Welcome to Al Amarja...

Getting There is All the Fun

The sky above Al Amarja was the color of a television set, tuned to a dead channel.
You flip through the tourist brochure one more time, just to make sure.  Yep, there it is - Your reading is interrupted by a horrible, falling-elevator feeling in the pit of your stomach as Air Afrique Flight 006 is buffeted about in the sky like a child's toy.  Someone nearby is noisily sick...  again, and once more you fight hard to keep from joining them.  Outside you see nothing but blackness broken only by the aircraft's lights and an occasional jagged spike of lightning.

Near the cockpit, a group of stewardesses huddle like so many frightened quail, speaking quietly in some unknown african dialect, and occasionally glancing into the pilot's sanctum and shaking their heads.  You note sourly that the brochure said nothing about Al Amarjan nights, and curse yourself once more for agreeing to take a red-eye.  You just have time to check your watch and notice that the flight is a full hour behind schedule when your insides seem to drop into your lap as the aircraft rises suddenly.

Around the passenger section there is an odd mixture of joviality and terror.  About half of the passengers (those who aren't too airsick to pay any attention to their surroundings) seem convinced that the aircraft will be in pieces within the next few minutes, and the rest seem completely at ease, as if this sort of thing is what air travel is all about.  You catch a few phrases like "...not as bad as C&I" and "...probably the damned Lucys again" when the pilot's voice comes over the intercom.

"May I have your attention please," he says in heavily accented English, "we have just been cleared to land at D'Aubainne International Airport.  All passengers..."  There is a heavy burst of static and the cabin lights flicker ominously.  One of the stewardesses speaks into the cockpit for a moment, then picks up a microphone.

"May I have your attention please," she repeats, "We have just been cleared to land at D'Aubainne International Airport.  All passengers please remain seated until the aircraft has come to a complete stop.  Please be careful when opening the overhead compartments, as some shifting of the carry on luggage may have occurred during the flight.  Upon disembarking, you will be directed to Al Amarja Customs and Immigration.  Please have your passports ready.  Have a pleasant stay on Al Amarja, and thank you for flying Air Afrique."

As the stewardess repeats her message in several other languages, the elevator begins a rapid descent once again, but this time it continues for longer than before.  You glance out the window once again and see...  nothing.

Air Afrique Flight 006 continues its rapid descent, and you catch yourself fidgeting with the questionnaire that you got in Paris, what seems like a lifetime ago.  It seemed like a good idea at the time, an opportunity to recover from redeye jet lag without having to stumble around finding transportation and accommodations...   Now that your entire life is focused on simply getting out of the aircraft alive, you aren't so sure.

Your musings are rudely interrupted by a burst of loud noise from the cockpit - two male voices screaming at one another in some african language, counter pointed by a third swearing in gutter french.  The aircraft wrenches into a violent power turn that sets the wings to vibrating and dumps loose items from the left side of the cabin (including magazines, airsickness bags, and passengers stupid enough to have their seat belts unbuckled) into the laps of the passengers on the right side.  Just when it seems that the wings will certainly depart the fuselage, the aircraft levels off, something very big sledgehammers the underside twice, and you realize that you are on a runway.  Rain is coming down in torrents, visibility is near zero, and even the runway lights seem dim in the darkness.

The screaming match in the cockpit continues as the aircraft taxis to a stop until suddenly cut off as if by a switch at the same time as the engines start winding down.  The stewardess comes on the intercom again.  "We have landed at D'Aubainne International Airport.  The local time is 2:37 am.  We will begin disembarking once the boarding ramp is attached.  Please remain seated until the aircraft comes to a complete stop."  This last is the hopeless call of all stewardesses worldwide, as half the passengers are already out of their seats.  You grab whatever carryon luggage you brought aboard you stumble into the isle and towards the front of the aircraft, where the stewardesses and the pilot stand nodding pleasantly and wishing you an enjoyable stay.  As you pass by the cockpit, you think you hear a low moan, but the crowd whisks you away before you can investigate further.

