Haig, A Road to Utopia, pg.
“ Lo—ok, l-o-o-k part of the wing is loose. We must stop. Pl-ea--se stop the plane. Stop, st-o-p. ” The voice came from a Hindu gentleman who is seated with his wife and two small children near the back of the plane. The fear in his voice is unequivocal and quickly spreads to several passengers who start to panic; adrenaline pushes through my veins; my ears begin to ring; a surge of blood rushes to my brain; my eyes bulge. The only clear thoughts in my mind are, “how can this be happening?” and “I’m going to die.” Chaos ensues as passengers scramble to get a look out of one of the eight small windows on our side of the plane. I jump up with a strong sense of urgency to peer over the seat in front of me which offers a better look. A piece of the wing about a meter long is loose. More voices start to call out in distress. It takes me a minute before I realize that some are speaking a different language, but the message is clear. Demands to stop the plane continue unabated for what feels like an eternity. Finally one of the stewards makes his way towards the cockpit door through a melee of anguished passengers, most of who are now standing in the aisle. The fear is palatable. The other steward follows behind the first one; when they reach the cockpit door; one positions himself so that he is facing us, making it impossible for anyone to gain access to the flight cabin. The cockpit door opens and shuts in a flash as the first steward goes in. Time is going by mercilessly slowly; all the while anxiety in the cabin continues to rage. The engines finally cough and shut down, but this by no means ends the unease that is now etched on everyone’s faces. It has already been a very long day filled with delays and uncertainty. The captain and the co-pilot eventually come out of the cockpit. The two attendants clear a path to the back of the plane for them. All the while, they are carrying on an animated conversation, accompanied with a lot of posturing. A peacock would have been proud. I can’t understand what they are saying. I pray the discussion is about who is going to drive the plane back to the terminal.
The captain, followed closely by the co-pilot, disembarks from the only door at the rear of the plane. After a couple of minutes, one of the stewards follows carrying what looks like a hammer in his hand. The concern in the cabin continues to escalate, louder and louder voices ring out in an attempt to be heard.
“ Please remain calm, ” one voice says louder than all the rest. It comes from my traveling companion, Po. By the tone and intonation in his speech he imparts a feeling of calm over the cabin, voices slowly quiet down to audible whisper.“ We will all be fine if we remain calm, ” he restates, as if it were a matter of fact.
Now a passenger in the seat in front of us informs the whole plane that the co-pilot is now pushing the steward onto the wing. From the view out of my window I can see the steward swing a hammer down on the wing several times in rapid succession. I lose count after six. He tugs at it a few times to see if it is secure then strikes the wing a few more times with the hammer; finally pausing he bends down to speak to the pilot. The conversation gets animated; the steward on the wing waves the hammer above his head and shakes his head from side to side as if to say no. I didn’t know that this means yes in this part of Asia. The two pilots on the ground continue to tug at the wing; resuming what, at times, appears to be a fiery discussion. The steward finally jumps to the ground, and then they all turn in unison and walk towards the plane. A few moments later they enter looking wind blown and agitated. Voices inside the plane are quick to make demands, but because of the mixture of accents and languages it all sounds chaotic. The flight crew, accompanied by the two stewards, makes their way en masse to the cockpit, trying not to directly push anyone out of the way. Several of the passengers attempt to block their way. They eventually make it to the cabin door, but it’s a close thing.
“Ladies and gentleman we will be continuing our flight now thank you,” says the pilot in Afghani and then perfect English as he disappears into the cockpit. One Indian gentleman tries to get through the cabin door but is bluntly repulsed by the stewards. In a short time the prop engines start to turn, sputtering to life once again. As their speed increases, the plane begins to shake. Almost everyone inside the plane is now standing; some begin to push towards the windows for a better view of the wing. One of the passengers who has a good view informs the rest of us that the wing is holding. Voices echo a sigh of relief mixed with equal amounts of desperation and fear. A voice rings out louder than the others.
“We can’t fly. We must return. Make them return. ” The voice is addressed to no one in particular, and no one acts on the words that were spoken with a feeling of impending doom.
The roar of the prop engines reaches a pitch that muffles the cries of a planeload of terrified passengers. The plane begins to really shudder as it lurches forward. What was I thinking? Here I am in Kabul Afghanistan on the very day the Russians begin a military occupation. Looking out the small window all I can see is an armada of military aviation superiority, yet I’m about to fly over the Himalayas, the highest mountains in the world, on my way to India, in an old dilapidated DC 3 that looks like it belongs in a museum. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined this. The scene would be comical if I wasn’t so scared. The irony of the situation is that all I’d ever intended to do was to follow the freedom of the open road to Europe. My name is Hamish Holloway; just this spring I graduated from university with a Bachelor of Arts degree in English. In the last few months I‘ve come face to face with the unforeseen reality that I’m now unfit for over eighty percent of the jobs in the employment market. I’ve no idea what I want to do in life-- a life suddenly in peril of ending. Like all life stories mine doesn’t begin here, but it all comes down to this moment.
“ There is only one thing that can make a dream impossible to achieve; the fear of failure. ”
“ What do you mean? ” I finally ask.
I try to ask Po more questions but he just turns to me and gives me a smile. He’s like that: he utters one or two sentences and then says nothing; but what he does say speaks volumes, and usually ends up with me going into long periods of intense introspection. The only thing that is clear right now is my fear.
I left Canada a mere three days ago. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then. I struggle to make sense of everything that has happened. I was in New York’s JFK airport waiting to purchase a ticket for a discount flight to London. The uncertainties which arise on the start of a new adventure had left me feeling exhausted, alone, and scared. I remember fighting my way through large crowds of people in the airport trying to find a specific ticket counter when I heard, “Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Hare, Hare…” The words were repeated over and over, accompanied by an intoxicating rhythm of chimes and drums. Eventually I lit on a group of Hare Krishna devotees dancing and singing in a circle. They’re even a common site in Winnipeg, dressed in their saffron robes, flowing beads, and shaved heads. They always manage to attract a curious audience. I wondered what they were doing in the airport. One of them, a young woman, approached me and asked if I would like a copy of their magazine; it featured a picture of a blue guy playing a flute while standing on one foot in front a big white cow. The guy wore a dress and was encircled in a halo of light. Before I could say no she gave me the magazine and moved on. I had stood and watched the group for a while; and soon found myself singing along to the addictive beat, which helped to soothe my growing anxieties. For the first time in several days I had started to relax. Then airport security came along and intervened in the concert, forcing the dancers to leave, and in doing so caused a bottleneck of people trying to escape the scene. I found myself being consumed by a crowd of harried people. In an attempt to escape I turned and stepped right into a man coming from the other direction. Feeling tired, agitated, and more than a little vulnerable, I let go my frustrations in a burst of anger.
“Watch out! What are you blind? ” I shouted. At the moment I faced my supposed assailant I was confronted by the sight of a most unusual man. He commanded a real presence. His physical beauty was extraordinary: a luminous quality radiated around him, immediately setting him apart from the maddening crowd.
“Yes, I am,” he answered calmly.
Time stopped; the words, ‘what a stupid thing to say,’ appeared in my mind’s eye. Despite desperately wanting to redeem myself, nothing came out of my mouth. I stood motionless looking into his eyes for what seemed like a long time. A warm blanket of comfort came over me. There was no ill will in him, just an overpowering sense of what I can only describe as forgiveness; I could, and still can, feel a current of energy radiating from him.
“ I am sorry I did not mean -” but before I could complete the sentence, he spoke.
“ It is of no concern. ” Words that the instant he said them felt unquestionably genuine.
“ Perhaps we could find a seat? ” he said in a voice undisturbed by an accent. His speech sounded old-country proper; there was something uncommon about the emphasis and inflection that he placed on certain words. The voice is strong and clear, while at the same time conveys a profound gentleness. I realize now that it’s not the words so much as the rhythm in which speaks. It’s melodic; its tone defies ego or emotion. I found myself, in JFK airport and ever since, feeling very fortunate to be with him. I remember consciously trying to shift my focus, embarrassed to be staring at him so openly. His eyes didn’t shift; they continued to look straight through me, or so it seemed.
I recall at one point looking down at his clothes. He was dressed then as he is now, in a large light-orange shirt that hangs loose and flows down to just above his knees with a matching pair of pants that hang well above his ankles: an outfit that I’ve seen many East Indians in Canada wear. On his feet he wears a simple pair of sandals without socks despite the chill in the air; across one shoulder he carries a pair of well-worn saddlebags of indeterminate age. Po is a small and thin man, but somehow manages to carry himself in a way that suggests he’s seven feet tall, when in reality he is a full head and shoulder shorter than my 188cms. In one hand he carried, as he does now, a black wooden cane that has an unusual round circle on the top. The circle is large enough to fit his hand through it, or simply to rest it on top. In his other hand he carries a wooden box the shape of a briefcase. The case rarely leaves his side. At first I thought he was frail, but his presence seems to swell. When I look into his face he appears timeless; he has a wonderfully smooth complexion uncomplicated by age, except for two creases around his mouth punctuating the nicest set of dimples. He wears an ever-present smile that is free from worry and stress. His eyes, despite being blind, radiate an intense glow. His whole being shines with a clear sense of purity. I have never seen anyone quite like him before. He seems timeless and so vibrantly alive. I’m simply transfixed by his presence.
