Ray Charles and Nora Jones play a bittersweet melody as we hurtle through the air at a height of 7834km. A 3d globe projection charts our 4369mile flight path. The depicted journey closely resembles Hawkin’s diagram of curved space-time, even now our movements are inseparable from the physical laws that govern our bodies.
My mouth feels as if a sloppy caretaker has emptied a bag of sawdust into it. In a final salute to Western culture we indulged in overpriced venti coffees and home county brewed ales. Final sips of familiar tastes we leave behind.
As we reached the airport gates we met a flow of arrivals. Travelers from Mumbai decked in tan brown loafers, neat blue denims and suit jackets accompanied by graying ladies flowing in burnt orange silk saris. Swimming upstream in loose cotton clothing, we looked out of place among the high powered fashion ensembles.
The twit and I deal with the travel tension separately. Heading into the unknown, the twit seeks out tools from the ordinary; an in-flight paper bag will serve as a useful vomit sack on a future bumpy bus ride. Silk serviettes are seized for their potential to block the suns glare through transport windows. A compass and a space blanket protect against the threat of airplane failure. Myself, I exercise my own set of rituals. Continual rehearsal of mathematics that will convert me pounds to rupees in fast paced situations. I calculate the distance from the airport to our accommodation, exercise my barter start point, and test the limits of what I will pay. I re-read the culture section of my guide book to ensure I am equipped to deal with cultural conversions, will not offend societal etiquette, and hopefully, maybe, will not portray the vulnerable novice I inevitably feel that I am.
I tap my feet and shake my head to the heartworm blues that pump through my entertainment system. An in flight multimedia free for all, serving to distract us from the fact that we are hurtling through the air at a height and speed that god, nature and all never intended.
Our fellow travelers are varied. We spied another couple ruffling through the pages of a well known guide book. His dark wiry hair contrasted her blond strands, but there the contrasts end, as sequenced movements and strategic packing sequences reveal a long learnt comfort and understanding between the two. Opposite us, two Indian middle aged men furrowed brows at financial newspapers; balding heads framed by dark suits and neatly knotted ties. Young men carry sacks of duty free bounties to present to proud parents at home, and disheveled parents herd overexcited dark haired children to the boarding gate.
Six hours and thirty minutes until our destination. Now the twit and I will carry out a final ritual against fear of the unknown. A diazepam and a whisky will wrap us up and ensure that we float to our Mumbai landing. Sweet dreams until then. Once at Mumbai we will wait for our domestic transfer to Goa.
Goa airport is the most kitsch I’ve seen, with its plastic statues of men riding swans, and imitation cards making up the baggage return rack, in homage to the local casino. And outside the battalions of taxi drivers and luggage handlers, waiting to pounce upon you for business.
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