May 24th-
I’ll tell you… No one gives you shit, when you are walking through
I was drenched in sweat with sunglasses on and my tee shirt over my shoulder. I was headed to the Chinatown MRT station to catch a train to the
“No, no, no,” said the fat, usually tall Chinese man. “No surfboard on MRT,” he screamed.
“I have already purchased my ticket,” I explained.
“We can refund”
“I took the MRT when I got here with my surfboards,” I lied. “There are no signs posted anywhere saying you can’t bring surfboards.”
“No, no. I get refund now.”
“Well, how the hell am I suppose to get there, I don’t have the money for a cab,” I was getting heated.
“No my problem, is it?” He said was a hint of devil
“Not your problem eh?” I was beginning to make a scene. I snatched my money from his hand, which I assume was completely in coinage due to its complete inconvenience. I kicked the gate open and mumbled something like, “you work in a f***in’ train station, you f***in’ (insert derogatory term here).” I had to kick the gate open again as it came closing shut a lot faster than I thought and I almost fell over.
So I made my way back up the escalator and onto the street where I flagged down a couple of cabs and got laughs when they saw my board bag. “I have straps,” I exclaimed to them in pity. After the second one had passed and didn’t have the name of a shuttle I could take, a man walked up.
“You really trying to get cab with big bag?” He said with that stupid Asian grin. (I need to get out off of this continent).
“I can’t walk to the airport,” I said with sheer sarcasm.
“You call the-”
“I have no phone,” I cut him off because I did not see this conversation going anywhere. Just then the guy got out his phone.
“I call shuttle,” he glanced to his wife and child like the hero he was. My demeanour changed quickly by adding in numerous “pleases” and “thank yous.”
He called and sure enough after about 5 minutes (no really, 5 minutes). A white shuttle with the proper license plate number arrived. He advised me: it will only be $45 SGD and that I should not pay anymore; there would be a small fee if I used my credit card; I should make him take my bags. I followed the appreciated advice, thanked the man with a handshake, and took off to the airport. Knowing that I could pay on my credit card put me at ease, as I was attempting to leave Singapore with $11 SGD and I was definitely not trying to get out a pitiful amount of money with the transaction fee probably being more. On the ride, the driver told me that I should have left my boards at the airport in a deposit box like all the other surfers who stroll through Singapore for the weekend. Then, I could have taken the MRT, he told me. I signed for the charge and exited the van.
I made my way over to the JetStar counter very cautiously, first walking by without my huge surfboard bag to size up the lady at the check-in counter that I was going to be working with. After my $100 USD baggage fee from that shitty little airline called ValuAir, and given that I have begun to run really low on funds, I have to go these things.
Knowledge: There is always a carry-on weight limit (this one was 10 kilos). I knew this, but I also knew that the counter persons rarely, if ever, actually weight the carry-on bags, unless they look ridiculously stuffed to the gills with cheap t-shirts and duty free booze.
Plan: I left my bigger backpack on an empty chair in the waiting area… exactly what they preach against doing, and caution everyone to call security for. I was doing this because the counter person would not know that I would be obviously overweight on my carry-on because I would only be holding my little bag, so she would have no reason to weigh it.
I walked to the counter harmlessly with my surfboard bag and my small backpack. I can always tell how hard I am going to be hit with baggage fees by the look on the counter person’s face within the first few seconds that I walked up. She looked at me with a smile. I was surrounded by Aussies and immediately felt nostalgic, as I used JetStar for every weekend getaway while in OZ. I put my bag on the oversized scale to see that it was 10 kilos overweight.
“Will you be paying with credit card, or cash Mr. Wales?” She asked politely.
I love it when I am referred to in such a professional way, but I asked “how much” in a pitiful, young, poor, traveller tone.
“20 Singapore per kilo, sir.” I nearly shat myself.
“I’ll try to put some things in my carry-on, its very light, as it only has my computer,” I lied. Well, not really. This, bag really did only kind of have just my computer in it, but the huge bastard in the corner had enough stuff for a small country.
I transferred clothing, wetsuits, sandals, and a pair of booties until I was only 3 kilos over. I always put a bit of the bag on the side of the scale, so that the measurement works in my favour. We agreed the price of $60 SGD. She asked me again how I’d be paying and I said credit card. But somehow, just then, it slipped over, and the scale revealed the true weight: 5 kilos over; another $40. The nice woman smiled and lied through her teeth as I had been doing and said “it’s only 3 kilos over.” Because I was paying with credit card, her manager would need to sign off on it and she had just walked away. She asked me to come back in 15 minutes. This was perfect because my little bag was kilos away from being able to zip. This gave me time to run back to the big bag that people were probably beginning to think was some kind of bomb and I could transfer things over and get everything perfect. I sat on my bag so that I could muster the strength to pull the zipper shut. Everyone around was laughing.
I left both bags and walked back over to the counter. “Why it is your lucky day Mr. Wales. My manager has waived the fees for the bag from here to Darwin and Darwin to Sydney.”
“Damn,” I though to myself. I wonder how much stuff I could have left in there before I really had to pay for the whole lot.
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