Shortly after our first encounter, I felt a push in my back as someone bumped into me. I fell forward but just as I was about to fall into Po, I felt a force repelling my frame back to a standing position! I can’t explain what happened exactly, only that I should have fallen into him. Instead, I seemed to float in space as if being repelled by some invisible force. Before I could ask him what had happened, he spoke again.
“ May I ask you to help me find a seat? ” The voice sounded sincere and was spoken in such a manner that begged to be answered positively.
“ Sure let’s find a safe area where we won’t get run over, ” I replied and started to move off when I heard him ask.
“ May I take your arm? ”
“ Sure, ” I replied, eager to make up for my impertinence in any way I could. His hand moved to a position above my elbow; I clearly remember that it exuded and amplified warmth, as if generated by its’ own power supply. I moved toward a row of seats some five or so meters in front of us and he followed my lead. Several people interrupted our path and I had to adjust my speed several times. All the while the hand on my arm moved in ease with my movements. We reached the area without further harm; spotting a couple of free seats to my left I motioned for us to go over and sit. I had waited for him to follow my motion but he didn’t move; he just continued looking straight ahead.
“ We can sit over there, ” I suggested.
“ Yes, if you would be so kind as to show me where there is.” Oh wow! It hit me; he’s blind and I’m pointing things out. My first reaction was to apologize, but once again the words failed to come out. The noise in the busy terminal had been almost deafening; yet it seemed to me as if I was in a bubble of displaced calm. I moved so that I was in front, and he once again placed a warm hand on my arm. I slowly moved towards the vacant chairs, hoping that I wouldn’t say something stupid or make another inane gesture; he followed my motions with a minimum of effort and a maximum of grace.
“ There is a seat right behind you, ” I offered.
“ You have been most kind.”
“ It is the least I could do for someone who is, ” I paused searching for the proper thing to say, “ ah, who saved me from falling. ”
He replied by sweeping his head in a semicircular motion and smiling, as if he had a secret. The whole experience left me feeling like I was the one who was handicapped. After we both sat down I leaned over so I could stare directly at him.
“ Yes I am blind, ” he said suddenly. I jumped back surprised to be have been caught looking.
“ Oh! I’m sorry. ”
“ What is it that you are sorry for? ”
“ I…I….I…. ” I stammered, and then tried to say something else. But my tongue had swelled up, choking out any possibility of sound coming from my throat.
“ I am Po, ” he said introducing himself with a slight ceremonial bow from the shoulders. The gesture struck me as uncommonly humble.
“ Glad to meet you, Po. ” The name was simple enough. His manner put me at ease, effectively making us instant friends. I, once again, noticed his black cane and wondered why it wasn’t white.
“ I am Hamish Holloway, ” I said, and I reached out to shake his hand. I was just about to take it back, recognising the stupidity of such an action, when his hand moved and greeted mine; he shook my hand with a gentle but confident stroke. We then settled into an amazingly comfortable silence. I usually found silence after an introduction unsettling, but this was different. I remember feeling more relaxed than I had been in a long time.
“ Amazing - Hare Krishna’s right in the middle of JFK airport; a phenomenon right out of India, ” I said after a few minutes. The comment was offered more as an observation than anything else, but as soon as I said it, it sounded like I was condemning them so I had quickly added, “I’ve seen them in Winnipeg. They look more than a little of out place don’t you think? ” I was not helping myself, and immediately began feeling uncomfortable.
“ You are Canadian? ” His tone put me at ease.
“ Yes, ” I replied with pride. A few minutes went by before I found the courage to speak again, “I’m on my way to London. Are you waiting for a flight? ”
“ I am going to London as well, ” he said. I decided his accent was highly polished, suggesting a good education, but once again it wasn’t the words that intrigued me so much but the vitality in his speech, and his over-all character, was simply hypnotizing.
“ I am waiting for the Laker Airways flight and you? ” I said while concentrating on my presentation, like a student would do in a diction class. I felt compelled to demonstrate my good breeding. My mother would have been proud of me. She always said that if you have good manners you will be accepted anywhere, and I wanted to be accepted by this man. At the time I put it down to feeling anxious, insecure, and desperately not wanting to be alone.
“ I am also waiting for the Laker flight to London, ” he answered.
Remembering that it was a no frills flight I saw an opportunity to be of some assistance to him and make up for my earlier insensitivities.
“ Can I offer you my assistance getting on the flight? ” I said, hoping not to offend him.
“ I would be honored. ” Honored no less; Po, as I reflect upon it is not a man to waste words.
“ Have you been to London before? ” I asked.
“ Yes, have you? ” he replied, deflecting the conversation away from himself, and in doing so maintaining his mystery.
As we sat in the airport waiting for our flight I had launched into a brief history of myself; explaining to him that I was returning to London, a city that I had lived in for four years, but that was four years ago. He didn’t interrupt my discourse and appeared to listen whole-heartedly to my every word. I remember going on and on as if I had been suffering in silence for a long time, and was conscious of trying to impress him with my worldliness. I confessed to him that I was seeking excitement and adventure. Mercifully Po did not laugh. After my soliloquy I felt like I’d been saved from loneliness; the reasons why didn’t seem so important at the time.
The sudden sputtering and coughing of the propellers brings me back to the present with a jolt. Wanting to avoid looking out the window I press my eyes closed. I keep thinking about why I’m here, and can’t escape asking myself if there isn’t a lesson to be learned from all of this. I wonder, and not for the first time, if there’s a purpose for Po and I being brought together. I admit to intuitively feeling that there are no random coincidences in life, so perhaps there is a reason for our meeting. I feel comforted by this rationalization, but then again, look where I am.
History has taught me that survival is instinctive, but the choices one makes are not. In the past week I’ve felt like the cartoon character Wile E. Coyote, chasing the Roadrunner through a utopian dream. Nothing seems real. Unquestionably I’m very insecure and frightened right now. Praying comes to mind. I’m not religious, but I hear it’s never too late. I feel Po adjust his seat next to me as my body continues to stiffen with tension.
“ Be calm and take a few deep breaths. Everything will be alright, ” Po says with genuine compassion. Somehow he understands my condition, telling me the very thing I need to hear most. I follow his advice and feel a little calmer after a few breaths. Po then takes my hand and applies pressure in a couple of places between my finger and my thumb. Quickly my body responds with a tingling that radiates up my arm; a coat of warmth soon envelopes me; my muscles relax and I melt into my seat.
The plane continues to vibrate. We continue to sit on the tarmac for what feels like ever. The two flight attendants, clearly agitated by the whole experience, start to show us where our life preservers are. Believe me; I waste no time in finding mine. Only then does it hit me: what do I need a life preserver for? There is no water here. I look out at the desert just to confirm that it is real, but find no comfort in the discovery. There’s no décor in the plane, just the metal skin of an old decrepit DC 3 stripped bare. Where did they get this plane from? I noticed when we were boarding that it’s painted all white on the outside except for a red flag on the tail; it had struck me that the paint job must be new because in this climate nothing stays pristine for long. The plane had no markings or identifiable insignias on anything that would give me a clue to its history. How high, I wonder, can these old buckets fly? I catch myself before pondering the subject further: it’s not helping matters.
A few moments later the two propellers begin to cough. I try in vain to assure myself that everything is going to be okay. The plane begins to taxi to the end of the runway, passing by numerous Russian military planes. The hum of helicopters persists. I venture a quick glance out the window; there are no troops that I can see, but they’re conspicuous by their absence. Someone is flying the helicopters.
Abruptly our plane turns completely around and stops. The engines begin to scream. As we begin to move forward the tail rises in the air as we start to pick up speed; we literally bounce along the runway. The pilot attempts to take off, but the plane struggles then fails, hitting the runaway with a mighty thump. The pilot attempts another take off. I try not to think about the length of the runway. Finally on the third attempt we rise awkwardly in the air despite every part of the plane crying out in agony. The sound of the engines is thunderous, but after a few more coughs they gradually settle into a marginally quieter rhythm. The only other sound on the plane, as if everyone’s holding their collective breaths, is the beating of my heart, which feels like it’s going to explode. I’m sure that many of the passengers are saying prayers.
