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Never is there a greater desire to leave a country than when you’re prevented from doing so. Looking utterly disheveled in my 13th hour at the Simon Bolivar airport in Caracas, Venezuela, I groggily awoke on a departure hall bench to Spanglish boarding announcements, having experienced the most traumatic incident of my traveling career.

The previous night I had been detained, had my stomach X-rayed by the anti-narcotics police who suspected me of being a drug mule, was grilled by a vertically and mentally challenged national guardsman for no apparent reason and had my passport confiscated and thoroughly examined under ultraviolet light for its authenticity. These minor hassles I laughed off. But my mirth expired when a representative of Air Canada denied me the right to board my flight to New York. The reason stated on my travel documents read: “Indonesian citizen without visa to Canada. Denied board.”

I had no intention of going to Canada. The airline just happened to transit in Toronto en route to New York City. A bloated airline representative offered no solace when he said new information had come to light stating Indonesian citizens required a visa to enter Canadian airspace. Since when? “Sorry, we don’t know. Try flying with another airline,” was the answer. Perhaps due to the initial shock, I managed to remain calm, though the plan to sue the airline for emotional distress was already hatching in my head.

Since Air Canada was the last flight, departing at 1:55 a.m., all other airlines had shut down. There was no use badgering anyone until morning. I headed for the food court, where other travelers were spending the night.

There I met Juan Francisco, a recent engineering graduate also headed to New York City. He was planning to purchase a Dell computer in America to resell in Venezuela for profitable black-market dollars. Borrowing his iPhone, my heart sank upon seeing the prices of last-minute flights to the United States. In exchange for using his phone, we watched comedies on my laptop to while away the long hours until dawn and took turns watching each other’s luggage during toilet runs.

At 3:30 a.m., I parted ways with Juan Francisco and tried my luck with the airlines. Over the next few hours, I’d exhausted all my options, was becoming unhinged and ready to roll into a distraught ball of wails and tears. All the airlines — American, Copa, Aerolinas Argentinas, Delta, Continental and even one I had never heard of called Santa Barbara — heading for the cities of Miami, Houston and Atlanta were not only fully booked, they were “overbooked,” to quote one airline rep.

Continental took pity on my frantic figure and placed me on their standby list. At this point, I was ready to travel in the cargo hold. I was ready to shed my bulging backpack of dirty laundry and be a bagless vagabond, as long as I was a bagless vagabond on my way out of South America.

My situation was such: I had no working phone to contact friends or family, was denied board by Air Canada, denied a refund by Air Canada, every flight heading for the United States was overbooked and only one out of five airline reps spoke English, I had less than $400 to my name and was not at all confident my credit card wasn’t maxed out. There was also the issue of a connecting flight from NYC to Singapore that I was scheduled to be on at 9 p.m. that night. In my attempt to be a frugal globetrotter, all my flights were cheap but non-refundable, making my Christmas homecoming surprise trickier to accomplish. In the meantime, the memories of my happy moments in Venezuela rapidly eroded and were replaced by a resolve to never again set foot on the continent of South America.

But when dawn broke, American Airlines pulled through for me. They found me a direct flight at noon that would get me to NYC in time to catch my connecting flight to Asia. The cost was exorbitant and only three seats were left. I prayed for my Visa to function and paid.

As a traveler, I rely on impulse and instinct, trusting that I’ll get where I need to go safely and promptly, priding myself when I do so. I consider them my little accomplishments, minor victories won in the battlefield of voyages. Air Canada was a bitter lesson that not every wish can be granted every time, even if it is the wish to return home.


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