I'm not entirely sure, but when I ask myself what day it is the answer I get is 'SaturMonday'. A twenty hour journey with a seven hour time difference will do that to you. And quite a journey it was.
The first problem began almost immediately after entering the airport, going through Heathrow's security. Remove this, stand in front of that, left foot red and so on. All rather inconvenient, nothing entirely unexpected. Then I heard a PA which said that one should remove any belts with a lot of metal. Wearing my new red belt with a large metal clasp, and new combats that, without the belt, would in fact be big enough for myself and at least three other passengers, I thought this might be rather troublesome. However it was when I saw a fellow passenger being thoroughly searched, arms and legs wide apart, that I realised that this could be a much more naked problem.
Fortunately for all concerned, I was spared. I must look rather innocent, but a bribe also helps. So having passed through security I met Alison, who was to make the journey with me to Guatemala (she is here to volunteer on a related project, teaching the kiddies in the same community where I will in due course be building a stove). And so together we boarded the ten hour flight to Houston, where we would catch our flight to Guatemala. Damn long journey, I thought, but at least we would be spared Heathrow's Terminal 5, right? Of course not.
Despite the the fact that the plane was departing from T4, we were delayed an hour whilst bags were transferred from that more infamous terminal. It later transpired that many, perhaps all, of those bags didn't make it to Houston. Boy were those passengers angry. But they were not the only people to have baggage problems.
I was dreading going through American security. It didn't help that the flight was delayed and we had to catch the flight to Guatemala three hours after landing. The plane to Houston seemed to make up all the time as it happened, and the entertainment was tops. Scrubs, Fraser, a good film (Sideways) and plenty more kept me very happy. The only annoyance was having to fill out those ridiculous forms to enter the US. Was I involved with Nazi Germany between 1933 and 1945? Well yes, but I was hoping to keep that a secret. Who the hell would actually tick yes to that question? I can just imagine a top Nazi official, heretofore successfully under the radar of the American authorities, being presented with such an option: "Well, I helped wage war on half the world and kill millions of people, but damn it I just can't say no to a box."
Alison had been given differing advice on whether or not we needed to pick up our luggage at Houston, or whether it would be automatically transferred. So we waited by the carousel, and out came my bag. Alison's did not. Oh no, they've lost her luggage we thought, but this was not the case. In fact, her luggage had successfully been transferred to our next flight. But wait a minute said I, how can that be so when my luggage is here? The response I got: 'Err, that shouldn't have happened'. So, if we hadn't have been given incorrect information telling us that we should pick up our luggage, I would have sauntered past none the wiser, and my bag would have been left at Houston. I should make it clear that this was entirely the fault of those at Heathrow for not branding my bag with a large green sticker, as they had Alison's.
Still, the American Inquisition was nowhere near as painful as I had imagined it to be, and we had plenty of time - in Starbucks, *sigh* - to remind ourselves of how little Spanish we knew. Another successful flight later, we found Meike from GVI (the group with whom we are volunteering) and began the trip with her from Guatemala City to Antigua. As the minivan reached the summit of the last hill before the town, and with immaculate timing, I recognised 'Eye of the Tiger' on the radio. Despite my body being convinced it was 5 in the morning and not 10pm, I felt suddenly rejuvenated. I am here to build a stove, hand me my shovel! I was certain I could accomplish anything. Somebody should play that record to the folks at Heathrow.
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