Thursday, June 29, 2017

An Airport Contemplation (Day 1: KL-Kathmandu)

I slept at the airport. 

A 10 hours layover is not an easy task when you have a freshly numbed heart. That moment when you have a long bruise that has hardened you know it's there but you no longer feel it. And I had all the time myself to cheat all my transitioning rules: expecting him to say take care, to check me in between flights, to at least leave some marks of his presence online so I know his whereabout. But he didn't - as he never were. It was always the other people - my dad, my sister, my friends - but not him. And I swallowed a hard truth I painted on my transition diary last night: I wanted to quit, I've been wanting to, I need to, I have to. And as a Capricorn, I will get what I want. 

I was waiting for a pre-travel thrill to trump this empty numbness, but the thrill never really came. I should've been panicked from my badly calculated decision not to exchange my currency outside the airport, doubled with a hesitant trade of only US$ 100 at the Jakarta airport. Wrong move, since currency exchanges in KLIA has neither a better rate nor a direct IDR-USD conversion. But I was calm, open to possibilities. I left my toothbrush, knee support, and a proper pants home, but I have no concern, thinking I might bring a cute Nepalese pants home. I have mixed feelings about my running shoes - not sure if it'll be of use given the infamous  polluted air of Kathmandu, but feeling incomplete still without it. All of these just reminded me that my calmness in having no plan has evolved overtime, and so the gradual decrease of the pre-travel excitement and nervousness. After all, we have all these technology. 

I had a 10 dollars worth of beer and a much cheaper bowl of noodle at KLIA, the former I bought for the ambience of the selling place; the latter for hunger. But anywhere I roam the airport is dead, with all of its life supporting equipments alive. No people, no conversation. I finally managed to sneak into my sleeping bag by 3am, occasionally interrupted with the noise that people or cleaning machine made, but never fully awake. I like staying in the airport during the long intervals in between flights, and I have this vision to keep it that way. It use to disturb me that as people's wealth and status rise up, they stop doing things they did when they are young - things that usually correlated with lack of money, but not always so in fact. I always thought a transit hotel as an unnecessary comfort. And what's a comfort when you're locking yourself down in an empty room, surrounded by TV and empty walls? Only to rise really early in the morning and fly again? Let travel be travel, I like it that way. Sleeping at airports have drawn me some memories of my youth - backpacking solo for the first time, chatting with taxi drivers; catch some 3 flights to a remote location for a campus thing right after my grandmother's burial ceremony; and other occurrence I lost track of those memories. But I never felt ashame for sleeping at the airport. 



The long 10 hours finally ended and the gate showing Kathmandu sign and my flight number opens. As unfortunate luck can be, I sat in the window seat that has no window, and to my alley side was a couple of obesed Australians who ordered soda as their first drink in the morning. But even before flying, their warmth melted my fragile heart already. "What gets you to Kathmandu?" the male Aussie asked. Such a simple question to make me feel welcome - a greeting I rarely encountered in my increasing frequent flights. Question that has reminded me of my first days of travels, curiously greeting everyone, big smile here and there, though occasionally bury myself in books after get bored of chit chats. And sometimes you get a genuinely interesting conversation as well. I put down my books, started a quick chat with this couple, who turned out came over to Nepal from Brisbane to attend a close friend's wedding. 

Some hours in the sky, when the food has been served and I'm enjoying a rice cake with a cup of (a storage-tasted) coffee, head tilted, drowned in Nguyen's Sympathizer, the person in front of me suddenly moved his chair, causing the coffee to jump and my head almost knocked by the sudden force. I was almost mad, screaming "Holy smoke!!" as a reflect. This couple ensure if I was okay, then I heard this Aussie dude saying, with a grin, "You're lucky that your coffee did not spill!" It was a very quick ride down. If you can recall that moment when you're about to throw a tantrum but a simple thing suddenly soothe down your angry meter, that was it. I smiled, almost cry. It's such a simple thing: I was lucky. No matter how bad it was and how my anger was ready to blow, I forgot the fact that the coffee did not spill, or even topped over completely, has made it much, much better. 

So here I am now, somewhere in the sky between India and Nepal, still flying, heart still aching with the kind of ache you cannot really feel. I don't know what Kathmandu has to offer, or the mountains back there. It won't heal in the same way as other travels I had before. I am changing as a traveler, as a mountaineer, as a child of mother nature. I am changing in embracing and accepting life's tasty flavors and its bitter pills. Not to mention I was, and I am, lucky in many ways. And my page is freshly opened, seeking ways to refill it again.