My flight was schedule to depart in the late afternoon, so I grabbed an early lunch at the hotel, put my gear into traveling order and arranged a taxi to the airport. The cab was a white Indian Jeep that had seen better days, but was clean and well maintained. The driver was a pleasant and talkative fellow who was happy to get a foreign passenger. His English was excellent, so we had an entertaining discourse as we motored toward the airport. He told me that he was glad to see an American, as the only foreigners that he typically encounters are Germans and, according to the Taxi driver, they are demanding and do not tip well.
As we got closer to the airport, the security on the streets began to visibly change. The sandbag forts located sporadically throughout the town, now became a consistent sight at every intersection. Since the airport was located on the edge of the city, the road leading up to the entrance was like any city street in that it was lined with shops. In order to maintain security, though, the road had a cement and fence barrier between the street and the sidewalk. In other words, you could not get from the road to the adjacent shops. At the edge of the airport property, there was a checkpoint for vehicles in which all bags and passengers needed to removed from the vehicle and scanned. Luckily, the traffic to the airport in Srinagar is light or this would have taken days.
The cabbie dropped me off in front of the terminal which was deserted outside of an antiquated x-ray machine and a few soldiers. I made my way through the first security check without incident and scurried toward the main terminal. The airport was eerily empty and silent. Before I could enter the main terminal, though, I had to go through another security checkpoint. This station had roughly the same equipment as the first, but these soldiers were a little more attentive as they patted you down, as a bonus. I know there is a great deal of controversy about the pat down in the US right now, but you have never had an intrusive pat-down until you have tried to fly out of a war zone. I mean, jeez, buy me dinner first – or a least get to know my name!
I was now in the main terminal. This was a large, cold two-story room divided from the solitary gate area by a low plywood wall and another security checkpoint. Above the gate was a loft area that had a restaurant and additional seating. Along the right wall, there were a series of individual kiosks at which one would check in. They looked more like carnival booths than airline counters as each one stood individually and had wheels. There was no one behind the Jet Airways converted kissing booth, though. Apparently, although you have to be in the airport 3 hours prior to take-off, the airline staff shows up when they damn well feel like it. At least that’s universal!
I took a seat in an orange molded plastic chair and waited. In about 30 minutes, a woman wondered in the main terminal with a Jet Airways uniform and leisurely took her place behind the counter. I darted up eagerly to get this milestone behind me. She checked me in, gave me my ticket and then told me that there was no carry-on allowed. What? No carry-on? You mean like no excessive carry-on? Nope, none what so ever! I reminded her that I was business class and she reminded me that she did not care. NO CARRY-ON! I explained diligently that I had my ski boots in my boot bag and these would not travel well - clanging around in the belly of the aircraft. She explained diligently that there was NO CARRY-ON! After a lively discussion, she recommended I take it up with the security people and maybe they would let it on. Hum? I mean what harm could come of demanding to take ski boots onboard an aircraft from the commander of security in an airport located in a militant zone full of terrorist. Again, I really need a new “little voice.”
So, like an idiot, I went over to the soldier guarding the gate area and asked to see his commanding officer. He told me to take a seat and he would go get him. A few minutes late, I was escorted into a small office and was face to face with the captain of the guard. I explained my situation….. and then explained what ski boot were. Not a good start. Apparently, this was a case of know your audience. We had a nice discussion ranging from why I was in India to how I liked sourcing as a career. By the end of it, we were fast friends and he agreed to let me carry them on.
The other thing that the woman at the Jet Airways Kiosk gave me was my Business Class Lounge Pass. She explained that the lounge was located at the back of the restaurant and pointed up the stairs. After my discussion with the Captain, I made my way up the stairs and showed the waiter my lounge card. The restaurant was not very big and sat in the corner of the loft. There were no walls or dividers of any kind delineating the restaurant other than the tables which contrasted to the rows of connected molded plastic seats. Along one wall, there was an angled glass counter, like a deli counter, full of pre-made Indian dishes and desserts and roughly 8 tables splayed in front of it. On the far side of the counter, there were two tables sectioned off from the rest by rope, regular rope, not velvet rope. This was the business class lounge. I hesitantly skulked to the makeshift VIP area and waited out my remaining time before my flight was called and we were allowed into the gate area.
Finally, it was time to move through the final milestone. I made my way down the stairs to the gate area underneath. There was a final checkpoint, complete with the feel-up by a heavily armed soldier and an underused x-ray machine (since no one had carry-on). I stepped through security unchallenged, as clearly my new friend had cleared the way, and took my seat in the gate area. I now felt relief as I was almost out …or so I thought.
As I settled into my book, I was tapped on the shoulder. It was a lowly, and somewhat hygienically-challenged, soldier. Grunting, as only a developing nation soldiers can, he motioned me to the door at the back of the gate area. My heart sunk! I thought to myself, “damn! Should have just checked the boots. Now you are going to see how the professionals handled uppity Americans. Shit!” It was all just too easy. I was escorted into a smallish room with a table and two chairs on either side. I took my seat and waited. About 10 minutes later, my Captain friend came in and sat down across from me. He asked me a few more questions about my job, my company and why I was in India. Then, out of nowhere, he starts pitching his brothers furniture manufacturing company in Kashmir. I was floored … albeit not too floored to see the opportunity. I listened attentively and injected “really” and “sounds great” strategically in all the right places. I spoke about the possibilities in a non-committal manner, took his number, thank him and went back to the seating area to collapse with relief.
I really could not concentrate on my book any longer and took a look around the gate area. The section held about 100 people and had a glass wall interrupted by a pair of glass doors leading out to the tarmac. Beyond the doors, there was about a 100-yard walk to another building that looked like a turnstile building from a high school football stadium. Here, you went through another checkpoint, bag check and pat-down. From there, you had about another 50-yard walk to the plane.
As the pre-boarding activity began, the odiferous soldier returned to summoned me back to the room. I was again met by the Captain, but this time escorted out the back door and into a jeep. WTF! Maybe I had not made such a good impression on the Captain and I was being taken to somewhere no one would find the body. Shit! Shit! The jeep took off, rounded the building, headed straight for the plane and dropped me at the foot of the stairs. No security, no checkpoint, no walking for me!
Shocked, I thanked the Captain profusely, grabbed my ski boots and climbed up the stairs. I entered the empty plane, stored my boots in the overhead compartment and promptly collapsed into the seat!
 |
| Flying out if Kashmir |
I was finally leaving Kashmir … and could not wait to return!
That is a great story! All your pictures through out the story gave a prospective of where you were that words alone could not have explained. I was sort of sorry to see the story end. Great job!
ReplyDelete