Читать книгу Behind Palace Walls - Cay Garcia - Страница 8

STRAPPED IN, ready for the second leg of my journey from Johannesburg to Dubai, I wonder where my life has deviated so far off the well-trodden path. My new-found bravado is gone and for a moment I feel that my common sense has left with it. And in its place, I’m at the mercy of who knows what. The reality of what I’m about to take on hits home with the same force as the jet engines that lift me into the unknown. There is no turning back. I bow my head and ask God for protection – what from, I don’t know, but I feel better for asking.

There is serious turbulence for the first two hours of the flight so service is postponed. This only adds to my unease – I’d intended to take advantage of the complimentary wine to still my mind and relieve my fear of flying. In Saudi, alcohol is strictly forbidden and if you’re caught in possession of it, the penalty is fifty lashes and up to seven years in jail. Drug trafficking or possession carries the death penalty. No exceptions. Even for a little weed. For this very reason my friends laughingly rename Riyadh “Rehab”.

Once we leave the turbulence behind, I’m pleased to see the drinks cart being wheeled down the aisle. I request two small bottles of red – you never know when they will come around again. Five hours into the eight-hour flight, I am hoping for sleep to overtake me but it doesn’t. Poignant images of the many goodbyes said in the last weeks come to mind as the wine dulls the rough edges, and adds a rosy glow to my apprehension, which can’t be a bad thing.

The landing at Dubai International is flawless. Stiffly, groggily, I make my way to the exit, to be hit by heat so intense it almost feels abrasive. I’d been noting the temperatures in the Middle East over the past two months, relieved that I was not arriving in July when temperatures hover round the mid forties. But I had not taken the humidity of Dubai into account.

It’s early morning. I’m tired and bleary eyed. I have time to kill until my connecting flight to Riyadh in an hour. I’m conscious that I need to keep my wits about me. In no time at all, a sign flashing a final boarding call for my flight catches my eye. So much for keeping my wits about me. After asking how to get to gate 35, I am told it is a 15-minute walk from where I am standing, and half that at a run. I start to run.

My outsized handbag bought specially for travelling and the very heavy rucksack – complete with yoga manual – feel like a ball and chain bouncing painfully off my back as I zigzag through the hordes. It will not make a good impression this early on if I can’t get myself onto a connecting flight. It’s just six o’ clock yet the airport resembles Grand Central station at peak hour.

I am last on the bus. A couple of seconds later the doors hiss and we pull away from the terminal. People stare blatantly as I try to regain my breath. My near miss has jolted me awake and alert. My head throbs and the heat doesn’t help, but I know I only have myself to blame.

I’ve chosen a window seat to take in every detail. I stare at the arid earth below. I need water. My eyes feel scratchy. Miles and miles of desert slip past. Riyadh appears on the horizon. From up here, everything looks devoid of colour. Just a drab yellow as far as the eye can see with drab buildings to match. Excitement surges through me.