Outside the aircraft you are hit with several surprises all at once.  First, there is no jet way!  Rather than the covered ramps that most modern airports have, D'Aubainne International still uses boarding ramps.  As you stumble down the steps you are almost instantly soaked to the skin by the driving rain.

Second, at the bottom of the ramp are armed individuals!  Over a dozen armed men and women, dressed identically in dark blue riot gear and carrying submachine guns, watch the passengers disembark.  Three dark blue open topped  4-wheel drive jeeps are parked behind them, and next to each jeep is a sign clearly illuminated by the reddish glow of a flare.  The signs say, respectively, "Current Visa", "First Time Visitor" and "Terminal Only" in several languages.

But what you notice next makes you forget the rest, and stand gaping in the rain, for what you see is an impossibility, an utter violation of the laws of physics.  Rising up through the rain in the distance is an immense, nine-tiered ziggurat perched insanely upside down, each story larger than the one below it.  Lit from below by floodlights, its featureless surface is exactly the color of polished, gleaming bone.

This is D'Aubainne International Airport - "The Terminal".

The guards at the bottom of the boarding ramp efficiently herd everyone into a tightly packed clump under their watchful gaze, hen one steps forward and raises the visor on her helmet.  Assuming a parade rest stance she barks out instructions in a voice hat would not be out of place on a drill field.  Her tone and delivery suggest that she has made this speech many, many times.

She pauses, waiting.  The rain beats down.  Thirty seconds pass, then a minute.  Finally, one passenger, a well dressed german businessman, steps forward sheepishly.  Reaching into his carry-on bag he slowly draws out some sort of machine pistol and hands it to one of the Peace Force, who takes it without comment.  As he gets back in line, the woman nods her head once and continues. The woman turns and nods to the guards, and six of them drop out of the formation surrounding the passengers and move to stand next to the jeeps.
  The guards, like sheep dogs, efficiently and quickly sort you into your groups, and you find yourself standing by the jeep on the right.  "PLACE YOUR CARRY ON LUGGAGE IN THE REAR OF THE VEHICLE!  PLACE YOUR CARRY ON LUGGAGE IN THE REAR OF THE VEHICLE!"  shouts one of the guards over and over with a thick italian accent.  Once they have assured themselves that this instruction has been obeyed, the two climb into the front of the jeep, and one switches on a flashing yellow light attached to the rear.

"FOLLOW THIS VEHICLE TO YOUR PROCESSING AREA!  FOLLOW THIS VEHICLE TO YOUR PROCESSING AREA!" the driver shouts and pulls away fast enough to force the group to trot over the tarmac to follow.  After an "invigorating" quarter-mile jog, the group pulls up in front of "The Terminal", which looms over your heads like a frozen avalanche of concrete and chrome, still defying the laws of both physics and sanity.  The guards hop out, and one gestures passengers back from the carry-on luggage by waving his submachine gun eloquently.  At least you are out of the rain.

You quickly sort yourselves into two groups, one in front of each of the two guards.  Your group gets the driver with the thick italian accent.  "FOLLOW ME!" he bellows and marches you all through a door.

Inside, everything is the same, polished bone color as the exterior of the Terminal, broken only by areas of gleaming chrome. Nothing appears to have any sharp edges, everything is rounded and flowing, making it hard to judge where the wall ends and the floor begins, or the exact distance from A to B.  Very soft music plays in the background, just beyond the attention of your conscious mind, and the climate is so controlled that you would bet money that it never alters by more than a single degree.

The guard takes off his helmet, revealing a scarred and craggy face that would do justice to a Sicilian fisherman.  The parade ground bellow is replaced by a craggy, but friendly sounding voice.

"Quite a night, eh?" he says conversationally, lighting a cigarette.  "Let me take a minute to explain things to you.  We're going to take the elevator up to the fourth floor, which is where Customs and Immigration is.  You will each meet with a caseworker who will process your paperwork and clear your visa.  Once that's done you can head to the hotel for the night, turn in your questionnaire, and enjoy the rest of your visit.  Your luggage is being delivered to your rooms for you.

"Part of the package that may not have been mentioned to you in Paris is that you will be settled in adjoining rooms at the Airporter, and will be eating your meals together for the first day.  This is part of the Tourist Board's attempt to make sure that all the newcomers on Al Amarja have a passing acquaintance with someone on the island.  It makes your stay more pleasant when you aren't all alone...  that sort of thing.  Anyway, lets hop in the elevator and get you up to C & I so you can get into some dry clothes and start your vacations, yes?"

With that, he leads you to a nigh-invisible door in the far wall, and manipulates one of the bits of chrome next to it.  Moments later the door opens onto a large elevator, again the color of bone and chrome.  The group gets in, the doors close, and the elevator rises.  The doors open onto a small waiting room, featureless except for a single post-modern chair.  Glancing out, the guard says, "Oh dear - usually these waiting rooms hold one at a time.  Someone must have forgotten to put in extra chairs.  I'll contact maintenance when I get downstairs and have them send up some more.  You shouldn't wait long in any case.  After all, C&I will want to make a good impression!"  he winks and hustles you all out the door.  The last you see of him he is whistling as the doors close.

The room you are in is featureless in that way that only rooms in dreams or nightmares are usually featureless.  There is no sound but that which the various people in the room make themselves, and even that is strangely muffled.

The Wet Travelers

A young woman stands pretty much in a casual parade rest stance.  She tucks the stray sopping wet strands of brown hair behind her pointed ear while she switches her passport and documentation from one hand to the other and rearranges the metal tags around her neck.   Her soft blue eyes dart around the room assessing each person quickly.  She then looks around the room and in a deep American southern accent mumbles, "I've seen strange things but this, my Lord, beats them all."  She then again quickly looks around the room to see if anyone caught her talking to herself and then looks to the ground.

A very tall, lanky man in his late twenties or early thirties slowly turns around, hugging himself.  His eyes sweep about the room without meeting anyone else's glance squarely, until he has covered 360 degrees.   Then slowly walks to a "corner", that is the area in the room that has the lowest occupancy density, and drops to the floor to sit cross-legged.  He tries to lean back against the wall, which is nigh impossible due to the curvature; after a bit of fidgeting, though, the young man seems to find a tolerably comfortable position to rest in.   He holds his stomach with one arm, looking fairly dejected, and uses the other to brush wet sandy blond hair away from his eyes, shake water from his clothes and skin, scratch between his shoulder blades, etc.   He is wearing a non-descript t-shirt, slack pants held up by rainbow suspenders, and very large bulging shoes patterned in yellow and black with purple shoelaces.

Somewhere in the midst of this soggy bunch stands a fellow who appears to have thought he was going to the Bahamas, for he is wearing a loud, Hawaiian shirt so outrageous, considering the circumstances, it appears almost whimsical. He slowly slides his hand across his head, squeegeeing the water from his crew cut.  "What a bunch of freaks," he mumbles, and looks around.

He adjusts his clothing, straightening the wet garments that are pressed to his skin. Getting a good look at him you realize he's in his early twenties, and from his delightful comment, probably American.  Between his crew cut and Doc Martin combat boots he has a military appearance -- if it wasn't for that stupid shirt.

He stands and waits, staring at everyone individually, for perhaps too long.  "Anybody got a freaking cigarette?" he asks.

Again brushing the strands of hair behind her ears, the young woman with the American southern accent she returns the other American's gaze and raises her eyebrows to his choice of clothing.  "I'd give you one, mate," she looks into her shirt pocket casually, "but they're soaked as much as we are."

"Figures," the man says, shrugging.

The tall, lanky man folded on the floor raises his eyes to the young woman and the American tourist speaking of cigarettes.  "Smoking is not allowed in airports," he says with the reproachful look one usually reserves for a misbehaving child.  He stops, looks more closely at the American tourist in the loud hawaiian shirt.  "I like your shirt, though," he adds with a rather shy smile.

The young woman smiles to the man with the loud shirt, then saunters over to the young man on the floor carefully eyeing him to make sure that she doesn't invade his space.  She sits on the ball of her feet and smiles softly.  "Are you ok, should we call someone?"

The lanky young man turns his shy smile to the woman with the southern drawl.  "No, I'll be all right," he answers, "but thank you for asking."  He seems to hesitate for a second, then unfolds and stands up in one move, like a jack-in-the-box in slow motion.  Standing, he must reach 2m (6'7"); except for his height, his features are fairly anonymous: sandy blond hair, currently dripping wet, blue eyes, rather pale skin, high cheekbones and small laugh wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

He extends a long, lean arm, thin but wiry with muscles, towards the considerate young woman.  "I'm Leo," he announces, offering his hand.

The young American woman  grasps Leo's hand firmly to pull herself up, returns her smile to Leo and gingerly shakes his hand.  "Everyone calls me Kitty...  Nice to meet you, Leo".  Kitty then gracefully walks around the room taking in the walls and their structure, scratching her back occasionally, and humming a soft cadence.

Leo gives a polite bow.  "Pleased to meet you.  Thank you for your concern, but I assure you, I do not need medical attention.  Just a rough trip, is all, as you know of course."  With this longer speech on Leo's part, the travelers notice that his accent is a triffle odd.  It sounds vaguely northern European, but is hard to pin down; the accentuation of syllables is French-like, but without the hard rolled R's.

Kitty slowly walks around the room looking at the walls noticing the odd curvatures, once in a while glancing back at the group.  She looks at the empty chair in the room and studies its position.  Kitty glances up to the ceiling and then back to the group.  She leans against the wall and shakes her head.

Leo turns around, a pensive look on his face.  "The Customs official said part of the Toursts' Board's intent for this special offer was to help new visitors to make contacts, wasn't it?"  He nods again, as if answering himself, then gives a sweeping bow to the whole room.  "I guess I should make a better introduction.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to make your acquaintance.  I am Leo Barbeau, known as Leo the Boneless (NOT 'Bonehead'), performer, daredevil and contortionist, recently arrived from my latest tour with the Cirque du Soleil."  He bows again, does a pirouette, a carefully gauged cartwheel that misses impacting with anyone or anything, lands on his hands and promptly bends his entire body backwards until his feet also rest un the ground.  Ouch!  That looks painful - but Leo seems to be smiling, upside down.

He then straightens up, his countenance changing from professional flamboyance to a sheepish grin.  "And juggler extraordinaire," he adds wistfully, "but all my pins and balls are in my duffel bag - along with the rest of our carry-on luggage, on C&I's cart.  I'll juggle any number of items you'll toss at me, though, although rotten fruit are not my favourite."

Kitty walks over to the gentleman with the crew cut, takes the pack of cigs out of her pocket.  "If you can dry them off, then by all means smoke 'um."  She walks over to the chair and leans on the back of it, Kitty looks to the group gingerly arranging her dog tags. "Since were going to be stuck together for awhile, I might as well introduce myself.  Everyone calls me Kitty, nice to meet y'all."

The man longing for cigarettes answers, "No thanks.  I intended to smoke them."  His tone is rather flat, making it difficult to tell if he is joking or genuinely insulted.  After Kitty finishes her oratory, while resting on The Chair, he addresses the group.  "My name is Sam Dart", he says.  "I'm sure I'm also glad to meet you all."  He pauses.  "Has anybody been to Al Amarja before?"

Leo looks left and right at the other travelers, then shakes his head.  "I've never been to Al Amarja before, and so I don't have the faintest idea how Customs and Immigration work here.  In fact, if I remember correctly, we all were in the 'First time visitor' column."
 


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