My thoughts, despite all efforts to avoid them, return back to my possible demise. Is this the final curtain? Will all my expectations of finding some meaning to my life die in a blazing inferno? I wonder if it’s true what some people say: that your life flashes before your eyes in the moments just before you die. I just can’t shake these thoughts. Regrets begin to surface. I didn’t get to see my parents before I left home. They were away on holiday and, not caring to wait for their return, I had left. I could have waited four days until they’d returned. It wouldn’t have mattered, time-wise. Now I would do anything to be able to tell them in person how much I love and appreciate them.
This is the second time in less than a week that I’ve been faced with my own mortality. Before leaving Canada, I had stopped off for two days to visit some old friends, John and Carolyn, who lived outside of Toronto. I knew John from my days of living in London. On the last night of my visit John and I, with two of his neighbors, drove up to a pub to watch Monday Night Football on a big screen T.V. We had enjoyed enough beer that I didn’t even remember the end of the game. Afterwards, we’d piled into John’s silver Camaro; I had gotten into the front seat. The next thing I remember I was upside down. Everyone in the car was on top of me and my breath was being squashed out of me. From somewhere above I’d heard a voice say, “ Can you reach my hand? ” I had tried desperately to reach out for that hand. I remember feeling scared; then a feeling of calm came over me; it was as if I was looking down form another place.
The only other memory that I have at the scene of the accident was another voice saying, “ You’ve been drinking, ” and “ no one’s wearing a seat belt. ”
I woke up briefly in the emergency room as a doctor was cutting off my pants with a pair of scissors. I begged him not to because they were brand new. I must have passed out because the next thing I knew I was in a hospital bed. I asked a nurse where I was and what had happened. She replied that I was in hospital and I was very lucky to be alive. At that moment John and Carolyn came into my room with grave concern written all over their faces. After ascertaining that everyone else was okay, and that I was the only one hospitalised, I heard what happened. John had driven his car straight through an S curve, over a steep embankment, hit a tree six feet high, and totally demolished his car. I guessed by John and Carolyn’s reaction that we were extremely lucky. I was discharged from the hospital that morning with only a headache from a concussion, a slight limp, and three stitches on one knee. The car, which I saw a picture of later that day, was a crumpled mass of metal distinguishable only by its wheels. That night John and I both looked at each other and said in unison, “Somebody was looking after us. We should have died.” The realization that we should have, at the very least, been seriously hurt came with the awareness that there must be a reason why I was saved. And here I find myself, three days later, being tested again.
Life and living, over the last week, has taken on a new dimension. Is this my destiny? I don’t even know if I believe in destiny, but I can’t stop thinking about it. It would be a shame if we didn’t have a purpose. If I am born to do something, what is it? How do I find out?
I am about to ask Po what he thinks about it when the engines suddenly cough and sputter. We’ve been airborne for probably only ten minutes, but time feels like it’s moving at a snail’s pace. I try to bridle my anxieties by thinking of something else, but it doesn’t work. Is there any significance in all of this? No answers come to mind. Facing my own mortality has a way of making me feel small and inconsequential. I’ve no control over what’s happening. I’m helpless.
I endeavour to think of some good things I’ve done, but having lived such a short time none come easily to mind, at least none worth mentioning. I try to push away these negative thoughts by focusing on the present, but all I can think about is that I asked for this. I hear a little voice in my head say, “Beware of what you ask for you; may just get it. ” It’s hard to be positive in the presence of fear; it’s numbing. All my energy has evaporated, leaving me listless. I attempt to relax. I think again of my Mom and Dad. I mailed them a postcard from Heathrow airport in England saying, “Gone to India will write. ” It weighs heavy on my mind. I thought at the time that it was the best way to tell them, without details or long explanations. In truth, I didn’t have any to give them. I couldn’t tell that I made my decision on the spur of the moment, and I didn’t know how to explain Po. I know they will worry. Would that postcard be my final words to them? I’m glad that at least I signed the card Love Hamish. When I left Canada I was on my way to Europe. I left them a note on the kitchen table at home saying as much; I can’t remember if I signed it Love Hamish or not. I hope I did.
How exactly did I come to be here? By uncovering the how I might be able to discover if there is a deeper meaning behind it. Po and I had boarded the flight to London together, and ended up sharing a hotel room when we arrived. On the plane he told me he was only stopping in London to purchase an air ticket to India. The minute he said it I was caught up in the wonders of travelling; where else can you meet people coming and going to and from all four corners of the world.
I’ve always wanted to do more travelling. It’s in my blood; I believe it’s my destiny. But that can’t be my purpose in life; travelling is more like a means to an end, but what end? When I was three my father was transferred by the bank he worked for in Winnipeg to the Bahamas, where we lived for ten years. Then he was moved to Ottawa. After only two years in Canada we moved to London, England, where I went to high school. During my years in England I had the privilege of travelling around Europe in many different forms, and it gave me a real taste for travelling. I was even given the opportunity to go around Europe by myself when I was seventeen. My father had been transferred back to Canada before I graduated; my parents knew that I was planning to take a year off after high school and travel. We agreed that if I was allowed to go around Europe on my own, then I would go to university without taking a year off, which I did. I can only now really appreciate how difficult a decision that must have been for them. At seventeen, I thought I knew everything. In reality my knowledge of how the real world operates was dubious at best. Finding myself suddenly alone in a foreign country woke me up to the actuality that the world is not a safe place; it is fraught with dangers, and full of unscrupulous people only too willing to take advantage of my naiveté.
When I reflect on flying, there is a certain freedom I feel on an airplane. One world is behind me: all its trials and tribulations are gone, and I have yet to reach a new one, with its own set of troubles. It maybe the one time I truly live in the present. It does beg the question: why did I choose to get on an airplane and fly to a foreign land halfway across the globe? Was it to escape a life of drudgery? Or was it for the spirit of adventure? Perhaps it was to see a bigger world and experience its diversities? Or maybe it was to be challenged? I think for me, in all honesty, it’s primarily the latter. To challenge myself in unknown situations takes a willingness to look deeper. In short, travelling is a chance to prove myself; but it is a journey fraught with difficulties: a test of confidence, an invitation to loneliness, and an opportunity to face fears. The idea that anything can happen makes me feel liberated. I feel like I can do anything, or go anywhere, and it will be different. It takes a certain amount of faith, a belief that everything will be alright, to do it. I don’t know where the faith comes from, maybe the same place where I get the belief that I’ve got a purpose to fulfil in life.
On our second day in London Po and I boarded the underground and made our way to Trafalgar Square where I had located, after making numerous phone calls, a travel agent selling the cheapest airfare to India. In London I spent a lot of my time comparing everything with when I lived there; it left me emotionally out of sorts. I had begun to wonder if I was going to find these feelings everywhere I went in Europe. On the way to purchase his ticket Po asked me, “ Are you okay Hamish? ” His voice had a genuine tone of sincerity and concern.
“ Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be? ” I replied, but it was a good question. I expected to be euphoric at being back in Europe. Why wasn’t I happy? I admitted to myself then and there that I was miserable; to dream about something for so long and then to realise that it was nothing more than the whimsical fantasies of an insecure and unhappy young man was crushing. Except for meeting Po, I hadn’t enjoyed any of my trip so far. He was a shining light; somehow he makes me want to act and be just like him. He breathes confidence; he never lets his emotions get the better of him, and being blind never stops him from doing anything that I’m aware of. He’s an enigma, that’s for sure.
We walked around Trafalgar Square, avoiding the numerous tourists and pigeons as well as we could. Finally we made our way to the address I had been given over the phone. It turned out to be a small office down a back alley. There was more stuff packed into the space than was comfortable, but a steady flow of people moved in and out, and the phones constantly rang. I remember moving towards one of the lines and getting behind a couple of girls and a single man. The girls were picking up tickets to Australia and the man to South Africa. The wonder of it all had made me giddy. Three ladies worked behind a solid wood desk that looked more like it belonged in a court house than in a travel agency. The walls were plastered with unrealistic photos showing perfect scenes from all parts of the world. One poster showed the Taj Mahal standing tall in a bank of fog. Framed above it, in a background of glowing colours, was a perfectly formed orange sun. Below the poster was a map showing a world that looked small and accessible. There were many other posters in the office but I found myself drawn to the picture of the Taj Mahal; it wasn’t until the lady asked if she could help us that the spell was broken. Po asked her about airfares to Delhi, and she went through several options. I had only half listened to the discussion but I remember her asking if that was the ticket he wanted. It was for a seat on Ariana Airways, which I had never heard of; the flight originated in Amsterdam for the equivalent of $450.00 US. The mention of Amsterdam caught my full attention: I had spent some memorable times there. I had at that point moved closer until I was right in front of the woman, virtually displacing Po. She went over the details with Po explaining that the connecting flight to Amsterdam was out of Heathrow airport in two days time. Po took out some money and a passport; the passport was Indian, which struck me as very odd because he didn’t look Indian, and he had no trace of an Indian accent. Without any help he paid for his ticket, and then the lady turned her attention to me.
