"And to all of our customers flying on to Frankfurt this evening, we hope you have a pleasant flight."

I swear I heard a quiet snigger, milliseconds before the captain switched off the intercom. He knew, oh I’m sure he knew, that those of us silly enough to book an Air Namibia flight to Frankfurt via Windhoek, the belly button of Africa, would be doing no such thing that evening. Flying and pleasant experiences were not on the menu for us.

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I’ve never been a huge fan of pilots. They always seem so smarmy and cock-sure prattling over the intercom like closet radio DJs. Frankly, I couldn’t care less whether we’re taking off on runway four-three-south or who’s at the controls for our left-hand turn. Perhaps they get lonely up there by themselves.

But I digress.

The departures screen at the lonely-looking Hosea Kutako International Airport only served to confirm my opinion of pilots. “Cancelled”, blinked the flight status in gleeful red letters next to our evening departure to Germany.

An anxious airline employee came scuttling over to explain that we would be going no further that night. Ash clouds across Europe, he said. Clogged engines and fiery plane crashes he warned. I was tempted to take my chances rather than spend a weekend in Windhoek, but eventually we acquiesced and followed him through to the luggage carousel.

Whisked stamp-less past passport control — immigration not a big concern in Namibia, it would seem — a geological age, much like one that formed the Eyjafjallajokull volcano, passed while the Air Namibia 'customer service' desk decided whether stranded passengers were really an airline’s problem.

"OK," they said, "We’ll put you up for one night. But no meals! And after that you’re on your own."

Force majeure trumps customer care every time, it would seem.

The delights of the Safari Hotel waited. The nearby casino tempted some, the delights of downtown others. I chose hibernation and Wi-Fi, with occasional glances at the Air Namibia status board.

Europe still closed. Ash spreading eastwards. No flight today, it reported. Everything for your own account, it reminded. Thank goodness for credit cards.

The Dutch family stranded with us didn’t seem to mind too much. Their kids were happily stocking up on their annual intake of vitamin D at the poolside, and I think the adults were only too happy to spend a little more time in a land with topography. For all I know they are still there, wondering if they’ll ever see a tulip-field again.

More German tourists arrived from their safari in Süd West Afrika, alarmed and outraged to discover that volcanoes could disobey the rules of flight schedules. The taxi drivers rubbed their hands with glee at the windfall. The hotel struggled to make a chicken sandwich in less than 30 minutes.

48 hours later, we decided enough was enough. Eyjafjallajokull had spent the last few millennia gathering up steam for this party and it wasn’t going to bed anytime soon.

While we waited for the airline clerk to charge us R2800 to take us back to square one, I got to thinking. Apart from Björk and a global banking crisis, what has Iceland ever given the world?

And perhaps that’s what galls me most. It’s not the wasted weekend, the string of diabolical in-flight meals, the Hotel Safari pillows with the soft touch of sandstone, the state-of-the-art breakfast room circa-1983 or the Air Namibia staff with the interpersonal skills of the ANC Youth League.

No, it’s that we can’t even ask that bankrupt island for compensation. Across Europe you’ll get slapped with a fine for tossing so much as a cigarette butt aside, but spewing thousands of tons of poisonous dust and rock across a continent? I’m willing to bet that the icy lump of North Atlantic rock gets away with this scot-free. So long Iceland, and thanks for all the ash.

First published on http://travel.iafrica.com; 20 April 2010,