Fly Icarus Airlines But Not Too High

"There is hope, but not for us." - Franz Kafka

To fly direct from the United States to Bolivia, there are currently only two options: the U.S. carrier, American, and the Bolivian line, AeroSur. Having experienced American's indifferent, even sullen, service, I opted for the alternative this time. An advantage with AeroSur for me was that returning to Cochabamba laden with gifts and goodies, my luggage would be checked through. Since American only flies to LaPaz and Santa Cruz, travelers must debark in one of those cities and book a domestic flight to Cochabamba. But domestic luggage restrictions are much more stringent than the international allowances. Domestic airlines seem to derive significant income from the overweight baggage charges of unwary international travelers.

Leaving Bolivia, the AeroSur flight was late. It seemed at first as if we might get out on time. We had already boarded and were getting our seatbelt/emergency exit instructions when the engines shut down and we were herded back into the Santa Cruz terminal. There we cooled our heels for a couple more hours in the middle of the night, before reboarding and taking off. That was the weirdest delay I had ever experienced, but the return voyage would make it seem tame.

After three weeks in the USA I was more than ready to return to my family in Cochabamba. AeroSur schedules flights to leave Miami at 11 p.m., to arrive in Santa Cruz, Bolivia six and a half hours later, in time for immigration and connections. Of course our Thursday night flight was late taking off. Very late. Having come more or less directly from the gorgeous beer-soaked beach, I was ready to fall into an airborne stupor. I had cleverly booked a seat in an empty middle row at the back of the plane, where I could stretch out for the duration. By the time we boarded the plane at 3:30 a.m, the Miami airport had all but shut down and so had I. So I did not learn until later the full details of what happened next.

Even before takeoff, passengers noticed a large amount of liquid pouring from the wing. The stewardess assured them it was normal for water to slide off the wing. But... even when we were stationary and the night was dry? During takeoff, nothing appeared amiss. I was mostly unconscious by this time. But when we achieved a more stable altitude, passengers again noticed liquid cascading from the wing. They appealed to the stewardess to notify someone in the cockpit. When an officer came for a look, he immediately ran back forward. Next thing we heard was a cryptic announcement that "We are circling around to dump excess fuel before our return to Miami..."

I thought I must have dreamed it. But then we saw again the unmistakable endless lights of Miami-Dade. We landed to an overwhelming stench of gasoline and half a dozen fire trucks with flashing lights. Now I too could see the torrent of jet fuel gushing from the wing. They hustled us off the plane and said we would be leaving soon, as if we had simply left the gas cap back at the station and returned to retrieve it, screw it into place and be on our way. After a couple of hours wait, featuring breakfast out of boxes at the gate, it was clear things were not quite so simple. We boarded shuttle busses for a nearby Holiday Inn. Some passengers remained at the airport, convinced that only by staying there and making noise would they ever get out.

Throughout the process of delay, AeroSur chose never to explain what had happened or was happening or would happen. Perhaps they themselves had no clue. The absence of information allowed a vacuum which stranded passengers filled up with rumors and imaginings, exacerbating our disorientation and anxiety. We were just going to check into this hotel for a few hours until an afternoon or evening flight could be arranged. What would soon become abundantly clear was that AeroSur had no backup planes (or plans). Their major business was their shuttle run between Miami and Havana. After box lunches in the early afternoon, we were advised that no plane would arrive until night. At night, we were told that we would have to wait until morning.

Drinking beer at poolside at the generic hotel that night with other passengers, I learned the details of our potentially catastrophic fuel leak. It was only then I felt the full rush of fear, that we could have exploded in midair, or possibly run out of gas over the Amazon. Holy shit.

Why hadn't anyone noticed this problem before we took off? And after we did leave, was no one monitoring the gauges to notice the drastic drop in fuel levels? What kind of an airline were they running here? By morning, the answer was coming clearer. We were told that nothing would be available until afternoon. Now a surge of anger and revolt broke into the open. We all had things to do, places to go, people to see, etc. As just about the only non-ethnic Bolivian in the group, I said nothing. To try to placate the rising tide of righteous fury, the airline disbursed vouchers worth $300 to everyone. People demanded to be flown out immediately or else booked on other airlines, an alternative AeroSur seemed determined to avoid.

Rumors again circulated of options with American later that night or even Aerolineas Argentinas, to reroute via Buenos Aires, catching an AeroSur flight from there. Some passengers browsed the web and/or made frantic phone calls to make their own flight arrangements. Late in the morning AeroSur personnel handed out $100 bills, to cover our eating and living expenses. Some of us immediately went to a nearby restaurant to wine and dine. Were we part of an insidious experiment? Could one make a career out of flight delay? Living at the Holiday Inn, getting a hundred bucks a day, waiting for Godot Airlines to take flight? By evening of our second night in Doral (a Florida town of offices beside Miami airport), some passengers had disappeard, having booked themselves to Bolivia on American, hoping to recoup their AeroSur fares later, or with Aerolineas Argentinas to Buenos Aires. But that latter flight ended up being postponed for twelve hours, necessitating a night in the airport for those who had chosen the Argentina option, whatever might happen in Buenos Aires airport. I stayed put, refusing to jump from the briar patch into quicksand at some outrageous additional cost I might or might not be able to recoup.

By Sunday morning the separation from my clothing was taking a toll, despite multiple daily showers. A certain resignation had replaced the urgent anger of the dwindling group. Rumors of a 3 p.m. departure, another chimera shimmering in the humid Miami heat, began to seem like more than a mirage. AeroSur exchanged our $300 vouchers for round-trip tickets from Bolivia to Miami, transferable and good for one year. The good news was that they had given us each a free round-trip worth more than $700. The bad news was that it was with AeroSur, an airline most all of us had pretty much vowed never to fly again.

At the airport AeroSur greeted us with computer failure, causing more delays. Each passenger check-in seemed to take half an hour. They handed out more goodies, $15 vouchers for a meal at Chili's and a phone card good for a few months. The 3 p.m. flight did not leave until after 5, leaving us in doubt about connections in Santa Cruz. In a final gesture of goodwill, for no apparent reason, except perhaps that I was the token gringo in the group, they bumped me up to business class, a favor I had not requested. This put me next to an elderly woman who had suffered from the unkind remarks of angry passengers about the airline, which was owned by her relative. She kept her rosary beads active. When turbulence came she began to sing hymns, to the bemusement of the cabin crew.

We arrived in Santa Cruz well after midnight. But AeroSur had held their flight to Cochabamba to wait for us, pissing off the domestic passengers who ended up leaving almost four hours late. Perhaps Aero Sur has someone whose job it is to calculate how much passengers can stand. They knew it was better to annoy a whole new group of travelers than to demand anything more of those of us held hostage for three days. We finally got into Cochabamba @ 2 a.m. after a long strange trip. But as Alfred E. Neuman used to say, "All's well that ends." Es la verdad.