In times of crisis, the true nature of “modernizing” regimes shines through the shiny glitzy surface as the frightening fount of secrecy and misinformation. Before we can leave the hotel for the gay and lesbian travel destination of London we’re all forced to sign a paper indicating we have stayed at the airport, I am made to pay my room bill twice, and told I will be “detained” if I don’t reconfirm the charges. Our minibus to the airport runs smoothly and the terminal is – thus far – not in a state of total disarray. But, it is just 6am and we’ve beat the rush of 7,000 manic travelers who will no doubt appear when the airline kicks them out of their hotels at noon.

Checking bags to Tunisia takes around 20 minutes. “There’s a problem,” the small lethargic woman behind the counter whimpers; “I need the supervisor.” She moans, as she begrudgingly waves her hand in the air. Next we have to process our refunds for the Dubai to London leg.

The line at the ticket counter is still relatively short and we make it to the desk in no time. One of the ferocious five (the nickname my friends and I given our new gang) is already in heated debate. Apparently Dubai to London is cheaper than Dubai to Barcelona, meaning we somehow OWE the airline more money. Tensions are rising as we lay out a story we’ve been told on the phone to a group of rude staff telling us we need to go to downtown Dubai for our refunds and that downtown Dubai is “the only place we can process that request.”

Fearing more misinformation, we decide to video tape this interaction as proof of our own personal nightmare. “You can’t video us,” the man says. “Now I’m going to call security and he can teach you a lesson. We’ll see how much you like that.”

Great. Now the airline is now cryptically threatening us with prison sentences, which they dole out here for things like kissing in public. We decide to move on, we may lose this battle, but as long as we get out of Dubai and get on our way to the gay and lesbian travel destination of London we are winning the war.

It is now 8am. I have now been up for 24 straight hours and 42 of the last 46 hours. The man at immigration apparently shares my exhaustion, yawning while he stamps me out of the country. A mad dash for pre-departure coffee means the “final call” lights are flashing as we approach the gate. “At least we’re here,” somebody says. Not quite. Charlotte, one of our gang members, is asked for her “paper ticket,” which we obviously don’t have because we booked online. “Sorry then, you won’t be flying.”

We may be new friends, but nobody – NOBODY – gets left behind. Either five people go to Tunisia or nobody – not us, not the flight crew, not the other passengers – goes to Tunisia. An extended argument helps them realize they’ve messed up our tickets. Well, either that they don’t want to deal with us anymore. It doesn’t really matter which.

“Whatever,” Charlotte says. “At least we’re getting out of here.”