At 7 this morning a colectivo picked me up from the homestay and took me to the airport. It was a colectivo but there were no other passengers, so it was a quick journey. Of course, it was also 7 in the morning on a Saturday. It also turned out to be a very early arrival since my flight was at 9.30, but I had decided to arrive early as I wasn’t sure if immigration would take place here or in Mexico City (neither, as it turned out). Anyway, this flight went well.
The Mexico City airport is terrible, perhaps the worst big airport I’ve ever had to navigate, and there have been many. Crowded, confusing, poor signage, lots of construction, buggies whizzing past at high speed. I went to the lounge which was ambitiously called the Grand! Elite! Terrace! (the exclamation marks are mine) and it turned out to be a tiny space where the terrace was a small skylight over a broom closet. However I found a comfortable seat which caught a ray of sunlight, and worked for a while. Then I decided to go and look for a supposedly very good restaurant but after winding my way around several corridors, trying to find it on the very confusing little website map, I could not find it. So I gave up and later realised that it was outside security but now it was getting close to my flight time.
Walked a good long way to the other end of the terminal to the gate, stopping on the way to buy a sandwich. I arrived at the gate at around the boarding time. There were a few staff there though no sign of a boarding call. Five minutes later, the staff had disappeared. I went up to the desk and stared at the sign. It said ‘Chicago’. I went back to my seat. The TV screens insisted this was the correct gate and that everything was on time. A few other passengers, looking increasingly anxious, went up to the gate and then back. I went up again and stared at the gate. There was a staff member at another desk and I tried to ask her. She didn’t know and gestured towards the TV. Then an enraged looking Mexican man fulminated at me for a few minutes (in English) and then found an information counter at the far end of the hallway.
The man there had no idea. Then he seemed to call a friend. A long conversation ensued. The fulminating man told me the result: it was the right gate but they couldn’t find the plane. Since it was the right gate, I went back and found a seat. A buggy roared up and a group of passengers leapt off and dashed towards the gate. Then they dashed back onto the buggy and roared off again. This was a clear tip off and I went and looked at the TV. It now gave the same departure time, about five minutes from now, and a different departure gate, at the other end of the airport, in fact where the executive lounge was located. I made a mad dash, as did all the other passengers.
The stampede ended at gate 21 where the sign said ‘Havana’. There was no plane there but eventually someone assured us it had been found.
A plane arrived. A single cleaner went aboard and, presumably, cleaned it. And finally we boarded and the flight was only an hour or so late despite though it felt much longer.
There were more delays on the other side: first, a very long and slow queue at immigration, then some difficulty in finding a taxi driver who would agree to take me for the correct fare. Finally, I just stood on the pavement with my arms folded, refusing to budge. At last a taxi driver came up and said he would take me. And so I arrived in Medellin, at 11 instead of 9.
The drive was long, but very atmospheric. It was pitch dark of course, but at one point the car went along a hillside overlooking the Aburra valley, strewn densely with small golden lights, so it was like I was in a plane descending, or that it was a lake of Dust from the Philip Pullman books. The road swooped down and the gold swooped up, so sometimes it was directly in front, presumably covering hillsides, and sometimes even above.
At last I arrived, came to the flat, where the owners had been waiting for hours, and here I am. Very tired and grimy indeed.