Burning gas flames from the oil derricks transform the night over Iran into an oriental Christmas tree. Afterwards, festively lit streets of light wind their way into the desert behind Dubai. Shortly afterwards, we land in Muscat. Oman Air receives just €27 of the €203 for the flight to Zanzibar in the latest Dreamliner. No wonder about oil miracles.
I fall asleep at the airport and dream of a Turk explaining the benefits of chicken kebab to two Thai working girls from Pattaya. Slowly waking up, I am thrilled not to have dreamt such rubbish after all. It’s happening live right next to me. Now they are exchanging massage prices. A spontaneous grin prevents me from going back to sleep.
A one-legged man from Ingolstadt, who I’ve already asked if he’s broken something because of his apparently lowered prosopagnosia today, sits frustrated in front of the only smoking area in the terminal. He had already left the airport for our eighteen-hour stopover, but $400 per person in a cheap hotel was probably a bit too much for him for a midday nap. Now he’s thinking about going for a smoke. But no one has survived more than two fags in this gas chamber for eons.
High noon. An Indian and a Pakistani are arguing loudly in English over the last free sleeper couch with a panoramic view of the new terminal, which is ten times larger. Until it is completed, the living space in the old terminal is slightly limited due to the extremely colourful mix of international visitors. Under these circumstances, I don’t think it’s unreasonable for the Pakistani to use the argument of “nuclear power” in the battle for the couch, but I still take the precaution of sleeping on the floor in a distant terminal area.
It’s not until the afternoon that I also manage to get a bed – only to realise just as I’m falling asleep that the screaming of four Chinese toddlers can apparently easily put two nuclear powers to flight. The IAEA must have had a family with them during the negotiations in Iran.
In the evening, the terminal resembles a battlefield in gold and marble. Real Arab men clearly prefer the enema to toilet paper. The toilets look more like showers, which offers Western travellers great options for refining their technique. Around midnight, we finally continue on to Tanzania. All of a sudden, the good Amsterdam Koon from two years ago in Sri Lanka is standing behind me. You’ll never kite alone. A funny day, but I’m also exhausted…
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.