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Have Cat, Will Travel
Or, How to Get Much Older Very Quickly
by
Philip Langley
Today,
I'm carrying out my wife's mad plan to take our cat from Libya to Cyprus, via
Saturn. She (not "We") had hatched this ludicrous plot over a beer or
two last time I was on leave in Cyprus. Let
me explain. I was working at the time as a project manager in the oil business.
I had been living pretty much on my own since the Americans tried to bomb my
backyard to bits, and was sharing my apartment with Hamersley the cat. Earlier
in the piece, I actually had my family with me, but that all fell apart after a
dispute with the Libyan Immigration Department. Another story. Anyhow,
one day we went to the vegetable market to buy some "fresh" (as
opposed to "rotting") veggies. Good for the growing kiddies, don't
you know. On the car park was a small animal being chased by a carload of
Libyan louts, bent on doing it some grievous damage. Prodded into action by
she-who-must-be-obeyed, I scampered over to the car, which by now had stopped.
Several of the locals were poking sticks at the animal, which had taken refuge
under the car. It
then ran under our car. My wife, the animal lover in the family, scrabbled in
the dirt and produced the prize, a rather attractive kitten, with huge ears,
about a thousand claws and a VERY bad temper. This pussy was NOT happy to be
rescued, let me tell you. We
of course took it home. For some reason, my wife and especially my kids thought
it was rather sweet, and christened it "Hamersley". (Doesn't everyone
name their cat after an Australian suburb?) Our huge Rottweiler
"Boris" was not thrilled with the new arrival. Hamersley
settled down and became a very affectionate member of the family. Some time
later, I decided to take the family back to Australia, and so I inherited
Hamersley as my sole companion. I moved into an apartment and settled down to
pass the remaining 2 years of my contract as quickly as possible. Three
months or so later, we (the company and I) decided that for the sake of my
sanity I should see my family a little more often that bi-annually, and so my
tribe upped sticks again and moved to Cyprus. For the remainder of my contract
I was to "commute" once a month from Benghazi to Nicosia for about 3
days' R&R. On
one of these trips, my wife had gaily announced that I should bring Hamersley
with me the next time I came home to Cyprus. "Don’t worry," she said,
smiling sweetly, "you can bring her in one of those travel box
thingies." Now, you have to understand my wife's sweet smiles, and that
non-compliance is not on the menu. Even though she had lived in Libya herself,
I don't think it entered her head that there weren't a lot of "travel box
thingy" shops in downtown Benghazi. Back
to the plot. So,
this is to be the day. I had earlier organised one of the UK staff to bring a
collapsible "travel box thingy" with him when he returned from
leave. I've got some pills from the vet
to sedate the dear little thing, so I'm ready. "Here
kitty. Come and take these nice pills." Kitty
doesn't want the nice pills, but after a brisk chase around the apartment, I
get them down her. Enough as I remember, to put the average hippo into a coma.
While having a cup of coffee to start the day, I watch her going more and more
cross-eyed which I think is pretty funny, and it also makes me think that I'm
going to get away with it. The
travel box is made of stout cardboard, designed for one use only. It looks
sturdy, so I have no idea (yet) why it is referred to as
"collapsible". I lug Hammo, still snoozing, into the box and shut the
top with interlocking bits of
cardboard, which don't really. Interlock, I mean. It's
now around 4:00am, and there's a knock at the door, my lift to the airport.
Whatever the reason, kitty doesn't like knocks at the door and tries to escape,
shoving her head between the interlocking bits of cardboard which don't interlock.
Bug-eyed and dribbling, the whole bit. However, her eyes quickly glaze over
again and she slumps down into the box. Hmmm. I've made it all of six or seven
feet to the front door without too much
going wrong, so I'm starting to think I might make it. With
Hammo's box in one hand and my travel bag in the other, I get in the car and we
start on the 20 minute journey to the airport. After about - oh - 30 seconds or
so, kitty decides she doesn't want to be in the box any more and gets out.
