He found the first available company representative and lectured her on the faults of the system. "This guy has been wandering around asking for money" he barked. "What is he supposed to do? Starve and die here? You've got his passport number and his details. Sort it out!" The poor girl ('Lolly') was sympathetic and said she had only 10 soles on her. She asked him: "Couldn't you lend him the money?" to which my saviour replied. "I do, but, that's not the point....I don't know him from Adam". Never give people ideas, they'll only throw them back in your face. In fairness, he gave me 20 soles and managed to infer, as noncommittally as possible, that should the worst come to the worst he would pay for me. He had to tried to help in his own way and had put up a bit of money. I could understand his reluctance. If I was in a bus station in England and some kid came up to me and told me he needed money to help him get home, I would be a little sceptical. At best, I would probably give him a quid and send him on his way. So, thank you bald cockney man...you helped, not much, but it was a start. Meanwhile, Lolly pointed me over to the helpdesk and explained (without passing the buck) that the tax was levied by the airport and not by the flight company. The moustachioed 'girl' at the Help Desk clearly had a very loose idea of what it meant. From her personal dictionary:

help (verb)

 

1. to prevent from doing, acting, or happening; stop.

2. to be an obstacle or impediment.

3. to cause delay, interruption, or difficulty in; hamper; impede

 

In fact the robot with a tash told me the opposite of the truth. She told me it was a matter for the flight companies to deal with and had nothing to do with the airport. I could tell she was lying. I could tell she wanted to get on her lunch break and victimise some puppies. Her face had the clear look of "I couldn't care less if you and all your family died in synchronised and statistically improbable cases of spontaneous combustion...at an orphanage picnic". Dejected, I wandered back to Lolly and told her. I must have looked like a totally hopeless case because at this point a miracle happened. She said to me, with great determination, "Don't worry. I'll pay for it. You won't miss your flight". Praise the Lord! An official person intervenes! It's one thing to have the kindly help of a passing Samaritan type, but when an official person takes an interest, you've hit the fucking jackpot! It's the Holy Grail of customer service. She organised a whip round, even getting a couple of soles from the guys who work in Starbucks. (So Terminal wasn't lying, there ARE airport staff communities...it's still a shit film though thanks to Tom Hanks and Catherine Zeta Jones and Spielberg and the script). She then wisely escorted me to the place where you get your ticket stamped and I coughed up the collective loot. She seemed delighted when I started to smile and told me that she had been in the situation before and people had helped her out, also that she had friends in London. She was lovely, so I could believe that. As I kissed her on the cheek I planned a dazzling letter of praise to her bosses, but secretly wondered whether they would approve!

 

The cockney boys also seemed please to see me as they shopped for duty free in the departure lounge. They seemed a lot more easy and genial – probably because we had achieved some kind of parity and I was no longer asking for money. "I would probably have cried in your situation" confided one of them. Cockneys always seem to be on the edge of crying. "At least you wasn't a Northerner" reasoned the other, to restore some kind of manly prejudice to the conversation. They meant well. I liked them, and I liked Lolly – despite her chosen nickname. My faith in humanity was temporarily restored, and I felt a bit better about my species. Except for the old bags, who I will henceforth pray nightly for a painful and inconvenient demise, possibly involving a fishing hook and tetanus.

QUICK PS....

I saw one of those patronising Jack Daniels adverts the other day which said in a rich earthy way, "At Jack Daniels, we don't care much for RULES or REGULATIONS", which probably explains why I bought a bottle and found a baby's arm floating in it.
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