A Labour of Love

We’ve arrived! I write this from a cozy little room in the Westville Bed in Breakfast in Durban, South Africa. It’s 6:30 am here, 12:30pm in Sarnia. I have just slept for 9 hours and can sleep no more.

Once in this blog I referred to the plane ride to South Africa as our own kind of labour, the airport terminal as our delivery room, and the flight attendants our nurses. Well, I can honestly say that this journey was the longest labour of my life.

We left our home at 9:00 am on the 16th. Almost exactly 48 hours later, we finally arrived at our “home” here. Although I had managed to sleep for an hour our two in the airport and a few hours on the plane, Marc had pretty much stayed awake the entire time. He had caught 20 mins of sleep here and there, but people who suffer from insomnia, rarely can sleep in a plane of hundreds of strangers. As a result, Marc, who has been sleeping since 6:30 pm yesterday, is still sleeping, almost 12 hours later.

Our journey was going incredibly smooth. My parents arrived at our house on the 15th just in time for supper. On the 16th, my dad drove us to Woodstock where we met my brother and sister-in-law, Eric and Bonnie, who drove us to the airport. All the little worries of travel, (Are our suitcases over the weight limit? Did we remember the passport? Is our carry-on the right size?) All these little questions were answered without a glitch. Everything went perfectly.

We made it through security, found our gate, and passed the time until boarding with a few friendly rounds of 2 person Euchre. I embarrassed Marc by taking our picture as we waited, and then it was time to board the plane. (will be posted soon!) After watching an in flight movie (Invictus, just to get in the South African mood), we noticed that our destination had changed. The flight monitor no longer read Amsterdam, but had changed to Paris. We didn’t worry until a few hours later when the Captain announced that Amsterdam was covered in a giant cloud of ash from our friendly volcano, and we were forced to land in France.

Marc and I looked at each other, our stress level multiplying as we wondered how we’d make our 10:30am connecting flight to South Africa in Amsterdam when we were stuck in Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris.

It was a tremendous disaster. Our flight attendants assured everyone on board that when we landed, Air France would take care of everything and provide instructions as to how to continue on our journey, that everything would be ok.

We were transported to the terminal by bus and then waited in line with the passengers from 6 OTHER REROUTED PLANES. We each had, literally about 1.5 square feet in this line and TWO HOURS LATER, we still had not moved one inch. People were frantically calling family, hotels, airlines using cell phones and laptops, babies were crying, people were yelling and we still had not seen one person from Air France to give directions.

I decided to be assertive.

Leaving Marc to hold our place in line, I wormed my way past hundreds of people trying to find the front of the line and this is what I saw: Two Air France people trying to facilitate the rebooking of six planes of passengers, one passenger at a time. It took about 15 -20 minutes per person. There was no way we’d get to the front of the line for at least about 8 hours.

I decided to continue being assertive.

I walked around the terminal until I found someone in a uniform. I stopped her and remained calm and polite. I explained that we needed help, that our baby was waiting for us in S.A. and was there any other place we could get a flight to South Africa. She said, not without going through customs and getting our baggage. I said that’s fine, and she pointed me towards the customs. Not wanting to worm my way back through the crowd, I went to the front of the line and used my God given, much practised, very very loud voice and yelled, “MARC HOOGSTAD, PLEASE COME TO THE FRONT OF THE LINE”, everyone stared, one person said, well that’s one way of doing it. I said, “well, I’ve got nothing to lose, have I”.

And there came Marc. We quickly moved through customs, found a new line and waited, 45 mins later we were asked by a uniformed man if Amsterdam was our final destination or if we needed a connecting flight. WE WERE IN THE WRONG LINE! Bless his heart, this man personally escorted us, and about 50 people who were also in the wrong line, up the stairs and to the new line that we needed to be in. Continuing in my new calm but assertive manner, I sped walked, leaving Marc behind, and managed to find a place in the front of this new line. 20 mins later, we had two tickets to Johannesburg leaving that evening at 11:20. We went through security, arrived at gate E62, only 14 hours early and began our long and sleepy relationship with the international departures terminal of Charles de Gaulle airport in France.

We payed 25 Euros (50 dollars) for a scrambled egg, two sausages and a salad each for breakfast (who eats salad for breakfast?) and 20 Euros for two sandwiches, an apple, diet coke and a Heineken for lunch. Played more Euchre, blogged, Skyped with family members, and read nearly an entire book and FINALLY, found ourselves aboard an Air France flight to Johannesburg.

13 hours later we boarded our third plane to Durban. Once we landed, Paul, our shuttle driver with the coolest accent, who insisted on driving a van with a steering wheel on the wrong side of the car, drove, on the wrong side of the road, to Westville and here we are.

We each took the best shower of our lives, quickly dressed, and met our social worker for paperwork. Then we walked to the “Westville mall” found supper and went to bed.

We made it! We are here, and, in 5 hours, we will hold our son for the first time. And like all mothers who hold their baby for the first time, those long hours of labour, our airport terminal delivery room, and our flight attendant nurses, will fade away until they are forgotten forever.