Depressingly quickly, I might add. I'm starting to wonder what sort of cat
would actually stay in the wretched box for anything approaching a useful
length of time. What the hell am I going to do? Maybe I can carry her in my
arms? Don't think so. Can I back out? No, my wife will kill me. About
the only good thing now is that kitty is still pretty much comatose. Just
doesn't like the nice box, I guess. I have a brainwave. I'll get the strap from
my travel bag and tie it round the box. That done, we speed off to the airport
to catch the 7:00am plane to Tripoli. Why so early for a simple domestic
flight? Well that's just the way things
are in this part of the world. Don't ask. Kitty
is asleep. I'm
feeling relieved that the box is emblazoned with cat hieroglyphics. That way, I
have a racing chance of convincing the authorities that I actually have a cat,
and not a bomb or some stolen ancient relic in the box. I get into a heated
argument about whether she should go through the x-ray machine. Trying at
5:00am to explain to a stubborn x-ray machine nazi that this is a bad idea
proves to be a bit difficult, but sense prevails and Hammo, still asleep,
escapes the ordeal and remains uncooked. Actually
in addition to me and Hammo, a couple of my staff are also on the trip. They
think it's very funny and are mighty glad they're not involved, or married to
the person who originally had this bright idea. Having
made our way to what in normal countries is called a departure lounge (so often
in Libya it should be called a non-departure lounge, but that's another story),
we settle down for a two hour wait. I
can hear tearing noises from inside the box. Kitty is clearly not asleep any
more and does not seem to like her box. A couple of Libyan kids are staring at
the box, bug eyed, not knowing whether to laugh or run away. I
am in no doubt. I want to run away. I
can see teeth chewing at one of the air holes, making it bigger. Hammo shoves
an angry looking paw through the hole, flailing away at any piece of passing
ankle. The kids have run away. I still want to, but more now. "Maybe
she wants a wee" one of my staff volunteers. The Libyan airport
authorities have not thought to provide feline toilet arrangements, and kitty
and I think that's a bad idea. I tell kitty to stop being silly and go back to
sleep. Funnily enough, she does. 2
hours down, 17 to go. We
get on the plane, and I try to explain to the hostess that I have a cat in a
box. Her English isn't up to the task (though I admit that it was certainly
better than my Arabic), but I manage to convince her boss that it's true.
Knowing that Libyan Arab Airlines don't serve much in the way of refreshments,
I take a punt and suggest that we should put the box in the food cupboard. You
know, the one where they put the refreshments trolley. As I expected it is
empty and so in goes Hammo, at that stage inside the box. I'm
starting to feel better now, knowing that I have at least an hour of peace. The
plane lands on time at Tripoli, the only exit point for Libya. (I
should point out that to get from Benghazi to Cyprus, you have to go via
Tripoli and Athens and it takes about 19 hours. Which is frustrating, since
it's only a couple of hours as the crow, but not Libyan Arab, flies. ) After
waiting for all of the passengers to leave the aircraft, the chief steward and
I are ready to open the cupboard. This we gingerly do, which invites rather odd
stares from a couple of the other cabin staff. They think we might have a
crocodile in there. What will we find? Well, what we do find is what looks like
a dead kitty lying on top of a fairly damaged "stout cardboard" box. I'm fairly sure my marriage may be in trouble and I have mixed feelings:
I
poke Hammo in the ribs, and she opens one bleary eye. My compassion gets the
better of me and I feel happy for a brief moment . She opens her other eye, not
quite so bleary, and she gets the gist of what is going on. Hammo is now very
much awake and I have no more pills. Somehow
I stuff the cat in the box and set off after Dawson Thomas, one of my fellow
travellers who is trying to keep a sensible distance from me and my personal
disaster. I need his help for this next bit. I have decided that Hammo will
have to spend the next eon or so in my nylon travel bag, and I need Dawson's
help to do the transfer. I
put my clothes into the box and Hammo into the bag. It's one of those cheapo
nylon deals with two zippers, which I'm praying will do the job. It's only
about 8:30am and my connecting flight isn't until 2:20pm. That's six hours for
crying out loud! The cat is not happy and is making very loud unhappy cat
noises in the bag. It's
now about 10:00am and I'm trying to read a book. Hammo is kind of walking
inside the bag, which makes it roly-poly along by itself into the crowds. More
bug-eyed kids wondering what's going on. I decide to get involved when one of
the kids is about to give the bag a real belting with a stick. Only
about 2 hours to go before I go through the comedy performance called passport
control and hand luggage check. How am I ever going to explain this whole deal
to those nice men in passport control? I ask Dawson to look after the bag and
wander off to find my Libyan friend who works for Olympic Airlines, to ask for
his help. Can't find him. Feeling depressed. I get back and the bag has moved
some distance away. Don't think Dawson wants anything to do with me. I
try to comfort kitty in the bag. I peep through the gap between the zippers and
almost get my eye taken out. There's gratitude for you. Still, not long to go,
I tell her. Only about 11more hours. 11 more hours of this, I'm thinking. My
wife had better be very nice to me when I get home. I
decide to be clever and put the bag inside the box so that, as at Benghazi, the
authorities might guess that I am travelling with a cat. While in the queue,
the man in front of me is frogmarched away to be strip searched for some
trifling offence or other. I am not confident at all. Hammo
has piddled in her bag. There's a smell more terrible than the general airport
smell and people are looking at me. "Open
box," says the baggage-control man, who looks like an extra who's escaped
from a film about drug cartels in Central America or something. I try to point
out that, as is clearly indicated on the box, I have a live cat. He remains
unmoved by my wonderful logic and asks me again to open the box. Looking at his
machine gun toting friends, I decide to cooperate and take the bag out of the
box. They are now really suspicious. Why does this man say he's carrying a cat
when he's really carrying a bag? I think they think I'm a bit strange. I'm sure
I'm a bit strange, to ever think of doing this whole thing. I love my wife but come
on! I
am starting to get a bit nervous. I have no desire whatever to get strip
searched by these hairy people or to have them searching every orifice for the
missing cat. So I produce Hammo from the bag, like a magician his rabbit. Now,
you have to understand that kitty has been in the bag of a few hours now and
the pills have well and truly worn off. She has grazes on her nose where she's
been trying to push her head through the zippers and she's not at all happy.
