Denniblog

The review committee at Worldnomads has found in my favour (I think I have blogged this before) and have now settled my claim. The settlement is fair and it means that I can replace my backpack and sturdy boots which I will need for that Greenland trip (I haven’t given up! I’m trying to wangle one of the cheaper ‘rød pris’ tickets).

I’m over the moon! Sure, my financial situation isn’t as dire as after that SE Asia trip, but replacing the equipment would have thrown a spanner into my planning even before the high travel costs did. Greenland ain’t flip-flop country!

I’ve just received a letter from the Internal Dispute Resolution Committee at Mondial/WN informing me that they have overturned the initial decision to deny my claim.

It means that I can replace the camera in time for my trip to Prague. But I may never travel with a backpack again.

Why?

This is what I acquired when the ship docked at Maumere (Flores) and I found a cheap guesthouse directly opposite a second hand clothes market (the only one I’ve seen in Indonesia–providence or what??):

1 Microsoft Software Developer’s Conference shoulder bag anno 1999 (It wasn’t the most practical, but I couldn’t resist it for my hubby),

1 long dress,

1 pair light cotton trousers,

1 pair swimming shorts,

2 T-shirts,

1 towel,

1 each: toothbrush, toothpaste, nailclipper, razor, soap

…and that’s it. I still had my jeans, long-sleeved shirt and wind jacket but everything fitted comfortably into the shoulderbag and weighed in at under 5kg. It was enough. So, henceforth I may just travel with hand luggage (although I also carry a Swiss army knife, so I’ll still have to check it in).

And the sting in the tale? — My reply email to Worldnomads just bounced!

…I get back to my travel journal at some stage. Right now it’s about the last thing on my mind.

(Incidentally, names of employees have been removed by request)

My reply:

[QUOTE]
Further to your message from 27th March; you have attached the decline letter for claim 250053, which refers to my digital camera (separately insured). I subsequently submitted a claim for the backpack and my other belongings, stolen during the same incident, which you closed without comment. These two claims will have to be combined and I await a new reference number for use in my correspondence with IDR.

The original decline letter also refers to an enclosed brochure outlining the IDR process which I have not received. I enquired about this and received the following email on March 7th:

[QUOTE]
Dear Ms Schnapp,

The information you requested was posted to your home address on the 24th of Feb, please be aware that international mail can take up to 4 weeks to reach its destination,

Kind Regards

Y
Client Services Consultant

Mondial Assistance House
74 High Street, Toowong QLD 4066 Australia
P. 1800 066 896
F. +61 7 3305 7016
[/QUOTE]

I have still not received the information I requested.

Furthermore you have not included an address where to write to or the name of the person who will deal with this matter; which reminds me: why do you keep addressing me as ‘Miss’ and, in the case of X, even sign off with ‘Yours Faithfully’? Do I not have a name?

[/QUOTE]

Oooops, look who’s forgotten to address the lovely Miss Denise in turn! That was entirely unintentional. The rest of the exchange continues with the email I replied to above. The elements of the attached letter of decline which actually refer to WN’s decision are marked in bold:
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The insurers have denied my claim for the stolen backpack.

It isn’t so much that which felt like a punch in the stomach (although it is that part which leaves me feel winded), as it’s the way in which it was worded. When the message notification popped up in my inbox, I expected them to ask for more receipts. But the message started promising:
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…and indeed to the ground staff and medical personnel who cared for me in Amman and to Ian who looked after me throughout the flight and during our stop-over, nearly risking missing his own connection in the process.

I’ll make sure that I never run out of Xanax again when boarding a plane!

I re-iterate that, for patients with a history of panic attacks, this drug should be available without a prescription. Even two of these little pills might have saved the day.

More about this shortly.

It had to happen, given that this condition is psychosomatic. Having a panic attack on a plane was high on my list of nightmares, because I suffered my first violent attack on the day before I had to fly home from Gran Canaria— strangely enough almost exactly four years ago.

The tranquiliser capsule which my first Angel had given me wasn’t sufficient merely as a crutch. Before dinner was even served, I had to take it. What the heck, I thought: it can’t be that far to Amman.

