L.A.D.E Flight UG574

Which would you take? A thirty hour straight bus journey, or a three hour flight with low cost airline?.
Having both recently read the book ´Alive´ where the plane crashes into Andes and the survivors have to eat the dead didn´t stop us choosing the later when leaving Bariloche on Sunday.
In the book Alive, it explains that in the 1970s you could only fly over the Andes in the morning because the air currents created by the mountains in the afternoon were too dangerous (The jet planes of today don´t have that problem). As it turns out, the plane in Alive was delayed and they were forced to fly across the Andes in the afternoon. The plane crashed, with only 16 survivours, who eventually ate everypart of the dead, including the lungs, eyes, and brain. Eight finally managed to make it out after being trapped in the mountains for a few months.

There was one neglected check-in desk for L.A.D.E when we arrived, and ´Demorado´(delayed) flashed in a mustard yellow on the departures board. Despite which, a queue started to assemble at the desk. It was headed by an unashamed young couple snogging, who seemed to get by without air for a serious length of time.
Unfortunatley for them, it wasn´t long before an unkempt steward appeared at the desk. He was flanked by short round man wearing country attire, which struck me as odd.

Our L.A.D.E flight, not over the Andes, but along them south towards El Calefate was due to leave at 10:40am. Our turn at the desk gives me an oppurtunity to ask after the nature of our delay. The steward confides in a hushed voice that our original plane "broke", and in desperation not to cancel the flight they have drafted in a ´reserve´ smaller aircraft. It had to come from Buenos Aires so we were delayed. The new departure time would be 14:30pm. Great.

Three milky teas at the sterile airport cafe later and to all our horror we watch our plane land.
Through the large glass windows I see an Airbus, printed on it in royal blue lettering over a glimmering white surface ´Aerolineas Argentina´. To the right, some 200 meters away, I spot a small battered ex-military 1967 built propeller driven 47 seater Fokker. It´s ancient, and you can tell. There are brown marks down it that could be reminisant of a fire. Everybody in the waiting lounge was visibly on edge. We were in the same situation as in ´Alive´. Andes. Delayed. Afternoon. 1960s aircraft. Sweaty palms.

On boarding the plane we noticed a dotted square with a sign that said "Cut here in emrgency", found that the seatbelts didn´t work and the seat infront of Chris didn´t stay so if the lady leant back she would be lying in his lap. After a little broken spanish conversation, Chris agreed to prop the full figured Argentine lady up with his knees. This was a painful decision which he was to regret. This feels like suicide.

The blades begin to spin as miraculously we take off in our first propeller driven historic aircraft. The noise is insane, the propellers make your ears tingle, and inside the rhythm varies reminding me of a toy robot about to run out of batteries. The pain in Chris´ knees was visible in his face. I´ve experienced turbulance before, but this is something else. Immediatley we feel the effects of the mountains below as the plane twists to either side and drops hundreds of feet in seconds. Passengers are being sick, occasionally grown men scream as the wind swats the plane as if it was an end of summer fly. The pilot, trying to get beneath the airpockets plummets nose down like a torpedo hurtling towards the earth. It swept us sideways with violence and we dropped so fast that our stomachs were shaken up into our throats, bursting to project out of our mouths like foul food. Finally, one hour later we land safely in Esquel. I´m not keen to get back on for the next 3 hour leg of the journey, and we discuss staying overnight in Esquel until the original plane is fixed.

I feel better after a 20 minute break and agree to take the next leg. Chris has a bottle of Cognac in his bag, and promises if things get really bad we can at least have some fun.

Fortunatley we manage to change seats and take off is smooth, so is 99% of the flight, until we start to descend for landing. The plane has to fly low anyway, giving us some amazing views, but the ground approaches visibly quickly as the turbulance kicks in again.
My palms are wet, my throat dry as sand. The plane is swirling all over the place. If you´ve ever been on Oblivion at Alton Towers you´ll know that falling sensation, except for this time there are no tracks, no safety harness, and no Kodak moment. Just sheer terror as the gut renching thought crosses your mind..."this is it". Dropping, rising, twisting, wining, you can hear the engines struggle as it gets battered around. I´m not alone, a robust man sits in the next isle, (who Chris later tells me he was eyeing up to eat if things turned bad) grabs onto his young friend infront of him. It´s involuntary, but desperatley hard, done without embarrassment because of the situation.I hear him whisper that he will kiss the floor like the pope when he lands. Middle aged men make loud innapropiate jokes about death behind me. The shrillness in their laughter betrays thier hysteria. It reminds me of the uncontrollable giggles I once got at a funeral.

Every minute feels like hours, but eventually the 1967 relic regains stability and firmly held breaths escape tight chests, filling the cabins stuffy air with relief and gratitude. On landing the passengers erupt into cheers and clapping, the male steward who had looked like an undertaker till now cracks a wide smile.
Hands clapsed together in the fresh air of the airstrip I thank God out loud that I´m alive. Other passengers tap the tarmac firmly as if to suggest they will never leave solid ground again.

Thirty hours straight on a bus, or three hours on a low cost airline? I´ll have to think about that next time.