Not Kosher

5:30 a.m. My alarm goes off in Malé, Maldives. I jump in the shower and as the dark sky turns to half light I am out the door to the ferry across the harbor to the airport where I spend my few remaining rufyiaa on breakfast by the waterfront as the sun comes up.

12:00 noon I arrive in Doha, Qatar where I am met by my sister’s best friend from high school, who takes me to the Diplomatic Club for a feast fit for a sheik, followed by a tour of the city.

5:30 p.m. Sundown at the camel race track where I watch a procession of hundreds of dromedaries in the waning light.

11:30 p.m. Back to the airport with Janice and my new friend Youssef to catch my connecting flight to the Seychelles.

12:00 a.m. Going through passport control I roll my eyes at another passenger as a child at the far counter squawks over and over and over again like a manic parrot...“Mama! Mama! Mama!”

“With my luck she’ll be sitting in the row right in front of me” I joke.

12:45 a.m. I am mistaken. She is seated 3 rows in front of me. And her squawks have increased both in pitch and in tempo.

Flight departs Qatar for Seychelles.

1:30 a.m. The passenger to my left has been wracked with paroxysms of coughing since before take off. He begins to complain of leg cramps and I begin to consider euthanizing him to put him out of my misery. Mercifully, the flight attendant reseats him somewhere out of earshot. Hopefully his new seat mate is deaf and does not contract tuberculosis.

As I step into the aisle to make way for him, a flight attendant approaches me with what appears to be a pizza box. “Mr. Langford….I believe you ordered the kosher meal? If you’ll open the box for us, we’ll start preparing it for you.”

“What the…? I didn’t order the kosher meal...I promise!"

The entire cabin crew is Muslim.

"I’m not even Jewish!” I add hastily.

As I take my seat, my sleep-starved brain cannot make sense of this. Suddenly, a light bulb comes on over my head. It is not the reading light. It is the realization that for the first time in 15 months, having made all my own flight arrangements along the way, I have emailed my sister to book this series of flights for me since she's good at finding rock bottom prices on everything from airfares to housewares. Despite my hours of research, she is able to save me about $600.00 in less than 10 minutes.

A dim memory begins to take shape...the last time she made travel arrangements for me was 12 years ago when she and I were flying to our brother’s wedding together. On the return trip I was traveling solo, and when meal time came, the flight attendant approached me and, looking at her clipboard, asked “Are you Mr. Langford?

“Yes...that's me” I responded.”

“I just wanted to confirm that you ordered the Hindu meal.”

She got me then, and she got me again 12 years later.

2:30 a.m. I curl up in the fetal position on the three adjoining seats in an attempt to get some much needed shut-eye while trying to ignore the immovable object poking me in the rib cage.

5:30 a.m. I am awakened after 3 hours of fitful sleep by an announcement that our flight will be landing in about an hour. I feel like something the cat dragged in and my mouth tastes like something the cat stepped in.

6:30 a.m. I arrive at Mahe Airport, Seychelles.

Just to see if I can do it, I have arrived in this country with no guide book, no map, and having done absolutely no research. My only contact is an Italian chef named Lucio whom I have never met but with whom I’ve had several email exchanges. I found him on a website called couchsurfing.org where travelers can meet people who are willing to host them for free. I have less than 1 hour to get to the ferry pier.

I somehow manage to stumble through immigration and customs despite the fact that I am sleep-walking, my entry card is only partially filled in, and my evasive answers regarding my accommodations while in the Seychelles arouse suspicion. The truth is I’ll be staying with the chef at the resort where he works, but I can’t give the the name of the resort in case they call to confirm my reservation, which I don’t have. I also fail to satisfy the immigration official’s inquiries as to how and when I’ll be leaving the country. That information is stored on my laptop which is in my bag, and I'm using my limited brain function to remain upright. Against all odds, he lets me go.

Finally, I am questioned thoroughly by a representative of the local drug enforcement administration, and even though I am squeaky clean, by this point I'm feeling anxious and rattled and am unable to maintain eye contact. I really don’t know why they let me in the country. I wouldn’t have.

After my interrogation, I have just enough time to dash to the ATM machine and withdraw US$200.00 worth of local currency.

7:00 a.m. The clock is ticking. I sprint across the terminal to find a representative of the ferry company which will take me to the island where my host lives. I am told to wait nearby…that a shuttle bus will be along directly. But I have no way to reach him besides a phone number and an email address. I can’t wander into the resort with my backpack on and ask for the chef…that will blow his cover, because employees aren't allowed to have guests.

I search the terminal for a place to by a SIM card for my phone, and manage to find a newsstand that has just unlocked its doors. I purchase a SIM, but the girl behind the counter can’t figure out how to activate it. Plus, her fingernails are so long she can’t operate the touch screen on my iPhone. I’m really starting to panic…if I miss the bus, I’ll miss the ONLY ferry to the island of La Digue until tomorrow.

I emerge from the store frantic…has the bus already come and gone without me? No…all is well. I board the bus, get to the jetty, find the ticket office, purchase a fare. In the meantime, I've managed to get my phone working.

7:30 a.m. I board the ferry. Once again I have made it by the skin of my teeth, despite my complete and utter lack of planning.

9:30 a.m. I arrive at my destination without puking, which is more than I can say for many of the other passengers. We tie up at the jetty and disembark. I phone Lucio, realizing that I have traveled several thousand miles and 48 hours to stay with someone whom I know absolutely nothing about. He tells me to meet him at a grocery store called Gregoire’s, which he says is about 10 minutes away on foot. This is starting to feel like an international scavenger hunt.

I spot a guy with dreadlocks and a wool cap who's the spitting image of Bob Marley and ask him for directions. He tells me it’s way too far to walk with a heavy backpack...20 minutes away at least. And now it’s starting to rain. As luck would have it, he has one last bike I can rent for $10 a day. I accept his offer. Note to self: Never ask a guy who rents bicycles how far away something is. Of course he’s gonna tell you it’s too far to walk, even if it’s around the corner.

Keep in mind that the backpack containing all my earthly possessions weighs about 40 lbs. And my carry-on bag containing my computer, charger, hard drives, a jacket, my toilet kit, flashlight and raincoat and weighs another 10lbs. or so. Ever tried throwing your leg over the cross bar of a mountain bike with 50 lbs. strapped to your torso? I wish I had a video. Even funnier was my dismount...let’s just say my bike and I invented a new dance called “The Seychelle Shuffle.”

11:00 a.m. After chatting with Lucio, he goes back to work and I take a shower and fall into a deep sleep and dream that the heavens have opened, filling my backpack with rainwater.

1:00 p.m. I awake from my coma to discover that my dream was a premonition. I go outside to find that the rain is coming in at a 45 degree angle and that my shoes, which I left on the front porch, are soaking wet.