“ Do you want the same ticket? ” she asked me. I remember being dumbfounded. I hadn’t once thought about going anywhere else but Europe. I looked at Po then the lady. I waited for Po to say something, but he just stood there with the familiar calm on his face. Thoughts about what I was experiencing since returning to London and how uncomfortable I felt flowed through my mind. The words, “ You can never go back, ” flashed in my head.
Suddenly my thoughts went clear and I found myself saying to Po, “ May I accompany you? ”
“ It would be my honour, ” he answered and bowed.
“ Yes, I’ll take the same ticket,” I told the lady, who never flinched or changed expression; like people bought tickets to India everyday on a whim. She took my travellers cheques, checked my passport, and then gave me a receipt informing us both that our tickets could be collected tomorrow morning. I remember asking her if I needed a visa for India; she told me that because Canada was a member of the Commonwealth I could stay forty-nine years without a visa. On the way out I stopped and looked at the poster of the Taj Mahal, then the map of the world. I located India and for some inexplicable reason felt that I made the right decision; after all I was seeking excitement and adventure. It still amazes me how a simple yes or no could change a life forever.
We left the office; on the way back to the underground station I asked Po, “ Where is Ariana Airways from?”
“ Afghanistan,” he answered without even a change of inflection in his voice.
“ Afghanistan, ” I said feeling euphoric. I remember making the off-the-cuff remark, “ I hope it’s reliable. ”
Then Po said something that struck me as quite remarkable, “ You don’t choose the path; the path chooses you. ” That convinced me that it was my destiny to be going India. After we boarded the underground I announced to Po that I wanted go and visit my old school, and asked him if he would like to go along. I was surprised when he said yes.
We entered the school and had made our way to the history department. I wanted to see if one of my favourite teachers, Mr. House, was still there. Nothing seemed to have changed, and yet I was not feeling a part of it. I ducked my way through a pair of swinging doors and stepped into an area just to the outside one of my old classrooms. I stopped so quickly Po bumped into me. I keep forgetting that he is dependent on me for guidance. The classrooms in the school had no walls or doors, so it was easy to hear what was being said without being seen. What I heard was very familiar; Mr. House was talking about President Roosevelt and the depression. I listened closely to his words, then slowly moved up to the edge of the room so that I could peek in. It was as if nothing had changed; Mr. House was sitting at the front of the class with students seated in a semicircle around him. He was a large man with straight greasy hair that enveloped a rounded face dominated by a pair of round gold-rimmed glasses. The walls were covered in cut-outs from magazines, part of a current events game that we used to play in his class. I looked right at Mr. House and he looked right at me: instant recognition.
“ Hamish Holloway, ” he called out.
“ Mr. House, ” I said, feeling flush. Nothing had changed. The tables and chairs were arranged in the same way; they were probably the same tables and chairs. The students all turned to see who had interrupted their class. They all looked so young; their dress was familiar, tattered jeans and long hair on the guys, jeans and tight shirts on the girls. They were duplicate copies of me four years ago. It was like stepping back through a time warp. Memories of Mr. House’s classes were some of the most profound in my scholastic career.
“ Hamish, how are you? ” Mr. Holmes said speaking directly to me.
“ I am fine. I see nothing has changed - just more blatant American propaganda for the masses. ”
When I was in his class we bantered about American foreign policy all the time. He’d liked to joke that I was just visiting from the fifty-first state.
“ What are you up to now? ” he asked.
I paused for a moment, not sure how to answer. “ I’m on my way to India. ”
“ India? I figured you would most likely end up somewhere like that, ” he said smiling.
“ I’m just taking a year off after graduating from university.”
“ Well congratulations. What did you study?
“ History, English, and Philosophy. You see you did inspire me. ” I turned and looked at the class hoping they didn’t miss the point. Mr. House had made learning fun, always asking challenging questions and making us responsible for what we said. He was a teacher whose class I’d always looked forward to.
“ And now India. Why India? ” He was the first person to ask me that question. I paused for a long moment; I could feel Po’s presence behind me.
“ Because it’s there, ” I said raising my shoulders to exaggerate the sheer wonder of it all.
“ Are you going alone? ” he asked.
“ No, I am going with someone who has been there before. ”
“ Oh, that’s good. They can show you the way. ” The humour in what he said had made me break out into a smile; if he only knew the half of it. I didn’t quite know how to explain Po, so I decided to just introduce him; it was the first time I had been challenged to try. There was no doubt I had grown very fond of him in our brief two days together. I suddenly felt compelled to let Po speak for himself, and as if on cue, he faced the students with a smile that extended from ear to ear.
“ It is an honor to meet you all. Please forgive our interruption,” Po finally said after a long pause. After that he gracefully moved further into the centre of the room after I whispered that he had three steps clear in front of him. Then he bowed slightly. The silence that followed his entrance was charged with excitement.
“ I am very interested in what you were saying about the Depression in America. You are seeing only part of President’s Roosevelt’s problem. He was in a most delicate situation. I know that he worried greatly, and bitterly fought for the people who were suffering in the depression.” The room was spellbound by Po’s oration; his effect clearly showed on everyone’s faces. He had their full attention. I had watched the scene unfold not really listening to the words but just taking in the energy.
“ How do you know this?” It was Mr. House who asked the question.
“ I met with President Roosevelt in Washington in 1935.”
“ How did you do that? ” one of the students yelled out.
“ I was asked to meet him by a friend. ”
“ Why? ” asked another boy?
“ I was asked if I could help with his health concern. ”
“ You mean his polio,” replied the same student.
“ Something like that. ”
“ What are you, a doctor? ” called out another student.
“ No, I am not a doctor, but I have certain skills that they thought might be able to help the President. ”
I watched the exchange between Po and the class; no one had realised that Po was blind. Another voice rang out from the body of students.
“ How old are you? ” The rest of the students echoed their agreement with the question. Po waited until the room was silent and paused a little longer, effectively making him appear even more mysterious.
“ I am old enough to enjoy each setting sun knowing that it may be my last, and young enough to revel in the sheer joy of the dawning of each new day. ” The class was silenced by his eloquence.
“ What did you do in America in the thirties? ” Mr. House said, picking up the discussion.
“ I walked across North America.” The words brought an immediate silence. Po continued, “ I witnessed a land in the grips of so much pain and sorrow. There were many people who did not have the basic necessities of life: food, shelter, and clothing. It was as if the Earth had its very life sucked out of it. ”
“ Did I hear you say you walked? ” Mr. House said, interrupting Po.
“ Yes. ” Po’s words had come out softly without any trace of ego. He then skilfully turned the conversation away from questions about himself. I lost track of the discussion and got lost in the energy that filled the room. I spent my time looking into the faces of the students, going around the semi-circle face by face; everyone was glued to Po, watching and listening to his every breath. Po held the class’s attention despite, or maybe because of, his amazing claims.
One student precociously remarked, “ Nice pair of saddlebags. Where’s your horse? ” The whole room laughed.
“ I am afraid I am the only ass that carries these bags. ” They laughed even louder. Po paused for the laughter to subside before continuing, “ They were a present from a cowboy in Texas. ”
“ What is the cane for? ” another student asked.
“ It was given to me by a great chief in Africa; he told me that it would keep away the snakes. You see it does a very good job. I don’t see any snakes, do you? ” With his comments Po had captured the full attention of the students. I felt the sudden urge to interrupt the discussion at that point; I was just bursting to tell them Po’s secret.
“ Po is blind, ” I announced. The whole class turned to me in disbelief; their eyes said it couldn’t be true.
“ Are you blind? ” asked one of the students sitting directly in front of where Po stood.
“ Yes I am, but blindness is the absence of light, not truth. ” The statement seemed to hold the class in suspense; they didn’t know what to say. Po, at that point, turned around so that he was facing a boy who had not been taking a lot of interest in the discussion. He was sitting with his hands in his pockets tipping back in his chair.
“ Young man, you have some coins in your pocket?
“ Coins? ” the boy replied nervously as the class all turned to look at him. The boy’s face went crimson.
“ Please take three of them out. When you are ready throw them in my direction. ” The boy looked to Mr. House for permission, and was assured it was okay. Everyone looked at Po in disbelief. The boy then threw a coin to the left of Po who reached out and caught it. The boy proceeded to throw the other two coins one at a time, and Po had no trouble snaring them both. The class was completely bewitched, after a few moments of stunned silence they were eager to ask Po more questions, but he attempted to bring them back to the discussion on the depression.
One student asked Po, “ Why do we have to learn history? It’s boring. ” My ears pricked right up; it was a question I had often asked myself.
Po did not hesitate answering, “ History gives us our lessons in life, and provides us with insight on how best to deal with its struggles. It is how we are to be judged, how we improve, and how we learn. If we honour the past, we can copy it in the present, and use it to look into the future.” With those three sentences Po had sent the whole class on a project of self-examination. I took the opportunity to take the stage.
