Why leave 3 hours to check in, when you could never need so long, even if that it what the airline advises? This time (the Caracas to San Jose leg), we were the very last to check in, and also the last onto the plane. The most stressful airport fun yet, and not something I would like to repeat.
We started the morning early in Los Roques – the 0630 plane out, singing “Do you know the way to San Jose, la lala laa la la lala lala”, and finished the day in a dribbling mess of stress, misery and exhaustion.
To get onto any flight from Caracas to San Jose you need four things, a passport, a ticket, proof that you have paid the necessary taxes, and, finally, a certificate of immunisation against yellow fever. The immunisation certificates were the problem - I had mine (of course, I hear you say), but the rest of the team had left theirs in Haslemere. Without them, there was simply no way that we were getting onto the plane to San Jose and we only had 40 minutes until they closed check-in.
But anything is possible in Caracas airport, it seems. We found a guy who knew a guy who could generate these things to order. At a price, of course. Calls were made, lunches interrupted, as the carriers of the various components of the certificates converged on Caracas airport. One guy takes photocopies of our passports, so we can at least get that bit of the check-in done. We are last to check in, so have seats distributed evenly throughout the plane. We frantically fill out exit visa forms, pay yet more taxes. Jemima takes Monty for a wee. As the clock strikes its last, the new certificates arrive, and we are through hurdle one.
Cue the next hurdle. We are seriously late by now, but still have to get through security. We enter the security room, and it looks like a football crowd has arrived before us. This part takes 30 minutes, and there is no way at all that we are jumping the queue. A couple of attempts to do so appear to irk the men in green mightily and so we give that one up. As throughout our experiences in Venezuela, in the midst of a bureaucratic nightmare, we meet some lovely Venezuelans in the queue – this time, more emigrants now living in Madrid.
Finally through security, and one more surprise is waiting. As we stand waiting to board, I am called out by the men in green, asked to put on a florescent orange jacket รก la Guantanamo, and frog-marched away. Sarah and the kids wait, knowing nothing about what is going on. I am taken down steps, along corridors, round corners and finally arrive in the belly of the airport, with luggage all around. I spy our two North Face bags – oh no, it’s going to be a Midnight Express experience – someone has spiked our bags. I stand in front of some nasty looking teenager in green, who indeed turns out to be a nasty and humourless piece of work. He makes me take everything out of both cases, one piece at a time, and really slowly (in case I pull a knife, really?). We looked inside cameras, he took the linings out of the all the shoes, about 30 tampons were investigated, the contents of shampoo and suncream bottles tested. The only things he didn’t look in were our two medical kits, both of which contain all kinds of exciting things, including clean hypodermic needles, prescription only medicines and all sorts. What a plonker, but thank goodness anyway. By this time we are 30 minutes past the plane’s scheduled leaving time, so I am little edgy, but chilled enough given that there is nothing that I can do. How James Bond gets himself out of these situations so easily defeats me. Then finally I have to sign something (the guy in green can barely write out the form), then I am frog-marched back to the departure gate where I find a rather stressed looking Goodfellow team. The flight has been held for me, we board, and the hostess even finds us seats together.
I spend the plane trip examining the new certificates, which are surprisingly good given the short time taken to generate them. They won’t pass a proper examination, given that some of the details are wrong (Monty is a girl, Eliza is a boy – maybe we could pull this one off with a change of clothes I wonder??), and the date of re-immunisation (stamped by a Venezuelan doctor) is before our Venezuelan arrival stamps in our passports. I construct various scenarios at the Costa Rican border in my head and try and devise credible stories for these inconsistencies. As it happens, when we arrive, the certificates are never looked at, so we get in OK. We felt a bit like the chaps who escape to Switzerland in the boat in The Great Escape. Never again please. This one is worse than the time Jemima’s passport was out of date at Gatwick.
Now we have 3 weeks until we have to go through this potential nightmare again, this time through Mexico and into the US. Couldn’t be a problem can it? If anyone reading this thinks we will need yellow fever certificates to get into the US, proof of below average IQ, homemade cookies or whatever, maybe they could let us know so we can take the necessary action in advance.
Eliza Goodfellow is developing her own inimitable travel-chic. 
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