Air Ambulance to Hong Kong

It would be a strange — or very wealthy — person who wasn’t excited about travelling on a private jet. Sure, in our case, said private jet is an air ambulance, and said air ambulance has been preceded by a broken arm and rising five days of logistical hell, of which helicopter evac was only one small part.

But STILL. It’s a private jet, right? That’s exciting!

On arrival at Ulaanbaatar’s Chinggis Khan International Airport (yes, really — I promise I am not making this up), Zac is cleared for transport to the private jet/air ambulance, and wheeled off across the tarmac.

I, our bags and an airport official dive off into the bowels of Chinggis Khan International Airport, ducking through a bewildering maze of dingy corridors and locked doors.

Ulaanbaatar security takes a while. Our bags are fine-toothed – let’s face it, an air ambulance would make an excellent smuggling tool – our visas are checked and stamped. And then it’s back through bewildering back routes to the tarmac, where I am reunited with my spawn.

SOS Medica need their stretcher back, so Zac’s encouraged to walk on board, draped only in a sheet, with a steadying arm from Doctor Rama.

Even with the morphine, this is painful. But he manages the six steps, and, as he does so, I’m extremely proud of him. And relieved.

I have LOVED Mongolia. But I want my son somewhere they can fix his arm, and I’ve been fighting for this for rising five days now – and it’s still not over.

Over 100 hours out from injury, the ONLY treatment Zac’s had for his broken arm has been painkillers and splinting. I’m simultaneously exhausted and in scary flat calm, obsessionally double-checking everything.

I run through my mental checklist. Surgery, recuperation, evacuation. When will he need to be on nil-by-mouth? Can I still remember what drugs he’s had when, can I find my notes? Do we fly to Beijing to connect to our existing flights into the UK? Can Zac really travel Air Astana with a long layover in Kazakhstan post-surgery? Am I on this? Are all bases covered?

Yes, I conclude. They are. I’ve got litigation a phone call away if our cover gets pulled, which it shouldn’t, I’ve got a verified, expert surgeon doing the arm, and we’re flying private jet, not scheduled.

I feel like crying. But for Zac, my little travelling child it’s… Well, just another day, really. His gaming arm works, so what’s the problem?

Our private jet boasts a very neat, blingy interior. It’s not a Learjet, sadly, but a Deer Jet, a Chinese copy whose mid-80s vintage is thoroughly confirmed by the welter of velour and walnut veneer, not to mention the gold taps in the bathroom and the padded leather loo seat.

The cockpit takes up the other end of the plane, and the door’s left open on an exciting array of buttons, levers and flashing lights.

Zac opts to travel lying down on a stretcher, rather than upright on a sofa. I opt for a spinny CEO-style armchair, noting that his stretcher placement is set up for full life support and thanking my secular deity quietly but whole-heartedly that we don’t need this.

It’s going to be a while before takeoff, apparently. We’ve missed our slot because the guy who’s supposed to check the pilots’ papers hasn’t got to this part of the tarmac yet.

Heyho. Zac, with pupils like pinpricks, goes on the morphine nod. I make smalltalk with the pilots.

The pilots sift through the meal options in plastic boxes. Would we like steak?

Well, yes, as it happens, we would. And, yes, we would further like asparagus (and, no, Zac, I’ll have yours). And Chinese mushrooms. And some of those dauphinoise potatoes.

Is there anywhere I can smoke?

Not here, says the non-Chinese pilot, with the tensely superior air of a man who has recently given up. I miss Doctor Suki, who would undoubtedly have known the perfect spot.

Paperwork checked, final OK, and we race down the runway – I don’t know why it is, but a small plane always feels faster than a big plane on takeoff.

Farewell Mongolia, oh glorious steppes, oh golden Gobi that we never visited. From the air, Ulaanbaatar looks even smaller than it is, a clutter of lego bricks in a vast expanse of green.

I miss this country. I wanted to explore so much more of it, and now we’re leaving it behind, and in the way of these places it will be many years before we or I are back. I miss Mongolia, even as I celebrate leaving it.

Zac sleeps through the steak, which is a shame, as it’s cooked flawlessly rare: never having flown First Class in my life, I’ve never encountered airline beef served at anything other than shoe leather consistency.

He doesn’t sleep through Wuhan, China, a city whose name for me associated with, firstly, an epic, slow motion car crash, and, secondly, with the most miserable winters in China (a travelling reader was suffering through one while we were in Harbin).

Wuhan doesn’t disappoint.

“Wow,” Zac says. “It’s exactly like something out of 1984.”

“Really?” I say, inspecting the array of flame-belching chimneys, the tainted neon skyline and an epic pollution haze. “It looks more like Bladerunner to me.”

“Nah,” says Zac. “That’s where Bladerunner got it from. The pyramids in Bladerunner come from 1984: MiniTru, MiniPax, MiniLuv.”

And then the morphine hits again and he nods off.

I work steadily through the food options, wondering sadly to myself why on earth there’s no alcohol on board. Oh, yeah, it’s an emergency medical evacuation, not a leisure flight. But, fuck, if ever an occasion called for champagne, this did.

Although, I conclude dourly, it’s probably a good idea to arrive at the hospital sober. Not a good look to have two of us stretchered in…

It’s around 11pm when the glittering, dazzling Hong Kong skyline hovers into view, lapped in black ocean. A gentle landing, and the doors open onto that velvety, tropical heat, the dark embrace of an equatorial night, like someone wrapping your skin in heavy, damp silk.

It’s only our third visit to Hong Kong but it feels – oddly – like coming home. We know this place. This is easy.

More fannying around with paperwork. I’m gagging for a cigarette.

“Where can I smoke?” I ask the Chinese pilot, in rubbish Chinese.

“In here,” he says. This response is so unexpected, I think I’ve misunderstood him.

“He’s saying you can smoke in here,” says the non-Chinese pilot. “It’s fine if the pilot says OK.”

Wow! It’s not quite champagne, but a cigarette on a plane is pretty darn fabulous, and an excellent way to pass the time while waiting for excruciatingly awful paperwork. A cigarette on a plane is extra-special, btw, when said plane is a private jet, y’all.

Paperwork done, we wake Zac up and load him onto an ambulance. It’s a serious-ass ambulance, with a rollable bed that offers more bells and whistles and general adjustability than anything I have ever seen in the UK.

Next up? Getting in touch with Zac’s dad. He’d expected to get in a day or so after us, but the emergency evacuation took so bloody long to arrange that he’s beaten us to Hong Kong.

The pocket in my camera bag offers me a range of SIM choices, from Nepal to Timor Leste by way of Australia and Greece, but my Chinese SIM has gone the way of the ghost.

Zac’s father doesn’t have a Hong Kong SIM yet, so I text his Australian SIM from my UK SIM, letting him know we’ve landed and are en route. We agree to meet him at the hospital.

He seems pretty zen. Insha’allah, from here is going to be plain sailing.

At least, I hope so, because it’s rising 1am and the last full night’s sleep I had was on a reindeer herder’s floor in the Mongolian taiga, and that was a while ago.

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