“ I believe it was Herman Hesse who said that history could not come about without the substance of the dynamics of this sinful world of egoism and instinctuality. ” Mr. House gave me a smile of approval.
Po replied emotionless, “ I like Herman Hesse. ” I was surprised that he had read Herman Hesse.
Suddenly the plane dips down and every muscle in my neck and my back tightens; my stomach begs me to empty its contents. I feel Po’s hand reach behind and massage my shoulders. My shoulders sag under the warmth that slowly starts to radiate through my body. Po seems to have an uncanny ability to sense my discomfort, and know how to relieve it. I had learned more personal information about Po from the trip to my old school than I had in all my discussions with him, but he is still very much a mystery.
I must have dozed because when I returned to consciousness it was with a shudder. Startled, I look out the window. I can still see desert, but now it is painted in the colours of impending dusk. Another day is coming to an end: maybe my final day as we still haven’t gone over the mountains. I immediately start to tense up.
The sun continues its descent into the western horizon as we approach the Himalayas, which suddenly appear in front of us, as if by magic. Even from a distance they look massive. The plane’s propellers continue to cough at intermittent intervals. Life still hangs in the balance. Thoughts about my family and friends continue to permeate my consciousness. I can’t help reflecting on my life to date: it’s scary how little time it takes. There must be more. All I can think about is how little I’ve done; it’s a very isolating feeling.
I thought about what we had just witnessed at the airport, but I’m reminded that just getting here was scary enough. Firstly, we had got to Amsterdam, where our flight originated, to find that our plane was not there. We waited eight hours before finally being called to board; there was never an explanation given for the delay.
A few hours into the flight a commotion broke out when it was discovered that one of the Afghan women on board was trying to light a butane stove in the aisle to cook some food, if she had succeeded in lighting a match, we would have been blown out of the sky. Not long after that, our captain came over the intercom and announced that we wouldn’t be making our scheduled refuelling stop in Bahrain. His exact words were, “ I think we can make it. ” “He thinks?” was all I could think about for the next hour.
When we had finally started our descent into Kabul International Airport a voice came over the intercom, “ Good morning this is your captain speaking. We were due to begin our descent into Kabul International Airport,” That had made me laugh. “ but we have been notified that the plane must reroute to Kandahar. We will provide more details as soon as they become available. The local time is now 10:30 in the morning; the temperature in Kabul is 37 degrees Celsius. ”
“ Where the hell is Kandahar? ” I had asked Po.
“ It is a city to the south of Kabul.”
“ I hope not too far south; we never stopped to refuel remember! ”
The announcement was greeted with vocal displeasure from passengers already beset by delays, and they made their displeasure known to the crew. I guessed that I was not the only one concerned about the fuel supply. I had leaned over at that point to see if I could see anything outside the window. All there was was a flat barren desert that made even the Canadian Prairie look good. The plane continued on a slow descent after turning south. Then one of the stewards announced that we would be landing soon and would we please buckle our seatbelts? I had never taken mine off. A look out the window confirmed that we were losing altitude quickly; then the plane dipped down suddenly making my stomach feel queasy and my ears pop. I could see the ground quickly coming towards us but I saw nothing to indicate an airport or a landing strip. All I saw was desert. Before I could offer any prayers the tires touched the ground and the plane hopped several times, coming down each time with a thundering jolt I could feel in my kidneys. The plane had shuddered in rebellion as the brakes were applied and we finally started to slow down. Looking out the windows on either side of the plane I saw no signs of life; there was nothing but dessert. The plane taxied on the tarmac to a point where we made a full 180-degree turn. Finally I saw a small building that resembled a shed, fifty or so metres in the distance. Then the plane came to an abrupt stop forcing us all forward against our seatbelts. The engines shut down, and an uneasy stillness descended over the plane. After what seemed like an unduly long period of time, the captain’s voice came over the intercom.
“ We have been commanded to shut down the plane’s engines and await further instructions. ” This time there were no voices ringing out in protest; fear had gripped everyone.
So we sat. It wasn’t long before it began to get hot and uncomfortable. There was no air circulating from any of the overhead vents. Outside the plane the full heat of the midday sun beat down on us. Sounds of discomfort, by way of several crying babies and laboured breathing, began to increase. A few people got up from their seats in an effort to get a better look outside the windows; from what I could tell, there was nothing to see. Several minutes went by and the crew’s efforts to get the passengers to stay in their seats and remain calm failed. The heat got worse, sweat had beaded up on my forehead. I looked over at Po. His face was calm and composed; there was no sign of stress.
“ What do you think is going on? ” I asked, trying to make my voice come out even in an effort to deflect the range of emotions I was experiencing.
“ The government in Afghanistan was overthrown in April. The President and his family were killed. A Marxist government has taken power. ”
“ What kind of government did they overthrow? ” I offered as a means of trying to get both sides of the story.
“ It was a republic, but it had existed for only five years. I am afraid Afghanistan is a country that is hard to understand. ”
“ You spent some time here? ” I asked, while looking out over a barren rock plain.
“ Yes. ”
Then the captain’s voice interrupted our conversation. “ We have been instructed to get everyone off the airplane. Please leave all your belongings and slowly move to the front and rear exits. ” People scrambled into the aisle struggling with their many bags despite having being told to leave them. Po and I disembarked from the rear of the airplane. We were immediately greeted by a blast of dry hot air; we followed the others to a position some ten metres from the plane. Looking around there was little to suggest that it was an airport, just one single dwelling in the distance, and no sign of any vehicles. Then I became aware of a group of men walking towards the plane accompanied by a man in a uniform who then split off from the others as they grew closer. The man looked like a local, hardened by the desert in which he lived. In his hands, he carried an old rifle that had a flintlock mechanism on its top. It looked like it hadn’t been fired since the last war with the British. The man took up a position some eight metres from where we all stood. The sun was unbearably hot. I looked around at the other passengers; many had changed their clothes and were now dressed in local dress; it was as if they had transported themselves back in time. They had already adapted. Many of the women were now veiled and you could see only their eyes; on a few you couldn’t even see those, they were completely covered. Three men came towards the plane. Two members of our crew eventually joined them. The group quickly got involved in a very active discussion, which involved a lot of gestures and posturing. Two boys from Liverpool, John and Steven, were the only other westerners on the flight. They were standing behind us as we baked in the burning mid-day sun.
“ Did you know that Kandahar is named after Alexander the Great, who conquered it in 323 B.C.? ” John announced. As he informed us of this message of political import I looked out over the barren landscape.
“ I don’t suppose it was one of his greatest battles, ” I offered, and we all laughed.
The discussion by the aircrew and the men went on for at least fifteen minutes while we all stood looking at the plane. It didn’t seem to belong in the desert; it stood out as if defying gravity. I saw some mountains far off in the distance, which had the effect of making me feel even smaller. Then a couple of the men split off from the group and started to pull the stairs away from the rear exit. I had failed to notice where the stairs had come from. They pushed them to the very rear of the plane and then began another animated discussion, all the while pointing up at the tail of the plane. I thought there was something wrong with it. Po hadn’t spoken or made any motions of concern as I transcribed the scene for him; I had hoped by doing so that it might make some sense, but it didn’t help. Then I saw a man running towards the group with some cans in his hands, and what looked like brushes. Our solitary soldier standing guard hadn’t moved at all during the events taking place in front of him. The three men began to mount the stairs that had been positioned under the tail of the plane. When they reached the top, one of the men bent down and began to hoist one of the others up the side of the plane; but he couldn’t quite reach the top and kept sliding down. It was evident from the first attempt that the men were too short; after several attempts the three men gave up and retraced their steps down the stairs. The whole scene had the look and feel of an old Keystone Kops movie; the colourless desert in the background adding to that old black and white feeling; all that was needed was the music. I couldn’t help but find the spectacle amusing, as did several of the other passengers, but we all tried to keep our amusement as muted as possible. Then, as if by magic, a wooden ladder appeared and the three men once again mounted the stairs. After planting the wooden ladder on the top of the stairs, one of the men managed to climb onto the top of the plane. I felt like applauding. Then the cans and brushes were hoisted up. The man had difficulty standing on top of the aircraft, almost falling off twice. He proceeded to reach up to where the Afghani flag was painted on the tail and began to paint over the flag with white paint. After that was done he began to paint a new flag underneath where the other flag had been, even from our position it was easy to see that it was red. After several minutes he climbed down and the three men once again retraced their steps to the ground, carrying the wooden ladder with them as they went. Then they all stopped and turned to admire their work. It immediately became apparent that we had literally just witnessed a changing of the flag. After a few minutes we were told that we could return to the plane. Not too soon for my liking; in the short time we were out there I was soaked through with sweat. Po, on the other hand, reflected no change at all. In fact he was calm and dry. How does he do that?
