And so our final journey begins. We have an hour’s internal flight, a ninety minute pause at the international airport and then forty-one thousand seconds winging our way across the Atlantic ocean. Through the night. It’s an attractive proposition by anyone’s standards. But first we need to get to the airport.
It’s too far to walk, damn it. For our different reasons, we stand in mortal fear of the journey. I’ve not known this much trepidation since I first faced a firing squad or that Barbers’ Quartet of angry Chinese laundry men.
We sat in silence as the cab belted along deserted highways, jungle tracks and cobbled streets. For much of the time apparently on just one or two wheels. My mother and T huddled, heads bowed, eyes shut and hands clenched. S waved gaily out of the window. I threw breadcrumbs down periodically as a sure-fire way of finding retracing our steps.
We burst through a bush and skid to halt outside Departures.
We retrieve our luggage.
I look at the driver. I look at my family.
Stabbing wildly at the notice in hieroglyphics, I shout something incomprehensible in Mandarin, or it might have been Amharic. I wave my arms and skip a little. I shake my head and make squawking noises. And hand him three times the amount displayed on his digital meter. Fuck it, we’re leaving.
He is dumbfounded.
I smile at T and my mum. They smile back. S waves goodbye.
We catch our plane home.
Don't forget to bring your typical English spring gear: wool coat, umbrella and galoshes.
Posted by: Mrs RW | Friday, 20 April 2007 at 01:43 AM