Flying through Luanda on my way back, I had a chance to observe their transit ticketing again.
Always a fascinating endeavour, of course. This time, a little less dramatic, because we had two hours of waiting in the lounge so things were paced out a bit, and it wasn’t as hectic as the first time. Sadly. We drove to the transit area in a bus, again, and arrived, at night, to see floors covered with a thick layer of water. They decided, right before the plane full of passengers, mothers and babies, arrived, to wash the floors intensely. That’s lovely. A few people still wearing tropical flip-flops nearly slipped to their demise so they were walking like prowling thieves, on their tippy-toes. Huddled around the same elevated booth, we hand over our passports, immigration information and tickets, and wait. Twenty minutes later, they give all the passports back in no particular order. Thirsty passengers hurry towards the steps to the lounge and are called back: “PASSAPORTE! Attendez!” Slowly, they start handing out the tickets, while laying some out flat on their little work-bench. Mine is among those they don’t hand out. So then a few of us say our names, and we are handed our tickets, which they had laid out. I guess some are handed them, and some have to claim their tickets. Who knows? We sit down (I made friends with a fun young couple who had just gone all over the country and seen some incredible things) and are about to order our drinks when we’re all summoned quite officially to go outside and recognize our luggage. Which we do, by going down another set of stairs, out near a hangar, and pointing at our luggage, watching to make sure they load it in the trolleys.