LITMIR.BIZ

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but fatal for someone whose attention tends to drift.

      I cannot wait to be without my phone for six weeks. To go completely under the radar and not feel constantly besieged by messages and marketing. To try to recall and relive what life was like before we all started walking around with smartphones.

      But I’m already having some misgivings about turfing the iPhone and laptop. At the moment I’m just despondent, not visibly angered like before. I’m running out of time and options. Storing this stuff for forty days in a locker at Charles de Gaulle means an (unplanned) outlay of R4 000. I don’t know anyone in Paris. When I got here I sent a quick WhatsApp to a former colleague who knows someone who lives in France, but I’m still waiting for a reply.

      Hang on – last night at the wedding I sat next to someone who works in Paris frequently. Martine. We had a lovely chat and she gave me a few great tips on how to spend my last night in Paris on my way home. Before I left Cape Town this morning we said a quick hello on Facebook.

      I send her a First World SOS:

      Hi Martine, I’m at Doha airport. The only reason I’m still “digital” is that I’ve brought work with me that I have to finish before the Camino. I have a strange Paris request/favour to ask: I’m finishing that work tonight here in Doha, and there’s no way I’m taking the laptop and phone with me on the Camino. But the lockers at Charles de Gaulle seem expensive for 40 days’ storage (about 320 euros) and I’m reluctant to mail/courier them to SA. You don’t perhaps know of a person or a place in Paris where I can mail the parcel (I promise it’s not contraband or something out of Breaking Bad) from the airport and then pick it up on 15/16 June when I’m back there again? I’m waiting for an address from a colleague who knows somebody there, but it’s dragging out a bit and I’m running out of time. I’ll need to mail the parcel from the airport at about 3 p.m. tomorrow afternoon. Phew, this turned into quite a ramble. Maybe I should stick to organising bachelor parties. Looking forward to hearing from you!

      She answers quickly:

      Just contacted a friend in Paris to find out whether you can mail the parcel to her – will let you know as soon as she replies. Enjoy the evening until then!

      There you go – it’s all working out nicely. The Nespresso is strong, the chair comfy, the wi-fi fast and, with a date from the buffet in my mouth, the word count is starting to rise.

      * * *

      With the address of a South African in Paris – Marcelle (also a journalist) – written in my Moleskine, and the Slagtersnek article now about three-quarters done, I board flight QR 039 for the Doha-to-Paris leg of my journey. It’s just after eight on Monday 4 May. Six Nespressos through the night in the Oryx Lounge. And a gorgeous hot shower. But I haven’t shut an eye for 48 hours. The lonely places we take ourselves …

      This time I’m not alone in my row. There’s a man on either side of me – on my left a Muslim gent with a long beard, in Islamic attire; on my right a young Indian guy who looks really nervous. Arjun has lived in New Delhi his whole life, and is flying abroad for the first time to go and work as a computer programmer in Paris. He is also scared of flying and heights.

      Luckily, I don’t have that problem. The worst turbulence I ever experienced was in a Boeing above Mossel Bay. People either screamed or started negotiating under their breath with their notion of divinity. A flight attendant went down on her knees, arms embracing the food trolley. Fortunately, the worst of the chaos was over within a minute.

      Heights don’t bother me: it’s confined spaces that drive me to distraction. A few years ago I visited the Cango Caves to write a story for Go. I scraped through the Tunnel of Love, but by the Devil’s Chimney my courage began to flag. Ahead of me, a young family were hauling themselves through the chimney. The father was egging on his chubby wife: “Are you in, Mouse? Are you in?” With barely half my body wedged into the chimney it felt like an All Black ruck had collapsed on me. I was out of there in a flash, and took the detour.

      Just before take-off, the Boeing already powering up on the Doha runway, the pilot informs us in a heavy Arabic accent that there is a technical problem. We’ll have to wait for technicians to investigate. Arjun is rubbing his hands together. There’s not much we can do about it. When I’m sitting on the runway, I often get the feeling that a team of doctors is about to wheel me into the operating theatre. You are powerless, delivered unto others’ mercy and expertise.

      I read somewhere that the first ninety seconds of a plane’s ascent are theoretically the most dangerous part of any flight. If something serious goes wrong during this critical period, your family will soon be wiping away the tears in a National Geographic Air Crash Investigation episode.

      I have since developed a faintly obsessive habit. As the plane leaves Mother Earth, I diligently count up to ninety in my head and then relax into a false sense of security. “You realise it’s not going to make any difference to your fate whether you count or not,” a friend who likes to think logically has pointed out to me. Obviously she’s right, but I do it anyway.

      The technicians apparently on their way, Arjun and I start chatting about our fate in the air.

      “Well, I guess if it’s your time, it’s your time, nothing you can do about it,” he says stolidly.

      “But what does it mean for us if it is the pilot’s time?” I tease him.

      Arjun laughs and shakes his head.

      Again, a liminal place, a dormant no-man’s-land. I was hoping to be in the air by now, laptop open, in the death throes of the article. Not here on the runway, where all our electronics have to stay switched off.

      The minutes tick by.

      * * *

      -----Original Message-----

      From: Erns Grundling

      Sent: 04 May 2015 02:54 PM

      To: Pierre Steyn

      Subject: Here is Slagtersnek!

      Importance: High

      Hi Pierre

      Attached find Slagtersnek. A bit long, but better now than never.

      I’m now between Luxembourg and Paris. Altitude: 39 829 ft. Ground speed: 482 mph. Outside temperature -67 F. Still 525 miles to Paris, where a mad rush for trains awaits me. Tomorrow morning I’m mailing my laptop and cell phone from Bayonne to a journalist in Paris. I’m picking it up from her on the 16th.

      Please give a quick heads-up that you’ve received the file. Because then my holiday’s bloody close.

      Au revoir!

      Erns

      The past few hours have been a manic blur. I notched up twenty dollars on my credit card to access the plane’s wi-fi to check the last few facts and contact details for my Slagtersnek story. My laptop battery only just made it.

      Not my best piece of writing, but for now the mantra “Don’t get it right, get it written” is more important than producing a tour de force. I suspect, in any case, that the story of a small band of rebels who died under difficult – even unjust – circumstances two centuries ago is too depressing to make Go’s pages. It’s not exactly a comfortable fit with the magazine’s genial tone and its articles’ uplifting escapism.

      What an absurd little scene: desperately clicking “Send” somewhere between heaven and earth on the other side of Luxembourg so that a Word doc can announce itself with a bleep seconds later on my editor’s computer in Cape Town, the old Muslim gent mumbling and bowing in prayer beside me, Ice Age 3 paused on his screen, and Arjun, having abandoned the in-flight quiz shows, watching a Bollywood dance scene from Slumdog Millionaire.

      Pierre lets me know all’s good, and that I need spend only the first week of the Camino contemplating my deadline-related sins. Finally. I can shut the laptop for six weeks.

      The last words I type are an Out-of-Office message:

      I’m on holiday in Europe. Digital detox,

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