On the day of our departure we were informed over the phone by Mark that we would be expecting 'severe delays' due to some strikes that he had apparently mentioned during dinner the previous night, which none of us had been able to recall terribly well. He also mentioned that he'd been waiting in line for three hours, and wasn't expecting to leave any time soon. Ace. It was pouring with rain and we were scheduled to leave at 1.30pm, when we would be picked up by a taxi. We dossed around watching family guy, packing and trying in vain to rehydrate ourselves. We decided that at 12.30 we had time to make an omlette from our remaining ingredients, which were meagre when we bought them previously, and were now just desperately depressing. So we set about cooking and making a general mess which ended up in causing the apartment to smell strongly of cheese and for the kitchen to be covered in jam. How the jam got there is still a mystery.
The three of us sat down to eat our delightful monstrosity of a meal at roughly quarter to one, when the phone started to ring. I picked up the phone, and after a lot of shouting, making up words in Spanish and gesticulating (which in hindsight was not really very effective), ascertained that it was the taxi driver, a wholesome 45 minutes early. It was also around this time that we remembered that Mark had also left us under strict instruction to leave the apartment spotless. One glance at the kitchen left us filled with a deep fear and sense of dread. So we decided to throw everything in the sink and wipe everything down with what I think was a towel, then making a swift exit to a slightly pissed off, and very damp, taxi driver.
Upon arriving at Buenos Aires' domestic airport we paid the driver and were promptly dumped outside the wrong, arrivals, door. So I ventured in, feeling like a sardine with little hope of finding the remains of one trolley, let alone three fully functional ones. This was one the few times I have ever felt anything positive towards British people. The love that the British have for queuing is only admirable when you are many thousands of miles away from it, however when I remembered the amount of sighing, shuffling and hushed outbursts to fellow travelers that this is 'outrageous' and how someone should 'speak to the people in charge of this mess' that would go with it, I instantly preferred the Argentine way of queuing, which is achieved by not doing it. We finally arrived at the check in after lots of dark mutterings about 'bastards' who had managed to waltz in (well, as well as you can waltz in a confined space full of people and most of their worldly belongings) and cut the entire, lengthy throng of people without even being questioned. Again, this process was mostly done via the medium of sign language and mime, with broken phrases of Spanish chucked in there, without much effect.
By the time we boarded the flight it was already 4.30, much later than our original departure time, by, say, three or so hours. The crew announced that we had a slot to take off in about 15 minutes and that they would pass out drinks and food to pass the time. Two hours later, and we were still sat on the tarmac, feeling quite annoyed. Morale and patience were running low amongst the passengers. Particularly in one, slightly haggard looking old man who was traveling with his wife and grandchildren. He started off by going up and making lots of hand gestures, pointing at his watch and raising his hands to the heavens. The tired looking air hostess calmly tried to assure him that we would be flying soon. Which didn't really work. Twenty minutes later the old git had gone back to his seat and had started clapping loudly. This caught on around the fuselage and people were chanting something, which I can only presume was the Spanish equivalent of 'why are we waiting'. I wont lie to you, this annoyed me. Because being British I am accustomed to waiting, and things often taking far longer than they should. I was patiently reading a book, and quite enjoying it might I add, and was not pleased by this crusty old fool causing a right kerfuffle. This was not the end of the problematic situation. For the next twenty minutes or so, people were marching up and down the aisle, shouting at the air hostesses, stamping their feet and generally being quite noisy. It became quite an interesting spectacle to watch.
The hostesses had had enough and now announced that troublemakers would be ejected from the plane. This wasn't enough for the aggressive OAP who had clearly riled up his tired blood and was not in full flow, where most Brits would consider writing a letter of complaint, this man was inches away from the poor hostesses nose, shouting his head off. I wanted to kill him, I have never met such an annoying stranger. Silly old bugger. For once, I sympathised with the staff.
We landed and were waiting to meet the fourth member of our entourage we had been hearing about. We envisioned a sculpted Adonis, fresh out of Sloane Square, who liked polo and wore blazers. Then we met James, 27, who, to be honest was a bit short and spoke like a cab driver. I later asked him what his interests were: Building development, Architecture, Football and Golf. I somehow doubted we'd have much to do with each other throughout the course. In fact, he's the most physically amusing person I've ever had the opportunity to meet. He walks with the most stereotypical cockney swagger, and makes the most robotic gestures with his hands. When having a drink,he holds it at right angles to his body, even whilst sitting down. Weird. I asked him what he wanted to get out of his job when he first started. "Basically, I have always been interested in making as much money as possible. That's my main concern. Making money." Now this was a slightly awkward conversation for someone who has never worked an honest day in their life, avoiding employment like the plague and content with having no income whatsoever.
It was late by the time we arrived in the hotel, Estancia Del Carmen. We all 'bonded' over a beer and went to bed tired, Jess had a double room to herself, and we were stuffed into a a triple room, with no openable windows and one minuscule bathroom to share. I found this confusing considering we were promised our own cabin, practically independent of the hotel. The room was essentially quite nice aside from a bit of a rapey painting hung on one of the walls. We flung all our possessions into the room, sank some beers and went to sleep, trying to ignore the current status of our room which could only be described as ' a bit of a sausage fest', with the prospect of actually getting onto the snow nearing.
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