Holding her up by her scruff, I can keep away from the claws but I'm hoping
like hell that the passport goons don't get too close and get a swipe round the
ear. The
head goon puts his head closer to the bag to look inside and gets a whiff of
kitty chlorine. He recoils, looks balefully at me and says I can pass. Never
been so happy for cat piss before. I put Hammo back in the bag, the bag in the
box, and go up into the international departure lounge. I
still have a couple of hours to go to the next leg and I have a little chat
with Hammo. I'm feeling really sorry for the poor animal, especially now that
she can't rip my face off. The air in the bag is not only pretty fetid but also
very hot, so I try to force fresh air in and out of the bag using a sort of
bellows action. I comfort myself with my belief that this might be helping her. In
Libya, there is quite literally nothing written anywhere in any language other
than Arabic. So, at the airport, those little clickety clickety notice boards
with all the departure information are in Arabic too. So here's a little travel
tip for all of you who wish to leave Libya. In the departure lounge look for
someone you think understands Arabic, and who has the same colour boarding pass
as yours. Then watch him like a hawk. When there's an announcement (in Arabic
of course), and he subsequently legs it to the gate, follow him. End of useful
tip. So,
here I am, pumping Hammo's bag with air and watching Ahmed on the opposite seat
for the signal that we're under starter's orders. It happens rather quickly and
I find myself in the concourse leading to the actual boarding gate. Like most
concourses, it has glass walls and is bloody hot. We stand in the queue for
over an hour. I'm hoping like hell that the plane actually arrives at all
(which in Libya is not guaranteed), let alone on time, because I'm not sure if
I can face this all over again. Still
waiting. All movement has stopped in the bag. I think the cat is dead, but
there's nothing I can do about it in the crowd. I
want to strangle my wife. Guess
what's next? That's it, the x-ray machine again! I start to think of those
boil-in-the-bag commercials but suddenly, out of the crowd my Libyan friend
appears, so we're able to bring a bit of sanity into the proceedings. Boy, am I
glad to see him! He helps us through, and I get a good seat near the front of
the ancient Olympic Airlines 707. No Airbus for the Tripoli run, no sirree! As
soon as I can, I open the box/bag combo to see if I'm still married. Hammo's
alive but only just, I think. I ask the cabin staff for some ice and rub her
ears with it. This revives her, and ever grateful, she tries to give me a quick
bit of plastic surgery. A
couple of hours later, we're in Athens. "Please don't let me miss my
Cyprus connection", I'm praying, really hard now. I'm into this too far
and I can't go back. At some stage while waiting for the flight, I decide to go
for an ice cream. (It's a while ago now - about 15 years - and my memories have
faded a bit, but I vaguely remember finding myself outside the airport without
my ticket. . .) However,
I finally get on the plane, get to Cyprus, hand over the cat to the quarantine
people and meet my wife. I am particularly peeved that she seems a lot more
concerned about her cat than my mental well being. So
that was it. No big deal really - just a little trip for me and my cat. One
which aged me by about a thousand years! ps Some
months later over a beer, we were discussing our imminent return to Australia.
We had decided that my wife would leave first with the kids and I would follow
a month later. She
started to smile sweetly at me again. I
ran away. Create
an Income from your own Travel Experiences http://www.phoenix-worldwide.com.au/travel You can contact Philip Langley at philip.langley@gmail.com ©2000 Phoenix Worldwide Services Pty Ltd. Reproduction of this work in whole or in part, and including reproduction in electronic media, without the expressed permission of the author is prohibited. The author has granted one time rights only. |
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TM
The
alarm jolts me into life. It's 3:00am and I'm in Benghazi, Libya. That's the
place the Allies fought over 50 odd years ago, though I often wonder why they
bothered.