloved azaan.
[quote]Loudly delivering the azaan in midflight nowadays is like screaming "Snakes on a plane!"[/quote]
I sat back in my seat, shaken and slightly breathless.
Loudly delivering the azaan in midflight nowadays is like screaming “Snakes on a plane!” There, I said it. Say your prayers by all means, read all the world’s holy books and even discuss theology, but please, refrain from screaming in a tiny commercial airplane, at a time in human history when displays of Islamic passion are considered, erm, inappropriate for any and all activities related to international air-travel.
Mercifully, I have returned in one piece to Lahore. The weather is nice (read: not murderous) but it turns out we have no petrol because the government is being unbelievably stupid in reacting to the stupendously stupid Imran Khan and his Azaadi March. Everyone knows it isn’t Mr. Khan’s right to be the Prime Minister of Pakistan, but everyone isn’t in the business of stating the obvious. His “demand” to redo the elections until he comes to power is like that recent video of him running shirtless (with dyed hair) through his grounds: it’s vain, it’s false, it’s embarrassing, and it stinks.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter
I scored an exit seat, which has extra legroom but is also next to the bathrooms, so you can do the math. After an exhausting 10-hour layover in Abu Dhabi I had bought too many Toblerones and was so ready to get the hell out of what can only be described as the Ugliest Airport Ever. While I was in the line for boarding I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find a young guy with blue eyes and white-blond hair and a massive backpack, holding something I had dropped. I began chatting with Aaron as the line inched forward. Aaron was coming to see friends from college and had been to the kind of countries that bring to mind bed bugs, so I watched his dreadlocks for movement while we conversed. Eventually we parted ways as I thought how marvelous it is that we still have tourists coming by, despite everything.
I sat down and closed my eyes, simply exhausted, and dozed off happily until I felt another nudge.
“They shot down an Etihad flight, did you know?” This piece of information had issued from a high-pitched voice to my left.
I’m just not gonna do this. Not now. I’m going to pretend to be asleep.
But the voice went on: “I think you have to fasten your seatbelt. You didn’t fasten your seatbelt. Did you know that if your plane crashes your seatbelt can save you? My dad says you should fasten your seatbelt. Like in that flight that was over Peshawar but then I don’t know how bullets can kill people. Did you know that sometimes you can survive a plane crash but then die on the ground? My friend told me that the Malaysian Airlines…”
I opened one eyelid to confirm my worst nightmare: a nine-year old boy was sitting next to me.
“…That is unless you’re in the sea and the plane crashes but then floats, like a boat.” The talking had stopped. But it resumed: “I can see your eyes move, my mom says that means people are awake or dreaming. ARE YOU DREAMING! Oh, you’re awake! I’m awake. I’m Amir, what’s your name? My parents are in Lahore. I’m traveling alone…”
Eventually he shut up. The food arrived and as Cho Yun the hostess was bending over to serve me my bread-rolls, we all heard an earth-shattering shout from the back of the plane.
“Allah-o-Akbar!”
Dread.
But then again: “Allah-o-Akbar!”
The flight attendant’s face went from pale to ice-white, and I felt my heart sink into my bottomless well of fears. I’m going to die, I thought, I’m going to die on a discount flight to Lahore and when they find me I’ll be wearing sweatpants.
Cho Yun made a small Noise of Terror, dropped my bread-roll and ran to the cockpit, where she pulled across a heavy duty door with bars and locked it, and then ran to the back of the plane, this time with more terrified air hostesses following her.
“Oh my god there is a terrorist on the plane! They want to kill us! This is going to be like 9/11!” shouted Amir, the child-demon seated next to me.
“Dude,” I whispered as sanely and soothingly as I could, “no one is going to die. It’s going to be OK.”
Having said that, I turned around very slowly to see where the sound was coming from. And guess what: it was an enthusiastic rendition of the Arabic call to prayer. The first person I made eye contact with was Aaron, my erstwhile travel companion/military-grade spy-to-be, who was sitting three rows head of the bearded young man with no mustache singing his heart out. Aaron was looking straight ahead, completely still but with widened eyes. I wish I could have taken a picture of his face. It was the face of someone who thought himself two minutes from a beheading.
In the end Cho Yun asked a woman what exactly the man was shouting, and with great chuckles and guffaws people told her it was OK, he was only delivering the beloved azaan.
[quote]Loudly delivering the azaan in midflight nowadays is like screaming "Snakes on a plane!"[/quote]
I sat back in my seat, shaken and slightly breathless.
Loudly delivering the azaan in midflight nowadays is like screaming “Snakes on a plane!” There, I said it. Say your prayers by all means, read all the world’s holy books and even discuss theology, but please, refrain from screaming in a tiny commercial airplane, at a time in human history when displays of Islamic passion are considered, erm, inappropriate for any and all activities related to international air-travel.
Mercifully, I have returned in one piece to Lahore. The weather is nice (read: not murderous) but it turns out we have no petrol because the government is being unbelievably stupid in reacting to the stupendously stupid Imran Khan and his Azaadi March. Everyone knows it isn’t Mr. Khan’s right to be the Prime Minister of Pakistan, but everyone isn’t in the business of stating the obvious. His “demand” to redo the elections until he comes to power is like that recent video of him running shirtless (with dyed hair) through his grounds: it’s vain, it’s false, it’s embarrassing, and it stinks.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter