Confessions of a Hostie 3 (12 page)

I have a spring in my step entering the
lobby, but only momentarily. My heart sinks as sitting in a lobby
chair is Wendy. I politely say 'good morning' before she continues
to explain why it is not a good morning at all. With or without
sleeping tablets, this girl must dream negative thoughts.

'No, no, no' I think when Wendy reveals she
is going to the same massage place as Julia and I. It gets worse;
she invites herself to share a taxi. She has never been to the
massage place before. She asks a myriad of questions, mostly about
price. We are in Jakarta; to us everything is cheap, yet she asks
about the costs anyway - repeatedly.

For a two hour Indonesian massage it costs
less than an apple martini in New York, even so, the price
continues to be a sticking point for Wendy. She then queries about
what type of massages are available, the state of the rooms, and
the price structure (again). I have only been a few times before. I
get massages all over the world, mostly in Asia, so I cannot
remember specifics. I did recall there were individual rooms, or
cubicles, with a mattress at ground level with a slot in it where
you can place your face. I also tell Wendy that at the end of the
mattress was a recess in the floor, a step-down box, where the
masseur climbed in to kneel down and work on your head.

Wendy had not heard of this step-down area in
other massage places, being intrigued.

'I love my head being worked on' she says,
almost jovially. 'So they kneel in this box and massage your
head?'

I explain that it is not really a box; more a
recess in the floor, but in essences 'yes'.

'So how much does it cost again?' she asks
causing me to grit my teeth in frustration.

Julia turns up. Thank god. Behind Julia is
another girl from the crew. She too wants to share a cab.

Taxis in Indonesia are so cheap. I'd much
prefer to share a cab just with Julia, as planned, but feel
obligated to let the other two girls tag along. A 20 minute cab
ride with Wendy will be 20 minutes too long. Just then another girl
from the crew steps into the lobby. She too is going the same
direction.

Yay - five people - too many to share one
standard cab. Julia is on the same page as me, offering to jump in
a taxi with me while the others can share another cab.

Wendy races to the first taxi which arrives
at the hotel. With Julia's insistence, the two other girls
reluctantly hop into Wendy's cab. I could sense they were
embarrassed that Wendy took off without any consideration to the
rest of us.

'Go' I tell them. 'We'll see you there.'

Julia also noted Wendy's self-centered charge
to get the first taxi. She verbalizes what I am thinking:

'We're off to get a massage and shop, so
what's a few more moments waiting going to matter?'

Unfortunately those few more moments end up
being another 15 minutes. Finally a cab comes.

Julia has a sharp wit. She comments that a 15
minutes wait is a small price to pay for avoiding being with Wendy.
I rarely voice such forthright views. I think them, but seldom say
them out loud. In this instance my smug smile is a give-away that I
agree wholeheartedly with Julia's comment. Wendy is never going to
be on either of our Christmas card lists.

When we arrive at the massage place the three
other girls must already be inside. Julia and I are told we have to
wait almost two hours for a massage because the staff are busy. The
other crew must be the cause of the delay. It is no big deal. As
much as we would have loved a massage first up, there are plenty of
other things to do while waiting. At the top of the list is
shopping. Other activities on my 'me-list' include a haircut, a
facial, and a pedicure, but they can wait until after the massage,
so, for now, shopping it is.

Jakarta has many copy goods, but they also
have the real McCoy items. Many of the big brand companies have
factories in Indonesia, so you can find some incredibly cheap
bargains. In today's center I visit a factory outlet clothing store
with brands like Hugo Boss, Versace, Burberry, and Lacoste. It is a
great opportunity to buy some nice polo shirts for Dean. He also
hinted that he could use a new pair of sunglasses. I might go down
the 'copy' path for those. I buy three pairs of Ray-bans and four
shirts before my massage beckons.

I meet up with Julia. I have been salivating
at the thought of a two hour massage and body scrub combination.
I've had plenty of facial scrubs, but not full body. There are
choice of scrubs, with different flavors. Julia said she had a
coffee-infused scrub last time.

I clowned that I am a coffee-addict; rubbing
coffee into my skin while it is trying to escape from the inside
might be a recipe for disaster.

It would be like two swollen rivers
colliding, I joked.

The most popular scrubs, according to the
girl at the front desk, were green tea or a cream vanilla
flavored.

Vanilla scrub it is, I say instantly. Julia
will have the same.

The massage component is first - an hour of
oiled bliss. The little recess or box at the head-end of the
mattress is a brilliant idea. The masseuse kneels down, being in
the perfect position to rub my head, neck, and shoulders. I'm in
seventh heaven.

The scrub component is a continuation of the
massage, yet using the cream with some sort of grit in it. It feels
a bit like sandpaper when applied and rubbed in, but it is not
uncomfortable. The hour goes very quickly with my skin revitalized.
After the massage and scrub I shower as bits of the grit are still
on my skin. Showered, relaxed, and grit-free, I'm ready to indulge
in the next of the activities on my 'me-list'. Julia has some more
shopping to do, so we will meet for a coffee later in the afternoon
before sharing a cab back to the hotel.

As I make my way to the hairdressing salon I
see Wendy hobbling through the shopping center, being helped by one
of the other girls.

'What happened to you?' I ask when seeing a
bandage wrapped around her leg.

'I fell down THAT hole.'

'What hole?'

'That hole at the end of the massage
mattress. I know you told me about it, and I even saw it, but I
fell in it anyway' tells Wendy.

'Oh you poor thing' I reply, trying hard to
sound sincere.

I've just been in the massage place. All the
cubicles are the same. That recess in the floor is past the
mattress on the floor and the same width as the mattress. It is
clearly visible and hard up against a wall. Why would she step into
it?

I know Wendy is a pain and self-centered, but
I guess we can add
not-so-bright
to
the list of adjectives. She tells me that she fell in 'the hole'
when she went into the cubicle. This means she fell BEFORE the
massage.

Even though she wants to lament about the
pain of the fall, I ask 'So, what about the massage?'

I'm no fool. I can evaluate that Wendy must
have had the massage and then gone shopping. She arrived at the
shopping center over four hours ago. She probably had a two hour
massage before going shopping. The other girl is carrying an armful
of bags. I would bet any money that most of the bags belong to
Wendy.

Wendy confirms that she did indeed have the
massage. She fell, scraped her leg, they wrapped her leg in a
bandage, and then she had her massage. After, she somehow convinced
one of the hosties to go shopping with her and to carry her
shopping bags.

Wendy explains that they are going back to
the hotel to report the accident to the onboard manager as she will
not be able to operate on the aircraft the following day. Our
company will not have time to fly in a replacement for her, so
logic tells me we will be operating home one crew member short.
This also means Wendy will be a passenger on our flight. It will be
a double whammy.

I meet with Julia for coffee, with Wendy the
first topic of conversation. Julia also saw Wendy hobbling through
the shopping center, even later than I saw her. We compare time
frames, guessing that Wendy shopped for at least another 30 minutes
after announcing to me that she was returning to the hotel to
report the incident.

Julia is not surprised with any of Wendy's
actions. What was annoyance at Wendy's personality has turned into
outright hate, at least from Julia's point-of-view. I think similar
thoughts, nevertheless I keep my mouth shut. Julia knows what I am
thinking though.

There is no doubt Wendy is not the most
likable human-being on the planet, and her fall is certainly not
life-threatening, however she genuinely could not work in her
condition. Her leg is a little swollen and bruised.

Julia is less sympathetic, deducing: 'If she
can hobble around and shop for several hours, then surely she can
push a damn cart on the plane.'

I doubt Wendy can, but regardless, our
workload will be dramatically increased because of Wendy's
foolishness.

Many crew suffer injuries while away from
home; some onboard, although numerous are hurt while on layovers.
Accidents occur, but add in jetlag and exhaustion and the chances
of something going wrong dramatically increase. I know one crew
member who walked straight outside our crew hotel and stepping onto
the road to be hit by a bus. His injuries were severe, but he
survived.

A 'flying' girlfriend of mine was on a
layover after working a 14 hour flight across numerous time zones.
She had a few hours sleep to then join the crew for a drink at the
hotel's bar before going out for dinner. She only had the one
cocktail at the bar and was on her first glass of champagne at the
restaurant when she semi-dozed off. Her head just dropped
momentarily. Unfortunately she slammed her face into the champagne
glass, breaking it, leaving a nasty gash above her eye. She was so
lucky, it could have easily pierced her eyeball.

I've heard of all sorts of crew injuries,
from muggings to falling off pushbikes.

You must remember that most crew get
out-and-about when staying in a foreign land. We face all the usual
travel problems the general public face, yet we travel so much more
than most - and the majority of the time we are jetlagged or tired.
Things will happen.

I have never been seriously injured while
away on a trip - touch wood. I was once sick in New York, which
would have been a fantastic place to enjoy the few extra days if I
hadn't been genuinely bed-bound. It is no fun being sick anywhere,
let alone being on your own in a foreign country. Sometimes crew
are able to passenger home, like Wendy will, but sometimes they
cannot. I know of several incidences where flight attendants have
had weeks or even months stuck in other countries, with illnesses
not permitting them to fly.

In Wendy's case her accident was caused by
her own foolishness. It is hard to be overly sympathetic; a fact
pointed out by Julia in the cab ride back to the hotel. Wendy will
not be operating on the flight home. This will impact the entire
crew. The taxi ride is slow, so Julia has much time to vent.
Jakarta traffic can be a nightmare. It is this afternoon.

Travelling the world I have the opportunity
to see the most amazing things, visiting iconic tourist attractions
and spectacular scenery. With that said, sometimes a simple taxi
ride can expose some surprisingly interesting sights. The streets
and main roads in Jakarta are chaotic, with motorbikes everywhere.
They dart in and out of the traffic at incredible speed; some have
one driver, some a pillion passenger, so several passengers - and
more. On my last Jakarta trip I saw a family of six, including a
newborn, all crammed onto the one bike. I've seen two school-age
boys on the back of a bike with their father in Mumbai, India, with
both sons doing their homework while the bike weaved through
traffic. I've seen crates of chickens being carried on the
handlebars of a motorbike in Vietnam and I've seen kids as young as
one or two hanging on for dear life - and none wearing helmets.
They rarely do in third world countries.

What I see coming up alongside our current
taxi, for me, is the most bizarre motorbike incident yet: A man is
steering the motorbike while his female companion is holding on to
the bike with one hand and the other arm is holding cartons of
beer. These are not flat cartons with cans of beer, but high
cartons with large bottles of beer - THREE cartons of them. They
stack up much higher than her head. She cannot see a thing, yet he
is driving at speed along a main road - weaving in and out of
traffic.

I point it out to Julia. We joke that they
must be going to a party, giving kudos to the woman. Julia says
there is no way she would carry even one carton of beer to a car,
let alone sit on a motorbike with it. I tell Julia about seeing the
family of six on the one bike on my last trip to Jakarta.

'That's nothing' Julia says pulling out her
phone to show me a picture; displaying a photo from a recent trip
to Cambodia.

'How many people are on this motorbike?' she
asks with a smile.

At first glance it looks a lot; probably
seven, maybe eight.

'Nine people' she answers.

She hands me the phone. I start counting. She
is right, there are nine family members on the one bike - and not
babies, but a mother and father with seven kids ranging from three
or four years-of-age to teenagers. I am dumfounded. This is not
some photo-shopped joke, but a genuine photo taken through the
window of a taxi. I ask Julia to send the photo to my phone, so
when I tell the story of nine people on a motor-bike, not being
some sort of Guinness Book of Records stunt, people will believe
me.