What was worse than all of the tax stuff is that when I got to Changi, I had to check in at T1 at the Scoot counter. This is quite the process.

Basically, Scoot is a LCC (Low Cost Carrier). It might be owned by a rich uncle (SQ) but its processes are basic at best.

First you tag your own bags.

Then you have to get some sort of stamp on your boarding pass. Then you drop your bag off somewhere. And then walk to farthest end of the airport where Scoot have taken over the joint and you proceed to be barked instructions by a lot of people who look no older than 16 and who are dressed like jelly beans.

More worrying is that now I had around 3 hours to kill. My tax ordeal actually didn’t take more than 15 whole minutes.

Then I gasped.

I realized I didn’t have lounge access to anything.

*Gold doesn’t work if you’re flying Scoot. No dice there. Amex card doesn’t work with Priority Pass. No dice here. Couldn’t get into the Qantas or BA lounge for obvious reasons. And I didn’t want to pay for a pass at whatever was left.

And I didn’t want to go to T2 or T3.

So there I was. Homeless in Changi.

What was clear is that I needed a Heineken. So I found an outlet and asked another bossy woman for a beer.

“I’ll take a Heineken please”
“Ok what size?”
“What size do you have?”
“Only big one”

Instead of argue with the woman as to why did she ask me what size drink I wanted when she clearly only wanted to serve me one type I sighed and agreed to the biggest pint glass I have ever seen.

“$23” she barked
“For what?”
“Beer. You pay now”

I decided to cut my losses, reflect at my 24 hours in Changi while slowly making my way to the Scoot gate.

A while back, that slightly annoying travel blogger called Ben over at a site that will not be mentioned wrote about an ordeal he had while transiting from one airline to another at Jakarta Airport.

I know this will impress some of you, but I actually decided to read his article and actually pay attention.

I didn’t have the energy to wave my arms at a swarm of airport officials because quite frankly my Bahasa is quite rusty and didn’t want to lose the will to live.

So I actually checked my bag to Jakarta, and made peace with the fact that I would enter the country, and re enter the country a few minutes later to check in for my EK flight to Dubai and beyond.

This turned out to be a piece of cake.

And the Indonesians who are actually much cannier than the Singaporeans, have perfected the art of fleecing unsuspecting tourists and have this whole process down to a fine art.

You do everything online via barcode. You even pay the “entry” tax online. It’s literally painless.

No questions were asked as I entered the country. And none were asked when I left 5 mins later.

And thankfully I didn’t owe the Indonesian Tax Man any money.

About the only hassle is working out how to get from one terminal to the other. You have to catch the air train. And the entrance to that is about as easy to find as the Titanic.

But I did figure it out. I had to wait a bit for the EK counters to open, but no matter I found a wonderful satay restaurant close by and had dinner.

Check in was a breeze, the nice lady gave me both passes for both flights and then directed me to some lounge that EK people can use. Plaza Premium I think it was.

It was very pleasant and given that I had about 2+ hours to kill, decide to accept their offer of a massage before the flight.

The fleecing continued and I paid another trunkful of Indonesian rupees which turned out to be a pittance.

Some nice lady who called herself Daisy directed me to a quiet room and told me to get undressed and lie on the table. Now I may be ignorant of many things, but getting a massage in Asia is not one of them. I have been living and working all over the region for the better part of 25 years.

So I strip down to my birthday suit, and before I could grab the towel, Daisy lets out a shriek.

I was thinking “But I haven’t turned around yet”

She said “keep underwear on, keep underwear on”

I was thinking…actually never mind.

Daisy, the masseuse then proceeds to give me the toughest massage I have ever received in my life. I thought I was going to need a shot from an EPI pen to get me off the table.

In all the massage commotion, I never got to see the inside of the Plaza lounge. Someone let me know if it’s any good.

Finally, it was time to board the 777 to the sandpit.

And to say I wasn’t looking forward to it was an understatement…

Here we go then.