Taxi trouble

It was Thursday. David and I were having breakfast, discussing plans. We were leaving on Saturday, so we wanted to make the most of our second to last day in Goa. Perhaps a boat trip ‘up country’ to meander down the river and look at the birds – I’d already seen sea eagles and a glimpse of a bright blue Kingfisher. But then David went to check the tickets and found we were scheduled to leave on Friday, not Saturday. So suddenly, it was our last day. Disappointing, but not the end of the world and at least he’d spotted it! Our flight wasn’t until the evening, so we wouldn’t have to leave until after lunch on Friday. David went to find the manager – who delivered some unexpected news. There was a taxi strike the next day.

Taxi strike? How would we get to the airport? The manager said it was no problem. We could get a bus. Actually, it would be three buses, since there wasn’t a direct one, with a little bit of walking between each bus, but as long as we left early, we should be fine. Three buses? Walking down the road in the sweltering heat with rucksacks on our back? There had to be another way! The manager asked us to leave it with him. There was another couple in the same situation. Perhaps he could sort something out.

Ten minutes later, he was back with a second suggestion. He could get us a taxi – but we’d have to leave by 6 am to beat the strike. It would take an hour and a half to reach the city and the strike didn’t start until 8 am. It would be expensive, but if we shared the taxi with the other couple, it would bring the costs down. This sounded better. The 6 am start was a pain, but it was definitely preferable to the three bus idea. But would we then be stuck at the airport from 7.30 am until our flight left in the evening? The manager shook his head. No need for that. There was a beach near the airport, and he was sure we could find a hotel on the beach with a luggage deposit room, we could camp out there for the day.

Better, but I still wasn’t convinced. How easy would it be to find a hotel? I had visions of us wandering up and down the beach with our rucksacks on, desperate to find a hotel.

I went to have a chat with the ‘other couple’ and she had a third suggestion. Find a hotel near the airport and rent out a room for the day. She’d googled it already and found one for less than fifty quid, with breakfast and the use of a pool. Yes! I have my answer. Whack it on the plastic. Thank you, sir!

The next morning we set off at 6 am, with a load of wet washing folded up in our luggage. There hadn’t been time to dry it. Apart from a couple of near misses with oncoming traffic (standard practice for Goan taxi drivers) we arrived at the hotel without incident. After a good breakfast, we had a nice relaxed day, catching up on sleep and taking a dip in the pool. We had three separate flights to take  (Goa-Mombai, Mombai to Koala Lumpur, Koala Lumpur to Denpasar, Bali) so we wanted to rest up.

The best laid plans

We arrived at the airport to find an assault on our senses.  The domestic flight lounge was full to bursting and everyone was animated and chatting. There were no seats, and long queues to buy food and drink. The flight was called late and there were further delays as soldiers searched each piece of hand luggage. Oh boy.

It was a relief to get on the plane and I settled back for the 45 minute flight to Mombai. But suddenly, it was announced that Mombai was so busy that we faced considerable delays. Unfortunately, we didn’t have enough fuel to hang around waiting for our slot, so we were being diverted to somewhere I’d never heard of to refuel. This place was actually further away from Mombai than Goa. As we sat on the runway waiting to refuel, I realised that we were in danger of missing our connecting flight to Kuala Lumpur. I pushed the button and an air steward came and listened carefully to my concerns and walked off without saying a word. He didn’t come back. As time ticked by, we watched the time of our flight come and go – but since Mombai was in chaos, perhaps our next flight would be delayed, too?

On arrival in Mombai, we raced through Arrivals as fast as we could, but as soon as we reached Departures, our hopes were dashed. Our plane left 10 minutes ago. It was almost midnight and we were stuck in Mombai. Air India weren’t offering to help, they didn’t even offer an apology for the delay. Our next flight was with Air Asia. They instructed us to ring our booking agent and try and secure a refund for the flight we’d missed before booking another flight, but they were unable to let us use their phone. So David pulled out his UK mobile and made a two pound a minute call to our booking agent. After several anxious minutes holding the line they said that in principle they would refund the flight but we’d have to put in a written claim.

The next thing to do was to book a new flight. Air Asia said they couldn’t help and we didn’t have internet access. All they could do was to accompany us out of Departures. Once outside, the Air Asia representative kindly offered to take us to a travel agent across the road and we were offered seats on the same flight the next day but they weren’t cheap. We agonised for a bit but in the end decided we’d turn it down and see if we could find something cheaper online once we had internet access.

Two travellers and a Tuk Tuk

The time was now 2.30 am in the morning and we hadn’t eaten since lunchtime or slept since 5 am – but with no internet and the taxis on strike, we had no idea how to get to a hotel. Cue sense of humour failure.

In the distance, we could see a shining beacon – a Marriott hotel – way out our budget, but by this stage we didn’t care. The most obvious thing to do was to hike over there with our packs on our backs, but between us and the hotel there was a spaghetti junction of roads, flyovers and roundabouts, all still buzzing with traffic.  There again maybe not. We followed a sign down an underpass to a car park, hoping to get near a road, and were rewarded by the sight of a line of TukTuks. David stuck his hand out, bypassing the line of people waiting, and asked how much to the Marriott? 100 rupees (roughly a quid). Yes please! It’s not easy to get two people and two large rucksacks in a TukTuk in the middle of a busy road but somehow we did it, and soon we were chugging our way round spaghetti junction towards the Marriott.

 

The moment we pulled up outside the six star Marriott hotel will live long in my memory. A woman stood at the door bidding farewell to her guests after a black tie event, resplendent in a red and gold sari. The doormen watched open mouthed as our driver squeezed between a Merc and a BMW and we spilled out onto the pavement, rucksacks in tow.

Are we nearly there yet?

Yes, it was expensive, but oh so worth it as I sank into the enormous kingsized bed, after a long soak in the freestanding bathtub. It was worth it again the next morning as I browsed the multitude of offerings available for breakfast. And it was worth it again when the member of staff on the desk agreed to let us keep our room for the whole day for no extra cost, with use of the enormous swimming pool. David had managed to book us onto a flight for the next evening for a reasonable price, with an unexpected bonus – we were flying direct to Bali.

That should have been it, but despite having arrived at the airport in plenty of time, we still found ourselves running to catch the flight. Mombai Airport was twice  as chaotic as Goa Airport, with endless waits for passport control and security.

Fortunately, this flight went without a hitch and we arrived in Bali yesterday, having spent a fortune and lost an entire day.