Sigh! Relief engulfed me, as my agent confirmed I no longer have to perform PCR tests for any International flights. Good riddance. I was in Dubai and just like B.C. (before covid) times, without much ado, I ordered my cab that whisked me toward the airport.
I planned on leaving 3 and a half hours early after having bargained the maximum checkout time with the hotel. Additionally, the only time I’m not window-shopping is at the Duty-free. Might as well, get that perfume off my contemplation list.
The excitement of having to sip beverages at the lounge kept me preoccupied and before I could exchange any banter with the driver, the airport arrived. The drive was swift and small. But the queue at the check-in was long. I had come in early, so there was nothing to fret about.
Where is your Air Suveda?
The queue wasn’t a straight long line but a maze, and after almost dodging my way through it, spending roughly about 90 mins or so, the guy from the airline appeared, asking for my “Air Suvidha” form, along with my vaccine certificate. Have you ever been bitten by a snake upon reaching the number 99 in the board game, snakes and ladder? This was my real-life experience of the same, just before my check-in.
All right, just to give you some history, I’ve been a vaccine snob as I was the only one in my family to have had Pfizer. Little mercies of living in Africa. And so, when I was asked for my “Air suvidha” form and my “vax card”, I displayed both with a sense of pride.
The guy asked, “Is that your vaccine certificate? What country is it from?”
“It’s Pfizer buddy, from Rwanda” I returned.
He raised his eyebrow. “Just hold on a minute. I’ve gotta check something.” He went ahead and checked the list, and of all the approved countries on it, Rwanda was not.
He came back more worried, and looking at the expression on his face, triggered the travel anxiety I had just gotten ridden off.
Before he could say anything, I told him “you’ve gotta do something. It’s Pfizer.”
Terminal hopping
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do. But there are two options here. Either you run up, convince the Airline manager, and have the green chit from me, or else rush towards the metro, get to the next terminal, have a Rapid test, and rush back. If I were you, I’d rush to the next terminal immediately.”
The Indian in me wouldn’t give up without a fight. So I ran to level 1, and slammed into the manager’s office, almost panting, contrary to his relaxed attitude. I narrated my ordeal, and his sense of concern seemed least bothered.
I pleaded, “it’s Pfizer,” He said “it’s not the vaccine brand that counts, it’s where you took it from.”
I knew at this point, that whatever I’d say wouldn’t satisfy him. And so, I, with my two bags ran toward the metro. Crisis brings the best out of my legs. I ran with my blinders on. Metro. Escalator down. Sprint toward the camp. Paid an additional Dh150, and made a puppy face so they quickly generate my result.
Luck shook hands, as I got back exactly two minutes before they were closing for check-in. The perfume had melted into sweat water. Suddenly, the staff got courteous and helpful. By this point, I won’t appreciate it.
Crossing the lounges
I barely had any second on my clock. I was still with those blinders while crossing the lounges.
I didn’t get a seat preference. I got the middle seat on a packed flight. Enters the uncle who was assigned an aisle. I asked him if he were willing to switch seats with me, given the tension between my long legs and the leg space. He didn’t waste any of our time. He just said No.
I realised it was going to be a longish flight hereafter. Just when I thought the flight couldn’t get worse, comes the lady with a kid in her arm, “Excuse me, 17 A, yes the window seat is for me, Could you hold the baby while I adjust?”
I wish I had the guts of that uncle to say an unapologetic 'No'.
Ashish Dewani is an avid traveller and writer. Twitter: @a5hush