The plane, when we finally got back into it, was stifling with heat and stale air that smelled like it was recycled through several humans who had all eaten curry. We got back to our seats and got as comfortable as possible. I turned and spoke to Po, “ All this was about changing the flag? It looks like the new government has invited the Russians to the party. ” As I reflect on the consequences of what we had witnessed it still sends shivers up my spine.
After finally taking off from Kandahar the energy on the plane was ripe with anxiety, at no time had there been any attempt to refuel the plane; in fact, I hadn’t seen a single vehicle at Kandahar airport. As the plane slowly gained altitude we turned away from the mountains, which were bald, windswept, and devoid of colour or grace, and retraced our route over a desert carpet. I had no idea how far we were from Kabul only that it was to the north. The reality that we had not refuelled made me shake with fear.
Once again the captain’s voice came over the intercom, this time his voice seemed strained and was without its usual tone of confidence or formal niceties. “ We will now be continuing our scheduled flight to Kabul. ” No schedule about it, but we were going to arrive; that was all that was important. Little did I know what was waiting for us in Kabul.
I recall as the plane began its descent, a loud chatter started amongst the passengers. Steven had informed me that Kabul is built on an elevated plateau and is the highest capital in the world. Deciding that this was something I should see I strained to look out the window. What I saw was a city of some size with masses of people moving down the main streets waving huge red banners. Raised voices indicated that this was definitely something to be concerned about. We fell toward the tarmac and I saw for the first time the armada of Russian army trucks and helicopters. As everyone strained to get a glimpse of the activities, an uncomfortable quiet descended over the plane. I closed my eyes in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. The plane landed with a force that compelled me to take another look out the window. The landscape was all but lost because of swirling sand intensified by the massive blades of helicopter gun ships, less than fifty meters in the distance a huge modern red sign hung above the broken-down building that is Kabul’s airport terminal. “ Welcome to the Home of the New Model Revolution, ” it said in English letters embossed in gold at least three meters high, and if that wasn’t strange enough for the capital of Afghanistan the message was repeated in Russian on the right side of the building. And on the left, in despairingly small letters indistinguishable from this distance, the message was repeated in what I discerned to be Afghani. A very large Russian flag flew on top of the terminal, leaving no doubt that we were now in a communist controlled country. And if that wasn’t clear enough, the prominence of a fleet of elite Russian military weapons of mass destruction, fighter and cargo planes, attack helicopters, and armored personnel carriers sporting large machine guns on their backs, lined the runway. The sudden roar of several helicopter gun ships taking flight shook my seat. Their motive was obvious; the Russian’s were demonstrating that they are now in control. All of this stood out from a desolate
When we finally got off the plane we were sequestered in a corner of the terminal. The heat and lack of air was stagnating, leaving me feeling totally exhausted. We sat and sat. For long periods of time I gazed out at our plane. It just sat there devoid of life. Nobody had gone near it after they had removed some of the baggage. They hadn’t taken all the bags off, indicating that the flight intended to continue. All I could think about was what if the plane doesn’t go on to Delhi. This was not a good time to be stranded in Afghanistan.
The scene brought things into perspective for me. I’m a stranger in a strange world; I have no mechanism in place to deal with it, except to say that this is part of being adventurous, is it not? My only conduit to this world was Po.
“ You said you were seeking excitement and adventure. You can now say that you have been to Afghanistan,” he replied, as a smile crossed over his stoic face.
“ Yeah, but only if we live to tell about it, ” I countered. Po shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head as if to say you can’t fight it. Nothing bothered him. I must have had a little nap because the next thing I remember, my head was resting on Po’s shoulder. His face remained unchanged.
What do I do when, and if, I ever get to Delhi? I never thought about it until now; that seems strange I know, but somehow with Po I live in the moment. I have a purpose, to assist him, but for how long I wonder? I don’t want to leave Po’s side if I can help it. I’m not prepared to deal with this world yet. I feel safe with him. He appears to be in command of his emotions; while I’ve been on the verge of losing control of mine several times, each time he calms me down. He breathes trust and I need that right now.
I remember at one point in Kabul gripping his shirt, which was amazingly dry. My clothes are still drenched in sweat; I must smell a treat. For a long time nothing happened around our plane; we sat, and it sat. The longer we sat, the more impatient I got. Surely the plane needed to refuel, and yet it just sat there. I had no control over any of the events unfolding in front of me, and that made me want to hold on to something. Po was all I had. A fuel truck finally pulled up to the plane and two men began the process of refuelling. Then, just like magic, I saw a flight crew appear. Ours was the only plane on the tarmac that wasn’t military and this crew was Afghani, not Russian, so this must be it - right? A shot of adrenaline coursed through my body with the expectation of finally leaving.
A few more anxious minutes went by when a voice came over the loud speakers; after speaking in a couple of other languages, the message was broadcast in English. “ Passengers on flight 601 to Delhi, your flight has been cancelled. ” There was no apology, and no further explanations or directions were given.
There had been an urgent rumble from some of the passengers in our group, who were speaking mostly Hindi, I think. Their voices got louder and a mob started to form. They got angrier and angrier until the noise proved too much for two guards standing near by. They quickly came over to our area; one of them brandished a rifle and waved it at us. This action did nothing but escalate the level of discord until a loud voice boomed above the mayhem; a large distinctly Slavic man moved slowly, as if by design, into the area silencing the group with one gesture of a massive arm. No one spoke; everyone gave the man a wide berth as he took command of the floor. His uniform, decorated to the hilt with ribbons and medals, made an instant and lasting impression.
“You will be quiet. This our day. We celebrate. You quiet and no bad come you,” he declared. His poor speech and grammar did nothing to diminish his power; his voice reverberated through the airport providing clear evidence as to who was in control.
“ You see we speak your plane arrives. ” We all turned in unison and witnessed an astonishing sight; an old Douglas DC 3 was being pulled backwards by several locals to the front of the terminal. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been scared of offending someone. I remember clearly looking at the plane, which tilted back resting on one little tire, and thinking, once again, “This can’t be happening.” We were surrounded by some of the most sophisticated airplanes in the world and they had found us an old DC 3.
Some voices in our group grew bold and demanded the return of our plane. I can’t tell you what they said, but their intent was clear. Finally bowing to pressure, the General, or whatever he was, told us, “ Your plane give Muslim you see. ” He then pointed to the almost two hundred pilgrims that occupied another area in the terminal, “ They go Mecca. ” Then he motioned for one of the soldiers behind him to step forward, which the soldier did while pointing his rifle at us. Everyone stood still; a cough of disbelief here and there could be heard, but no words were spoken. The man had to be taken seriously.
“ Thank you, celebrate with us. Good,” he declared, with the pride of victory in his voice. But there had been no sincerity in his words. Then he was gone; the sound of his final words trailed after him as if it they were on a delay system. The room was left stunned. The soldier, gun at the ready, remained behind; even if it looked like it hadn’t been fired for a hundred years, it was real. I never thought that I would ever have a gun pointed at me. How wrong can I get?
Voices in our group slowly began to rise after a few minutes, but they reflected a caution that hung thick in the air. I sat aging in the heat, the dust, and the fear that was present everywhere in the terminal. We then witnessed the rest of the baggage being pulled off the plane. I couldn’t see my pack but there was a lot of baggage for the forty or so passengers that were left from the original flight. We then watched the pilgrims board our plane, leaving our bags standing in a heap on the hot searing ground collecting the blowing sand. Some of the bags were nothing more than boxes held together with rope; all appeared to sag under their burdens. I recall at that moment looking at Po with his saddlebags and instantly recognizing the value of travelling light. I promised myself that if I survived this I would adjust my baggage accordingly.
I felt weak and vulnerable, so much for being a man of the world. The whole time we were in the terminal, the scene on the tarmac had been busy with the constant movement of high tech Russian weaponry. Until now my sole understanding of armed conflict was through books, movies, and television; but this was terrifyingly real, and the difference was immediately recognisable. The sight of all those ships of war had made my stomach cramp from the stress. During those hours in the terminal my mind constantly filled with pictures of death and destruction; a strong sense of dread overpowered my body’s ability find any equilibrium.
Returning to the reality of the present I hear the plane’s propellers sputter again. I’m convinced that nothing good can come from an occupation of Afghanistan. It is only my strong desire to leave the scene that overcomes my fear of flying in this dilapidated old plane; not that the fear is disappearing, it just has priorities. Did I happen to mention that I am, at the best of times, a nervous flier?
Suddenly I feel pain: my pain, everyone’s pain, so much pain. Doubts, fears, grief, and anxiety fill my body and mind to the point of explosion, wave after wave of emotions ebb and flow through me. All feelings that come from realising that I haven’t really had a chance to live; I have dreams that have not been realized; I have not truly achieved anything. What a waste - there must be more. The instinct to survive is strong. I’ve always felt that I have a purpose in life. I just have to find it. To be shot down by a missile during the outbreak of a war, or to die in an airplane crash at the age of twenty-one doesn’t fit the profile. It terrifies me to think that I will die never having accomplished anything. I had such grand hopes.
