Bangkok Airways flight 277, Or Stuck In Line Behind the Dregs of the Antipodes

"Hiroshima"

Trip Report: Bangkok Airways flight 277, Bangkok to Phuket, Airbus A319, tail number HS-PGX (pictured), Economy, Seat 8C, one hour flight time, 417 miles flown, September 2010, US$75 one way.

How difficult is it, people? You walk to the counter, put your checked bag on the scale, hand the agent your passport, and that’s usually it. With modern reservation systems, you rarely have to present an actual ticket, or the booking number, or the form of payment, or do anything else. The agent hands you a boarding pass, and you’re on your way.

This set of procedures was too difficult for six couples in front of me at Bangkok’s international airport.

These weren’t ordinary couples. These were white trash Australian couples, the type of travelers I try to avoid, but, if you’re flying to any of the beach resorts in Southeast Asia, they hang around like miasma.

They are so gross. The tattoos. The low-cut blouses revealing mottled, wrinkled décolletage. The shorts and sandals. The facial hair and overmuscled upper bodies. The mounds of bulging luggage. Men who resemble the worst sort of military retiree, and women who look and act like strippers on the verge of being dropped from the day shift at the rattiest club in town.

Usually with a baby.

Bangkok Airways was not to blame. Bangkok Airways cares so much about customer service that it was operating six Economy check-in counters to service two flights. Bangkok Airways does everything it reasonably can to provide an aesthetic experience. But Bangkok Airways cannot pre-screen its passengers for taste or class. And an airline’s decision to match the fares of competing low-cost carriers has an inevitable demographic effect.

Somehow, six of these couples arrived at the counters at the same time, and the line stopped. At each counter, something was wrong. The reservation wasn’t right. Or the ID didn’t match. Or the luggage had to be re-packed, right there, all four overweight pieces. And that made one baby cry, which made another baby cry, which . . . .

I haven’t been this mad at a group of Ozzie travelers since one collegiate gaggle laughed through the Islamic prayer which commenced a Royal Brunei flight.

On the plane, the food service consisted of a pimento loaf sandwich and a drink. The airline played a silent practical jokes video — which, this time, was programming over the heads of the audience. I deplaned as fast as I could.