It was oceans of people.
I remember the place all too well. Despite the terminal being much smaller than KLIA, it promised just as many fables. Confined to being regional? maybe, but enthralling nonetheless.
I dove into the human stew, scared, anxious and ready for the journey ahead. As a maelstorm of passengers tore down the terminal and up into the bright red aircraft, I galvanised into my ubiquitous routine of settling into my seat, earphones on and chancing my arm with sleep. That said, I am perpetually transfixed by the expansive turquoise sky and its welcoming clouds the minute the locomotion reaches a few thousand feet.
It wasnt long before I was basking in the evening glow between lush hills, hundreds of miles from home. The sweet smell of herbs and floral life filling the air as the shadows of day lengthen.
People often ask me why I visit these people so frequently. Well, one of the reasons is that, for me at least, living with them has been a bit like reading a bestselling novel. You know the feeling ; the story's so gripping, the characters are all so colourful. There are so many twists and turns that you just cant put it down. You want to keep reading on and on, to find out what's going to happen next. And just when you think you've got the whole plot figured out and you're sure you know how its all going to end-BANG! there's yet another surprised and you just have to read on some more.
So there I was, in the middle of the borneo rainforest, the sound of frying in the background, the gentle hum of the rain falling on through the treetops lulling me into slumber. Soaking in the beauty, silence, presence of these jungle souls. It was scorching hot that afternoon. But then the weather tricked us with rain equally as violent. I slept, woke up glistening with sweat. My hair matted to the temples of my forehead, my lips almost a pale shade of mauve. I made my way up the steep hill, into a semi settled village. Basic sulaps were present; rough logs tied together with bamboo, makeshift kitchens with charred pots and kettles omnipresent. I dont know if I missed home. Because this felt like home too.
As per usual, I found myself submerged in quiet conversations around the kitchen fire. There was scepticism and anger about official pronouncements in the air. I can sense the despair, the worry from these gentle souls. The dying fire, luten, set a bronze glow on their soft features, my eyes transfixed on their beauty. It wasnt long before their soft-spoken conversation became my Ambien. 5 minutes, and Im sure to knock out!
Jokes aside, I get where they are coming from. In the 1970s, you became a grandparent at 45. Grandparents saw their main role in life as caring for their grandchildren. Now the elderly, dont live very long but their families are more scattered, and the children, by the time they start having children of their own, are more financially secure. They leave, find work, travel and the line of transmission of knowledge form the old to the young , breaks down.
I realize this is terribly sententious. The more equivalent of a motto from a bank brochure. Still, just because something is obvious, doesnt automatically mean it is totally lacking in value.
And for that reason ( well one of them at least ), I certainly wont stop going to places where these things happen.
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