I feel a hand on my neck, it takes a moment to comprehend that it’s not a threatening touch. I begin to feel warmth pervading my body in several waves euphoric of emancipation; slowly the tension that has been building up over the last few hours and weeks lessens. Only after a few minutes do I have the energy to look over at the giver. “ I am a simple man; I am what I am, ” he said in describing himself. I’ve been studying his face; it is a storied face that tells of a life that has obtained something that few even dream of, and even fewer achieve; it speaks of peace and tranquility. The first time I looked into his eyes a light and energy filled me with an almost overpowering sense of awe and wonder.
The plane begins to shake as we pick up some turbulence; the shapes moving outside the windows become blurred by dense clouds. The plane seems to struggle and pause. My body desperately tries to compensate by supplying yet another hit of adrenaline into its already exhausted system. Thankfully, the engines resume their regular irregular rhythm and I start to breathe again. Po turns in his seat so his voice can be heard in the seats behind us.
“ Steven, why don’t you tell us about the DC 3. ” I’ve been so intent on my own survival, I didn’t realise the two guys from Liverpool are seated behind us.
“ Did you know the DC 3 is one of the most reliable and longest serving planes ever made? Yeah!” he says, answering his own question, making it sound like a training film. “ It can take off on one engine fully loaded! ” (‘It just did,’ I think.) His Liverpool accent echoes loudly in the cabin, and an interested audience tunes in. Encouraged, he continues. “ I built a model of one when I was a kid. Yeah, we did that sort of thing, my Dad and me. Let me see now, it first appeared in 1934 and remained in service till, ” as he pauses to recall, the tension in the plane seemed to rise up another notch; I don’t think anybody wanted to know the answer. “ 1948, yeah 1948.”
When I hear his final words I look around the plane; I can easily believe it is 1948, or even earlier. I look up at the roof; it’s the colour of sheet metal and features several dents. “ How did you know he knew about this plane? ” I murmur to Po, but he kindly waves me off. I have a burning question for Steven. I wait for him to take a breath before interrupting; I just have to know: “ Can this plane fly over very tall mountains? ” I ask with trepidation.
“ Oh yeah! It can fly to an altitude of 23,000 feet, and travel at a speed of 200 mph. It will get us to Delhi in less than three hours I would say, wouldn’t you, John? ”
“ Yeah. Sure thing mate, ” John offers, not sounding very convinced.
“ Hey, won’ it a DC 3 that crashed in the Himalayas in that flick Horizon somethin’ or otha? ” Steven says, ignoring our current situation. There’s a pause as he tries to remember. The tension in the airplane goes up a couple more notches. Visions of crashing into solid rock come quickly to mind. The way I figure it, it would be a quick and painless death, but death none-the-less. At least this time I’m awake.
“ It was the 1937 Ronald Colman flick Lost Horizon, ” Steven continues, pausing to see if anyone is interested, “ Yeah that was it, a DC 3 crashes and is lost in the Himalayas. The crew survives and stumbles into a valley and discovers Shangri-La. ” My heartbeat quickens as his words spill out. Steven pauses, as if he had just realised what he was saying. The booze that he and John have been drinking, from their duty free purchase in Amsterdam, made him a little loose-lipped and careless. The tension in the cabin begins to feel unbearable; a bead of sweat trickles down my forehead. Steven, realising the effect he is having on others, tries to deflect the tension by continuing the monologue in the voice of John Wayne, which isn’t too bad. “We in the good old USA call them Gooney birds. What was the line they said? ” He returns to his Liverpool accent for the last part, which makes it sound even funnier. “ It takes a licking and keeps on ticking? ”
Great, after we crash we can put him on the entertainment committee. I am spooked. I close my eyes but there is too much tension; Shangri- La is nowhere to be found. I turn to look out the window but we are going through some more clouds. I decide to risk examining the plane some more. It has two seats on each side of the aisle for total of forty; there are eight windows on each side of the plane. They had probably put in a few extra seats; this baby was packed solid. I figure on at least forty five passengers. There had been great concern in Kabul if there was going to be enough room for everyone; amid all the hysteria, no one wanted to be left behind, despite the alternative. They packed everyone in, plus their baggage, ignoring numerous complaints.
“ I wonder if we will be travelling over the Khyber Pass? ” I ask, but my question goes unanswered. The rest of the passengers are likely too concerned with their own personal survival. I like to talk when I get nervous, but no one was in the mood for listening, so I push back in my seat and close my eyes hoping that by not looking, it will all go away.
The plane takes a turn to the right and seems to be struggling to climb higher; then a voice, speaking English, comes out of the air, or so it seems, because I can’t locate any speakers. “ This is your Captain. We welcome you to the continuation of Ariana flight 601 to Delhi, flying time will be approximately two hours and forty-five minutes, at a height of 23,000 feet. Enjoy the flight. ”
“ You have got to be kidding. Enjoy it. I’ll… ” but I prevent myself from vocalising my frustrations; it’s futile. Once again there is no apology; it is as if none of it ever happened. Is this normal operating procedure for Ariana Airways? I am losing what calm I had, which wasn’t much. Po, sensing it, places his hand over mine; his comforting works again, and I slowly begin to relax.
When they made this plane, people must have been a lot shorter because I’m very cramped; my body aches, and I am sore all over. I feel a little light headed from the effects of thin air. The plane eventually settles into a new altitude and I brave another look out the window. The clouds have dissipated, but I can see no signs of life - just a sea of brown turning to black as the last vestiges of daylight turn to dusk. Then I realise: it isn’t darkness - it’s a mountain! The sky outside the other window is clear, and stars are beginning to appear on the eastern horizon. I just can’t get comfortable. The constant beating of the propellers has echoed in my seat for the whole flight, but suddenly they seem louder.
I seek some distraction, so I allow myself to think about where I’m going. I’ve made no preparations for going to India, no shots, or malaria pills, nothing like that. What about typhoid and cholera? I admit to having a few preconceptions of India: poverty, disease, millions and millions of people, and death on every corner. But I have no real point of reference. Po says I can get everything I need when I get there. ‘Perhaps that’s the best way,’ I thought at the time. I‘ve no idea what I’m getting myself into, so no real expectations have formed. Above all of this, I am a guide for a blind man. I wonder, and not for the first time, what Po is going to do in India, so I finally get the nerve up to ask him.
“ I like to visit regularly, ” comes the reply.
“ How often? ” But a baby three seats in front starts to wail and conversation becomes impossible. He said before that he had spent time in India, but gave no details. In fact he has offered little information about himself. If I hadn’t heard him speak at my old school I wouldn’t know a thing about him. I have more questions than answers, but he always waves off my personal inquiries. I told him my life story, which he listened to with a rare intensity.
I decide to try and rest despite the crying baby. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of a silhouette of a snow capped mountain. I’m spellbound by the fact that I’m looking at the Himalayas. Despite their proximity I wonder what it is about a mountain that inspires awe. The wing offers me only a partial look of the landscape (the wing, I just can’t escape it). Despite some cloud cover I can see large mounds of earth emerge like ripples. In the distance, snow-capped mountains appear and disappear, like pearls cast upon an ocean. Here are the Himalayas, the tallest mountains in the world, up close and personal, almost too personal. For me they are shrouded in mysticism, conjuring up wild and exotic images in my mind. It’s the kind of scene that inspires people to write poetry. I can’t believe I’m going to India. Continuing to look out of the window in amazement, I forget about my predicament for a short time. Over the years I’ve spent many hours looking at maps of the world. Seeing exotic names in far off countries conjures up vivid images in my mind. I think of the infamous Kathmandu; visions of chanting monks and Lamas prostrated outside of mountaintop caves meditating, come easily to mind. A rush of emotions fills me until the voice of the Captain breaks the spell. In English he announces that if we look outside the left side of the plane we can see the Khyber Pass. None of us have forgotten that the left side also features a recently repaired wing, and the response to his invitation is slow. I’m eager to see the historic pass; I look out and see a path, no more than a thread, winding through the mountains below.
Steven pipes up at the mention of the Khyber Pass and proceeds to tell us its history. “ Alexander the Great passed through here in 326 B.C., and the Moguls, and the Ayarians. ”
“ It doesn’t look very wide,” I said interrupting him.
“ It’s as narra as five meters and as wide as a hundra and fifta meters, with cliffs up to three hundra meters scaling overhead. Us Brits put a road through here in 1879, almost a hundred years ago naw. How ‘bout that! We paved a road through in the 1920’s, along with a railway. Let see if I can rememba naw. ” I’m hoping he’s not going to go on about lost valleys again. “ Come on help us out John.” But this time John remains mute.
