Hobo

Hobo



Like cows, they had off course fed us regularly on the flight, and I was indeed suffering from the kind of lethargy normally resulting from over-stuffing oneself; however, a hollowness also seemed to linger in the pit of my stomach.  – contrasting with the buzz of excitement around: families off on vacation, businessmen returning to families, long lost relatives reuniting etc. 



The lightening rate with which the brain ordinarily commands limbs was slowed to a slug like slouch. Faceless strangers urgently bustled past, while after thirteen hours flying, I scraped on in a trance at half steam. Desperate, I scanned signs, needing the loo...luggage carousels, coffee, customs, exit…Yes, yes all of these too, but toilet first. Then, coffee. Then…I’d have to think about it. 



Ping! Mr. Bean fashion, a catch sprang open, ejecting the contents of my bag out on display. Helpless to react, I stood and watched each of my precious belongings making contact with the gleaming granite floor, producing a horrendous clattering. The noise snapped through the air like machine gun fire, halting all and sundry to turn and stare accusingly.



Despair lurched through my stomach. The few familiar things, which I had permitted myself to bring from home, lay in a taunting circle around me. Each item had been painstakingly evaluated for practical or sentimental value and subsequent ability to bring comfort should a bout of homesickness hit. After having to mercilessly and systematically eliminate, due to weight restrictions, they were pitifully few and, therefore all the more precious.



                   Beyond, over, around each vulnerable item threatened an onslaught of footwear hovering, stomping and then, vanishing. Individual feet could be assigned personalities. Oddly, I was least fearful of the buffed business men’s brogues. Determined, they clicked along, confident, and resolute; nothing would hinder their progress. On the other hand, the leisurely loafers and sloppy flip flops terrified me. Mindlessly exploring and self concerned, they wandered a confused path. I fretted that at any moment one would land unconsidered and crush.



         Wearily risking life and limb to retrieve the treasured contents, huffily I stuffed them back into the bag. I’d found one other familiar thing anyway; self absorption and downright rudeness apparently existed globally. Whilst gathering, I was ignored by all.



         This stab of indignity pierced the fog a bit and I began to discern more clearly my surroundings. Major airports are pretty much devoid of any personality or national identity. Starbucks, HSBC and Sony can be sought almost anywhere, after all. A yet deciphered language sounds much similar to any another, and enquiring faces gawp in the same style as others, blank and alien. Only, I was the alien now.



         Expectation and reluctance hung in the air and in my stomach. I had arrived. My sense of displacement was compounded, by my attempts to catch a cab.  After retrieving my backpack, which somewhat resembled a trussed up corpse, I intrepidly stepped through some frosted glass double doors.  Instantly, I was winded by fierce accusations of ‘Tuk Tuk!’ accompanied by a jabbing finger. Aggressive pleas of, ‘You! You! Taxi?’ were only just comprehensible through the swell of foreign babble and whistles. 



Drowning in the humidity outside, I scoured the sea of exotic brown faces, toothless grins and clapping hands, and spotted what loosely resembled a taxi queue. After, a complicated procedure of waiting in line to receive a slip of paper, a uniformed lady barked and demanded I reveal the name of my hotel which she then squiggled down. Next, I found myself herded into an archaic taxi and further on my way. Other than his insistence on exaggerated sums of money to pay tolls and a suspiciously extortionate fare, clearly differing from that stated on the meter, the taxi driver said nothing more. I had no physical or emotional reserve to feed any objections and aimed only to be neatly deposited at my hotel.

 

         I was cheerfully welcomed with softly piped music and a strange concoction in a frosted glass, prettily adorned with an intensely purple orchid. My bag was respectfully taken from me, enabling me to stand up straight and stretch out the muscles in my back, breathing deeply. The cool air conditioned environment carried a faint tinge of jasmine. A receptionist, donning an exquisite fuschia pink silk uniform, efficiently and warmly checked me in. While she busied herself with paperwork, I pressed the cooled flannel which accompanied the mocktail to my forrid. Reluctance began to fade and was dominated by a warm musings about what I would do for the rest of the day. I was shown every conceivable courtesy, just as one would expect in a reputable hotel. Then just as I began to follow the bell boy away to my room, 



         “You, you…passport!”



         By the time I had turned around to see who could possibly be yelling at me in this accusatory manner, the pretty young lady behind the desk had replaced her mask of charm and servility in order to deal with another customer. Bitterly, I felt cheated; she had lulled me into a false sense of security and calm with sweet smiles and nods whilst her objectives had been accomplished, and then let the mask slip as soon as my back was turned. Simultaneously, the voice had conveyed impatience, irritation and a hint of mockery. Deceived and disillusioned, I picked up my passport forgotten up off the desk and trudged up to my room.



A quick rest, shower and change in my homogenous hotel room told me it was time to do some exploring. Intentionally, I had booked a ticket two days before I was due to meet anyone from the new office as I it had seemed important for me to get a foothold on my own first. Feeling at a disadvantage was not a favourite feeling of mine. 



Outside, a dishwater grey sky burdened the cityscape. Doubts, that I’d been struggling to suppress, buoyed and surged. Battling against inexplicable tears, I ventured down the busy street. Every shophouse I passed had its big shutter open. Despite the fact that I estimated it was only around three in the afternoon, inside all was cavernous gloom. In most, I could make out bodies lounging listlessly on mats or ornate and extremely uncomfortable looking wooden benches watching TV.

