We arrived in Namibia around 8 AM Thursday. After a brief transfer from one airport to another, we flew on a Cessna 210 to our lodge in Sossusvlei. Our South African pilot let me fly a large percentage of the way because he could see how into it I was.

I love travel. It has become a huge part of my identity. There are many joys I’ve experienced on the road. However, between us, we should be honest about the reality of actual travel. While an industry has evolved to discuss how fun, exciting, beautiful, awe inspiring your destination is, getting there is not often mentioned. There’s a reason for that: It can be really, really hard.

”Is there a doctor on board?”

Three hours out from Heathrow, an announcement comes over the PA, “If there are any medically trained persons on board, please ring your call bell immediately.” I didn’t actually hear it, RBD told me later. My headphones block most outside noise, which is why I wear them. My first thought when she told me? If someone really needs immediate help, we’re going to miss our connection in London. That messes everything up.

Fortunately, whoever needed help lived. Having worked in urgent care these few years, I know actual urgent medical complaints are like wild unicorns: incredibly rare. Usually it’s not urgent, and if it is, your chances of surviving, whether getting help from a doctor or stranger, are about the same, i.e., slim to none. Airplanes are not environments were critical aide is deliverable. All of this is to say that if you’re suffering in an airplane, you will continue to suffer. Unless you die, in which case everyone else will suffer in your stead as their plans are blown up.

Perhaps a poor choice of phrase for an aviation related story.

”Sir, would you like some pajamas?”

Airplane environments are crammed, and there’s been lots of research that has found when humans are pushed together, they behave in really strange ways. The guy sitting next to me took off all his clothes to sleep. He left his boxers on, thankfully, but for much of the night his butt was high in the air. He was also very gassy, having boarded with a belly full of food and drink. His gut bacteria had their work cut out for them. So I spent the night next to a mostly naked, smelly, drunk Scottsman. Hardly romantic. The flight attendants asked, “Would you like some PJs,” but he was comfy as is. Good for him. Live, laugh, love.

”How long is this line?”

When humans are squished together they can also get short tempered and aggressive. This helps explain why air rage incidents are more prevalent, since airlines have pushed more people on board to keep those cheap fares we all love so much. Aren’t we proud of ourselves!? We, collectively, made travel even more unpleasant to save a buck!

I fall into the aggressive category, and I don’t like it. I get insubordinate, ready to fight, and a quaint feeling of murderous rage begins to take over. I know it is happening, so I’m able to manage it for a time. Mostly. I have to listen to music and breathe deep.

We landed in Joburg and gazed upon the longest line at passport control I have ever seen. A quick scan of the booths showed 2 border guards stamping passports. It takes them 4 to 6 minutes per person. I guess there are 1,200 people in line ahead of us, which is about 4 large planes worth of tired, hungry masses yearning to breathe free South African air. So for 3 hours we waited, surrounded by signs advertising how AI is going to change the economy here. There was no baseline intelligence to be found but, sure, tell us about the artificial kind which will kickoff the understaffed revolution.

Around us social order began breaking down. People were screaming (like, actually screaming) at those who tried to cut the line. Then people screamed back, yelling they had a flight to catch. Meanwhile the boarder agents stood around the periphery of this snaking, human horror show watching their creation, amused at the power they wielded over us tired travelers. Fortunately it was only mildly pungent, the musk of thousands of people who just sat on airplanes for 8+ hours wafting through the dark and dingy arrivals hall.

This is traveling, too, though it doesn’t show up in glossy magazines. Waiting in line, while small people with petty power lord it over you. Can you, after traveling for 30 hours without sleep and/or food manage your emotions to get through this without going to jail? Me … I want to burn everything to the ground and dance on the ashes of a failed, corrupt system while laughing manically. Who is anyone to tell me to stand in a three hour queue to get a stupid stamp for a stupid border that doesn’t even physically exist anyway!? Viva la revolution! My travel pants and my rioting pants are the same pants. I am good to go.

Alas, spending the night in jail would only hurt me. Somehow the big kings of little kingdoms always go home happy, satisfied from a day’s honest work in which they did the least work.

”I am a very important man here.”

Once through the 3 hour line dehydrated, hungry, and exhausted we get approached by beggars who are pretending to be airport personnel. This guy is wearing a high-viz vest, the kind crossing guards wear, but it’s clear he is not employee. It’s a subtle ruse, appeal to authority with a “uniform” that I bet works more often than not. I politely refuse his advances which grew more forceful. He “shows” us to our hotel, which is a few paces from our current location just outside baggage claim. “Come with me, do not worry, I am a very important person here.” I feel sad for him. Never in the history of important men has any one of them had to explicitly state it for a skeptical audience. Or a tired, over-privileged, smelly tourist. We follow him, only because it’s the direction we have to go, and he says, “Do you have tip for me?” No, buddy, I don’t, but I will remember you for the rest of my life, while you have already forgotten me.

“My underwear is gone.”

Knowing how strict Airlink is, we checked our baggage. Nothing of value was packed, but it turns out that didn’t matter. We get to Namibia and RBD says, “My yoga pants are missing.” I later realize several items from my pack are also missing. Gone specifically are dirty yoga pants, socks, and underwear. I doubt the street value of my underwear is enormous, though they do dry quick. RBD is annoyed, she now has to do yoga pants-less. I told her I was fine with it. She rolled her eyes.

C’est la vie

All these experiences are part of travel. It’s not just beautiful beaches and picture perfect meals made by world-class chefs at restaurants overlooking the sea. You face the potential for theft, humiliation, and uncomfortable feelings during a physically taxing process where your basic needs — like food, water, and sleep — may only be partially met. So why do it?

Last night I lay in bed pondering this question. Above our bed is a skylight which allows a clear view of the Milky Way. The stars began move and undulate, a known phenomenon the brain accidentally produces. It explains most UFO sitings, but I ignore the logic of it for the moment. The stars are dancing for me.

And I forget what we were talking about.

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Desert Flight

When not piloting the aircraft, RBD and I took pictures of a very foreign landscape.