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Al-Ahram Weekly 31 August - 6 September 2000 Issue No. 497 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 31 August - 6 September 2000 Issue No. 497
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Earth-bound
By Fayza Hassan
Most children of my generation, when asked about their dreams for the future, listed travel as a most desirable activity. Not I. From an early age, I had been cognisant of the Titanic's tragic fate and the prospect of our yearly furloughs, with a sea voyage at each end, aboard one of the luxurious steamships regularly plying the Mediterranean during the summer months only filled me with dreadful apprehension. I did not care for the continuous display of gastronomic delicacies for which some liners were famous, nor their diverse entertainment programme, intended, I strongly suspected, to lull us into a false sense of security. I was convinced that the whole production only aimed at taking our minds off the imminent and deadly danger to which we were being recklessly exposed.
My parents, however, did not seem to be aware of the risks involved in launching on our European holidays. Travelling by sea seemed part of the family tradition, with a strong leaning toward securing passage on one of the sister-ships Esperia and Ozonia, which alone met with my parents' complete approval. For a long time, I believed that sea voyages were chic, hence their choice of this mode of transportation. Some of my friends, back from their holidays, babbled about winging it across the oceans, but when a classmate lost her father in a plane crash (the same in which actress Camelia died), they stopped promoting air travel. Anyway, my father would not hear of it. Only businessmen in a hurry flew, and he prided himself on not being one of them. Years later, on my very first flight, I realised that there may have been another reason for his reluctance: as I was climbed to new heights of travel terror at take-off, I became convinced that the affliction might well have been hereditary.
Fear of flying is peculiar in that it never lessens. In recent times, with the publicity surrounding the increasing number of plane crashes, I have spent many sleepless nights before purchasing airline tickets. I avidly consult horoscopes to choose an auspicious date, and play number and letter games. I pick carriers by their names and initials; I add up dates of departure and arrival, the number of flight hours and multiply or divide them by the price of the tickets: neither the thirteenth letter of the alphabet, nor a 13 or multiple thereof in the numerical configuration is acceptable. I avoid travelling on Fridays, too.
Still, my stomach churns and my legs wobble, my hearts beats in my throat and my hands are clammy on D-day. At the airport, I stare at the check-in counter without seeing it and ask for directions several times. I regularly misplace my passport and tickets. I am always hoping against all hope that I will be given a reprieve, sent home at the last minute. Maybe my documents are not in order, maybe the flight has been cancelled, maybe I can run away and forget about the whole thing. I observe my fellow travellers suspiciously and consider every single one a potential terrorist. And where is the captain? I want to see him. Is he too young, too old, the type that panics in an emergency? Has he had enough sleep?
I am startled out of my daze by any announcement on the loudspeakers, but regularly miss my own call. I finally board the flight with a sense of impending doom. As soon as I have attached my seat belt, I begin to pray. Other passengers make themselves comfortable, open their newspapers and books while I peruse the aisles for the exit hatches. Too near, too far? I try to listen to the flight attendant's demonstration of safety procedures, but I am too terrified to comprehend a single word. It is said that accidents usually occur at take-off and landing. I know better. Anything can happen at any time. The plane begins to taxi down the runway. Did I hear the engines splutter in a funny way? What is the captain saying now? I look around, but nobody else is paying attention.
This year, my younger daughter was travelling to the US with me and, as our plane soared through the night, heading for New York, I was overcome by a sense of guilt. I had exposed her to mortal danger needlessly with a promise of two blissful weeks in Florida. I had no right. JFK is a dangerous airport. Why had I let myself be talked into visiting New York? I needed a cigarette badly; it was a cruel irony to forbid smoking when our lives were being terminally endangered. Why wasn't anyone complaining?
I eventually calmed down long enough to observe that the vegetarian meal provided to us by advance request was below any acceptable standards. I resented our last repast being made up of watery zucchini and half-cooked carrots. "Don't worry," said my daughter, "we will eat when we get there." She seemed excited and I refrained from sharply bursting her bubble: what made her believe we would get there, I wanted to ask her. I no longer remember how I whiled away the interminable hours, but eventually, and contrary to my predictions, we did land safely. So what? I thought grimly. We made it this time, but what about the trip back?