Hunger and daring niggling at me, I ducked into the first noodle shop I passed. I regretted it, instantly. The establishment had the concrete feel of a cell. It boasted a selection of rust encrusted blue and red metal foldaway tables accompanied by cheap patio plastic stools. When my eyes had dispelled the searing brightness outside, I discerned the proprietor and other customers regarding me with frigid stares. Inwardly, I delivered a strict pep talk and sensibly advised they were probably just anxious about speaking English. The owner thrust a grubby looking laminated card at me which contained a list of comically spelled dishes. I pointed to something called chicken flied lice and gave the broadest grin I could muster. He grunted, wiped his hands on his filthy apron and hobbled off. He did not smile.



Over in a dark corner at the back of the shop, an emaciated octogenarian clad in a grimy white vest picked his teeth and stared without the slightest reserve. Embarrassed, I looked away. I looked back.  I met with the same expressionless but intent look. Again, I looked away red-faced. After a few rematches and defeats, I began to feel a rise of exasperation. What was he looking at? Didn’t he know it was rude to stare? Although there was nothing perverse or lecherous in the gaze, the feeling of openly being examined inch by inch felt like an invasion. The shop was actually pretty chock-full of animated diners, with the exception of the creepy old man in the corner. Ringing out at frequent intervals was a sound which sent me spinning back through years to a July afternoon spent on the lawn at Auntie Liz’s.



Lurching stacks of treacle coloured scones, frothing with luscious whips of cream and glossy strawberries, basked beneath the blue sky. Dainty triangles of airy white bread sandwiched slithers of cool cucumber and curls of creamy butter in regimented rows. Proudly presiding over his troops, a pompous teapot boasted, brimming with robust brew.  This posh display instantly prompted my Mum to adopt her telephone voice and a ridiculous grandiose air, making my brothers and I nudge each other, grin and roll our eyes. Bit by bit, the spread was devoured in an appropriately elegant manner and all revelers reclined in striped deckchairs to soak up the flagging afternoon rays. Even young Darren, normally fractious and fidgety seemed lulled to submission. The rest of the day was assured to be whiled away in a haze of dwindling sunshine. An unseen lawnmower poured forth the scent of freshly cut grass and birds began their evening chorus, but were then disrespected by something at first guttural. Then, blasting from the very abyss of Uncle Barry’s abundant belly blasted the most horrendous noise.



A flurry of flighty activity erupted, clearing of plates, shaking of crumbs lacy table drapes and disproving glowers. Affronted ladies filed into the house like rabbits down a hole. A mountain of washing up and careful drying with tea towels was much more preferable to any more of that noxious affront. The balmy afternoon ambience had been obliterated by Barry’s belch.

Now, pungent five spice, ginger and smoked chillis attacked every sense, benumbing alertness to almost everything else, but amidst the clamour of steel pan and plate commonly used in such street-side eateries, those matronly beings would be alert only to the cacophony of burps vented from every patron. An orchestra of eructating customers, vigorously gusting forth their sincere admiration of the chef, would close in around them and shock them to the core. It tickled me to think of Mum and Aunts would make of this place.



Practicalities done with, I was now free to do whatever I wanted. But what was that? Sure, there was an endless list of attractions and highlights listed in the guidebook that I had longingly poured over on the plane, but none seem to hold any allure now. As I strayed down the street, my presence seemed to initiate one of two extreme responses. People either completely disregarded me, running over my feet with carts or wandering directly into my path blindly refusing to acknowledge any potential collision, so I would be forced to abruptly veer away, or in the other extreme, to intently gawp at the spectacle I gathered I must be, two heads above everyone else and clearly out of my depth.



Battling through the crowds and the thick blanket of heat which was quite an unnecessary layer under the heavy tarpaulin which supposedly protected from a fierce sun, I was appalled by the array of rubbish people were clambering over one another to purchase. Lumps of flesh and organs from some pitiful creature broiling on a blackened grill; knitted toilet roll holders created from dayglo yarns and DVD players of makes ,such as ‘Penasonic’ and ‘Soni’ lined the pavement. Every so often, I would pass tourists exclaiming over the treasures that they had discovered, giggling in their group or couple at the memorable vacation anecdotes they were collecting. 



Then, the blitz began. The heavens let fall a brash from the previously ignored ominous clouds. The weather instigated a soggy battering of the masses. Simultaneously, they dove. Bedecked with their treasures encased in plastic, the throng sought cover. The bustle of seconds before disintegrated. As gutters overflowed, cramped sanctuaries were now brimming with exiles. How long would they have to bunker down? Caught unawares and unprepared they baffled as to how to proceed. A babble of moans and sighs berated the skies. The self absorbed buzz of moments before dissipated to leave a united kowtowing of silence. Feet shuffled back from the bilge which ebbed along the pavements.  Overpowered by the might of above, the blinkered existence of moments ago, paying no heed the wider picture, lives too bulky to leave any room for consideration of anyone or anything else was dissipated and strangers became allies in cahoots. Grins and shakes of the head were explained and a sense of camaraderie bloomed.



I looked to my left. Standing there was the most heavily made up old lady I’d seen. She wore cerise trousers and a black silk blouse printed with blooms of every colour of the spectrum. Around her neck and circling her fingers she wore so much gold jewelry I puzzled as to how such a small frame could bare so much weight. A thick mask of ivory coloured powder caked her face, and the puckered skin of her lips bled a fluorescent pink lipstick. Above her the wrinkled folds of her eyes, two eyebrows had been tattooed in swooping thin arches about a centimeter above her brow bone. Along with an impossible receding hairline, this gave her the look of someone unexpectedly had their feet swept from under them and, at that exact moment in time, experienced permanent facial paralysis. She peered through the torrent of cascading rain, tutted, mumbled under her breath and disappeared in side. A minute later, she re-emerged carry two plastic stools stacked atop each other and a couple of oranges. She placed one of the stools down next to me, motioning for me to sit and she parked herself on the other one. Still looking out onto the street, she extended one of the oranges sideways to me, shook her head and began to peel.