Veteran traveler writer, Cindy-Lou Dale, gives us insight as to why we should avoid high-season flights

These days, a first-time passenger on a jet plane is something you seldom encounter. It’s endearing in a way, and also, it also made me jealous as they get to experience the excitement of their first flight.

Thus, with much excitement from me, and trepidations from my anxious fellow traveler, Roberto, and I enter the airport well ahead of schedule and book our luggage from Rome to Victoria Falls, via Athens and Addis Ababa. I wanted there to be zero stress, no rushing, and total calm.

I made the civilized decision to book an airport lounge – away from airport chaos, screaming kids, and semi-feral adults.

We entered the calm oasis of the airport lounge, found a couple of comfortable chairs, and plugged in our devices.

Moments later a grinning, bear-like individual, clutching a glass of red wine, staggered from the bar to an adjacent chair. He introduced himself in a combination of languages I could not decipher, then confessed his origins by flashing his Russian passport hung on a strap around his neck.

For the next twenty minutes, he slurred at us in pidgin English, giving us insight into Russia’s war on Ukraine.

Within moments I became irritated and could see how the coming hours would play out and knew I would need to beat him about the head with a chair to shut him up.

Instead, I politely told the Russian we had work to do and did not wish to seem rude but could not engage in further conversation.

He accepted this and sat back quietly, briefly. In my peripheral vision, I could see him fidgeting and knew he could not contain himself much longer.

He slurred something, spilled a little wine on his armrest, then laughed. He continued the pidgin English, and I reminded him that we needed to work.

He downed the contents and swaggered off to the bar for a refill. Moments later he returns with three glasses of red wine – one for himself, and a glass each for us. He spilled some on my lap and onto my charging phone, then engaged Roberto in conversation.

This carries on for another hour at which point I’d had enough and went in search of the customer services lady that checked us in.

She’d had numerous complaints about the drunk Russian, including the bartender (why serve him more booze, I wondered), and then she called airport security. The maximum time allowed in an airport lounge was three hours, the Russian had been there for more than five. Security promptly frog-marched the Russian out.

Then the stress set in, our flight was 45-minutes late.

Had the flight left on time it would have given us 50 minutes to change planes at Athens.

When we landed, we had just ten minutes to get from one side of the terminal building to the other. And it being high season, all of Europe and North America, it seemed, had landed at the same time.

“Get out the way, get out the way, excuse me…!” Roberto shouted, running ahead, “Coming through, get out of the way please…!”

I’m running in Roberto’s wake, with a 25kg camera bag bouncing against my back. I shouldered a few people out of my path, too breathless to apologize. After we collected our boarding passes bound for Addis Ababa, we continued the race, up escalators, down some stairs, then back up again. Eventually, we’re in the correct terminal.

“What is the gate number?!” Roberto shouts over his shoulder.

With my reading glasses in my camera bag, I squinted at my boarding pass, then ran an old lady into a faux palm tree. I refocus on the boarding pass. “J19,” I shouted back.

“No, it’s not!” Roberto shouts.

“What the hell, I’m looking at it, it says clearly,” I squint again, “J19!”

Roberto ignores me and shouts at an official-looking man in an airport uniform, asking for a gate number for Ethiopia. I didn’t hear the reply, but the guy gesticulated to the east and for us to run further.

Right at the point where I thought I was about to drop dead from a heart attack, Roberto claims we’d arrived. Being the last passengers to board, they closed the gate directly behind us.

The flight attendant asked for my seat number. Now with my glasses on I could see – J19. Roberto gave me the side eye.

At this point allow me to give you a little background. I’m a photojournalist, and a seasoned traveller. I’ve been doing this for more than two decades. One of my many travel rules is to never travel in high season. The other is to book me an aisle seat, and my camera assistant the window seat, thus the seat in the middle is our ‘table’. I mean, who’d want to sit in a middle seat?

We walk down the aisle to our seats, the window seat for Roberto, and the aisle seat for me. The flight is fully booked. As I approached row J I did a double take and hoped what I saw was an optical illusion and the row behind our misfortune. But no, it was true, sitting in J20 (the middle seat) was a Neanderthal whose head and shoulders extended several inches above his headrest.

“No, you’re shitting me,” I said aloud to the sign above his head.

“Nope, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for 6 hours,” said Godzilla, breaking the ice. The guys laughed in a resigned manner. I became inwardly hysterical.

Before take-off, the flight attendants walked through the cabin spraying permethrin-based insecticide. I instantly began to itch – my hair, my face, my hands. Then a migrane set in.

For the first few hours, we sat as we’d booked our seats. But it became clear that Roberto was hugely uncomfortable. So, I suggested we swap seats, Apollo in the corner, and Roberto in the middle. And a few hours later we swapped again. This time Zeus took the aisle seat, and I sat in the middle.

Within minutes the bear-man was asleep, but then I could feel a panic setting in. I tried to keep it under control with breathing exercises, but I was losing control – the big guy was oozing over the center armrest, then his head dropped behind my forward leaning back – and he was breathing on me. On me! I half climbed onto Roberto’s lap and buried my face into his shoulder – and screamed.

Roberto dropped the proverbial bomb. If we had to run to catch this flight, there was zero chance our luggage would have made it.

Being the Prophet of Doom that he is, this thought festered and grew and preoccupied Roberto’s thoughts.

He predicted that in Africa he would be shot at by warring militia, stabbed by thieves, eaten by lions, dragged into the water by a crocodile, and contract malaria – possibly all at once!

So, his being concerned about lost luggage was a good thing as now he’d also forgotten about falling out of the sky and dying in a plane crash.

Thus, standing at the luggage carousel at Victoria Falls, watching everyone move off with their luggage, I too began to realize, his prediction was in fact reality.

Roberto’s lost luggage made an appearance three days into our trip, and mine arrived on day nine (the day before our return). Wearing the same clothes every day wasn’t much fun but, for me, being without make-up was the killer.

On our semi-final leg home, we stopped off in Addis Ababa for two days. On arrival at Bole International Airport customs officials decided to hold onto Roberto’s binoculars for safekeeping (read confiscated). Yes, binoculars! As there was a civil war in the distant border regions, they felt Roberto could use the binoculars to ascertain the movement of troops and inform the rebels.

What did I learn?

1. Don’t speak to strangers at Airport Lounges.
2. Don’t ever, ever travel in high season, but if you really must, book only aisle seats.
3. Bring hand luggage only – get a large backpack that’ll fit into the overhead luggage compartment. You don’t need half as much as you think you do.
4. When booking multiple flights to your destination, be sure to have at least a hours gap between each flight.
5. Leave your binoculars at home.
6. Wear a face mask to avoid inhalation of insecticides.