All Summer Long

We exited the domestic terminal at Sydney and looked for the pickup location we had been given for our transfer. This whole thing had been an ordeal from the start: we’d gone with a cheap firm to save some money that could be better spent on a kebab or an eyebrow pen (guess which got bought), and the company didn’t get the best reviews. On receiving the instructions by email we learned that an electronic copy of our ticket would not suffice – “you will not be admitted onto the vehicle if your ticket is not printed”. While Nicola failed to make this materialise herself out of an iPhone, which cannot produce paper, we were able to find a shop in Adelaide that would print for us. We then found out that you have to contact the firm by telephone when you arrive at the airport, which would be ok if tariffs abroad weren’t sky high. The total cost to us was already beyond the asking price, in both cash and spirit.

Eventually we found a bus stop, but it was the wrong one. By some coincidence that never could have happened, a young guy in a suit and baseball cap engaged with us in a conversation about the transfer company that he happened to have been implicated with in a previous life – “This is not the place. I used to work for them. Now I work for me. I take you”. He walked with us to the place. “Over there. Stand anywhere. Maybe it will come tonight, maybe tomorrow – who knows.” So we ring the service desk, and of course it was late. When it finally turned up, it was the only transfer at the station to be tugging a toy trailer. Yes, this was for our luggage. It would have stored about half the bags of the passengers comfortably if it wasn’t already full of golf clubs. Were we all destined to be a part of his game?

The driver had charm, we’ll give him that; a magnetic force that can both draw the attention of his audience but also somehow repel other cars fiercely off the road. The aggressive driving and quality of service reminded me of being transported at 100 mph over the potholes between Plovdiv and Veliko Tarnovo in Bulgaria for four hours, strapped into a broken chair with a bloodstained bandage, terrorised by a fly. I watched out of the back window, wondering whether their idea of “transfer” was to cut the rope on the trailer and transfer our belongings to a second vehicle, driven by a second maniac, who would then spirit them away forever.

Before we knew it we had arrived in Sydney. He deposited us at the agreed place and even helped us with our luggage. It may not have been a five-star thumbs up from us, but at least it wasn’t a scam. The rest of the transport in Sydney has been paperless.