“ Yeah the railway, it had, let’s see, somethin’ like thirty-two tunnels and close to a hundred bridges; if I rememba right. Not to mention snipers shooting at the workers while they were buildin’ it. Just think of the thousands of years of trade scrambling along that small little pass. How many men lost their lives defendin’ it? How much blood and guts was spilt, I wanda? ” The talk of death never stops. There’s an audible pause then John pipes in.
“ Us Brits fought two wars with the Afghanis and lost. You never defeat the Afghanis, no one ever did mate, fierce bastards the Afghanis. In fact the last war started in 1878, one hundred years ago naw. ”
I relaxed into my seat; over the din of the beleaguered plane I recall watching old movies like Rudyard Kipling’s Kim and Gunga Din. Their images fill my mind; in Gunga Din, foreign armies battled for supremacy of the pass, more death and destruction. I quickly switch pictures. I remember reading Kipling’s Kim, a story about a small boy who served as a guide for a blind monk. Wow! I’m aiding a blind man. I try to remember the story, but I read it so long ago it just wouldn’t come.
John and Steven have quieted down as if they suddenly feared offending someone, a little late I reckon. The whole plane is now quiet; it’s as if everyone’s energy is spent. Outside the window the sun has set, casting a cloak of shadows over the peaks; clouds hug the mountaintops, shrouding them in further mystery. The spotlight is now on us; a moving light over a sea of black.
Just thinking about all the people who have climbed over the Khyber Pass to discover another civilisation, older than any other they have ever known; makes me feel humble. The enormity and significance of those discoveries makes me aware that I am embarking on a journey that will likely change my life. A whole different culture and way of life is ahead of me. I can’t help but feel like an adventurer going into the great unknown. If only this plane would land.
I turn in my seat and absentmindedly say to Po, “ You should see the view out there: it’s out of this world. ” I realise what I’ve said, and start to apologise.
“ I have felt these mountains; I have walked in their strength, crossed over them, and have been humbled by their power. I have known their magnificence. ” As he said the words you could almost be walking beside him.
“ You’ve walked over the Himalayas?
“ It is an easy thing to do, you simply put one foot in front of the other.”
Clearing my voice in an attempt to hide my doubts I mumbled my disbelief, “ When did you do this? ” The conversation stalled as the plane took a sudden change in direction downward; leaving my stomach at the higher altitude.
“ That is a story for another time. That was then. This is now, ” he finally responded.
“ Wow! I can’t imagine doing that.” Then he bowed his head. There’s something very different about Po: he appears so humble, almost saintly; nothing fazes him. Can you imagine going through life blind? I wonder if he was born that way. I know almost nothing about this man, yet our relationship feels so comfortable. He’s so easy-going. Despite - or maybe because of - his silences, he seems to convey a profound commentary on life with every action. I hope to spend more time with him, a thought which makes me realize that I have no idea what I’m going to do when I get to Delhi. I shiver with the thought. I’ve had enough doubts in the last week to satisfy a lifetime.
My thoughts return to the mountains to escape this blunt reality. I’m suddenly overcome with a profound sense of their importance, but I can’t explain why. Outside the window I can still see a swirl of white clouds as the last light of the day touches the western sky. The plane must have some lights because I can see rays of white light swirling near the wing, it’s a reassuring thought. The whiteness of the clouds against the blackening night sky triggers another memory.
I spent the summer, after graduating from university, on the prairies, working on a grinding crew for the Canadian National Railway. It was a thankless job, but the pay was good; we worked sixteen to eighteen hours a day seven days a week. I got time and half after eight hours and double time after twelve. The money had piled up, helping me to realise my dream of a trip to Europe. I ended up getting fired. One day I hit the boss, breaking his nose. In the night they had spread engine oil in my pants, so when I went to put them on in the morning I felt the oil slide down my legs, as if I had just shit myself. He, and my fellow workers, had played one too many jokes on me, making my feeling of alienation complete. It’s a time in my life best forgotten.
The night before my dismissal the crew and I had been in a bar somewhere in Nowhere, Saskatchewan, drinking; drinking was something that we did every day, all day. It was part of the job description. At one point in the evening I got up to go to the john and upon returning to my seat, I found an Indian sitting at my table. I started to object but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. The first thing I noticed were his eyes, which appeared to glow; he had long flowing black hair with one feather stuck in it; he was dressed in traditional buckskins and moccasins. A feeling that something grand was about to happen sharpened my senses; it was as if I had been hit by a shovel. Even in my drunken stupor I could see him with amazing clarity. I just managed to sit down when he spoke.
“ In the years of my forefathers this land pounded with the sounds of buffalo for a day and a half’s walk. This was the land of the Cree, Blackfoot, and the Shoshone. We all lived and hunted on these plains for many moons, but sickness came to our lands; a sickness brought by the White Man. Among all my brothers there is a story that is told in all the sweat lodges, and around all the camp fires. A story of a man we call White Buffalo. He is a man of power. He is said to still walk great distances, watching, helping, and caring for those less fortunate. Some of my brothers wanted to kill him because he was different and came from a distant place; in killing him they thought they could assume his power. Some wanted to bend down and honor him, as an omen from the Great Spirit. He is a strong medicine man; he saved many who were dying of the White Man’s diseases. ”
I was completely baffled by what he said; I remember looking down for a moment trying to gather the significance of his story; when I looked up, he was gone. I asked the waitress if she had seen where he went; she told me I had been sitting alone all evening. As for Indians, there were a few in the bar, but none were him, and no one else had seen him; they all thought I was hallucinating, and maybe I was. I still don’t know for sure. The experience left me stunned; it was like someone had kicked me in the gut. I can’t forget the story; the whole thing had been so real. I can recall the Indian, and his words, with extraordinary clarity. After trying to locate him in the bar I ran to the bathroom and puked my guts out. As I reflect on it now, I think it was a kind of cleansing reflex. I remember thinking the next day that the bar had been full of pitiful creatures, of which I was one, and we are now the only ones that roam the plains; all the buffalo are gone. I was confused, and most certainly drunk. I told no one the story; I was alone.
Suddenly a voice echoes in the plane announcing our descent into Delhi. My chest begins to tighten; a need for air paralyses me for an indeterminate period of time. We’re finally going to arrive. I strain to take a look out of the window; the only things I can see are lights blinking in a sea of darkness. I lean back into my chair and try to concentrate on taking a few deep breaths. I’ve no idea what I’m going to do now, but I’m very grateful to be alive to say so.
I’m still trying to come to grips with the fact that I’m not on a beach on some Greek island, or travelling down some Spanish provincial road. That’s all I had dreamt of for so long, especially during those months working on the railway in the burning, mind-numbing, prairie sun, with only miles and miles of endless skies for inspiration. It’s amazing how a life can completely change by simply getting on an airplane.
Leavin’ on a jet plane.
Don’t know when I’ll be back again.
Several times in the last few days I’ve recited the lines of that John Denver song over and over.
I remind myself that I asked for this, but I never imagined being halfway around the world flying in an old DC3 facing the prospect of death. I feel desperate for something tangible to hold onto. I turn my body around so that I have a clear look at Po and suddenly I don’t feel alone.
“ How long did you stay in India? ” I ask, in what I’d hoped was a strong, confident voice, but it comes out sounding more like a plea for comfort.
“ Many years, ” he answered. I feel reassured and confused by his answer. I want to ask him more about it, but he waves me off. I don’t protest; it seems more appropriate to be absorbing the atmosphere of the moment. I’m aware that it’s a changing moment in my life, and one that I should mark.
The Captain’s voice comes out of nowhere to say that our trip is almost over. My heart begins to race; I’m swelling up with excitement with what has to be my body’s last vestiges of energy. I’ve survived. There must be some profound reason for it, because lately I’ve had the feeling of being sorely tested. The plane descends quickly and struggles to find the runway, hitting the ground and rising twice before finally staying down. There’s a smattering of applause as the plane relaxes back on its rear wheels.
“ Local time is 11:30 p.m.; the temperature outside is twenty-seven degrees Celsius, ” the pilot announces.
I’m going to kiss the ground the minute I get off this plane. There is an almost palatable scent of relief exuding from all the passengers on flight 601 from Amsterdam missing Bahrain and Kabul and landing in Kandahar, then to Kabul and eventually Delhi. The plane slowly taxies to a fixed point outside a large terminal. The propellers cough to a final standing position. The rush to get off the plane causes a traffic jam at the only door. Po and I wait until everyone has left before finally making our way down the aisle. One more step and then I stick my head out the door. I’m immediately struck with the aroma of burning rubber; the air hangs heavy with smoke. I step off the small stairs and finally touch Indian soil. A glance at the filthy ground beneath my feet renders kissing it a mere dream of the past. Welcome to India.