It was far. Less than four hours later, the tranquiliser had worn off. I took half of the white tablet, but to no effect. Twenty minutes later, I chomped down the other half. It tasted like chalk. Was it a placebo?

The flight was barely 1/3rd full, so we had at least a double seat each. I tried to relax as much as possible, shaking quietly, hoping that this thing would pass unnoticed. But predictably enough, the shakes turned to spasms, throwing me clean out onto the floor. Plenty of leg room on Royal Jordanian flights.
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It was almost twelve o’clock by the time I woke up the next morning, so I figured I might as well hang on to the room for another day. My flight was not due to leave until almost midnight and I could do with the rest. Meanwhile it wouldn’t hurt to visit the local pharmacy which the Italian had said had particularly helpful staff. They might sell me some tranquilizer—some people apparently manage to get the stuff over the counter here. They might also know the name of the hospital where I was at yesterday morning. The taxi driver had kept the slip of paper, but it had to be the nearest one to the Kao San Road. I would go back there and set the record straight, retrieve my tourist card, find some way of paying that bill. However, when I tried to explain my predicament to the poor girls who worked there (they didn’t know the hospital) I was overcome by intense dizzyness and promptly collapsed again. Clearly, this wasn’t going to stop. Whatever was happening represented a real medical problem and there was no alternative but give in to it and seek treatment. One way or the other.

Damn.
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I remember only having a single beer that night. I struggled with it. It didn’t feel right.

There was a bit of banter. The Moroccon owner of the bar, which comprised just a row of tables and chairs on the pavement, was thrilled to learn that I can count to seven in Arabic and he kept clinking my bottle. I would force a grin and take a sip every now and then. Time stretched like molten cheese. Then, suddenly, I became very dizzy. I hit the floor. Consciousness contracted, as if I was perceiving everything through a pinhole.

(The following was meant to be in a smaller font size, but the relevant HTML tag doesn’t work with these settings. Never mind, I guess you’ll get the drift):
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The room at the Sawasdee House was no bigger than a cell. Correction: it was no bigger than a double bed. On several occasions, while rumaging around in it, I had left my bag outside because it barely fitted with me in the room. I even forgot it outside while I went for a shower: it was still there when I came back. But today—to my considerable annoyance—I found that I had left it out overnight and it was gone.

I wasn’t worried: I carry my passport, ticket and most of my cash in a moneybelt on my body and most of my journal had been photocopied, but it was annoying because I had put 1000 Baht in my wallet to pay for a trip to Kanchanaburi to visit the tiger temple. The trip would have to be cancelled, because my ticket was also in the wallet. I figured I’d better tell the lady at the agency that I would not be requiring my seat on the minibus. But first of all I checked out of Sawasdee House. It was still early, but not so early that people had not yet begun to check out, as had been the case when I arrived the day before at 6:30 in the morning on the night bus from Hat Yai. I found a room without difficulty in a guesthouse hidden in a little alleyway lined with stalls, which nearly obscured the view to the entrance. Then I went to find the lady at the ticket agency.

“Oh, I remember you. You can still go! Bus not here yet.”

The bus was late, but I would have to change my last dollars to pay for the entrance fee and expenses. Still—this was my last chance to get to Kanchanaburi. The lady personally walked down the road with me to find a money changer, then pointed out the bus when it arrived. Alas, the driver did not accept my explanation for the lacking ticket and when I looked back at the shop, the counter was deserted. The other tourists were getting twitchy, we were already late, and suddenly I wasn’t so sure about this: “Oh, sod it. I better stay. Have a nice trip!” A wave, a smile, and I was back on the street

Something was nagging at the back of my head. I could not quite put a name to it. I went for breakfast, mulling this over.

Sure, the loss of the daypack bothered me: my little Sarawak keyring, my diary, the parts of my journal which I had not photocopied, including all entries from Rinca Island to Bali. But it was my own stupidity that it was lost and I did not feel victimised as I had when my backpack was stolen in Makassar. However, there was something else missing.

My Xanax!
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