kua/kul/mh/28 March 05/1035
I think of my wife, and would like to have her company
now, holding her, to bow and kiss her hand, in the way the Malays do, in an open place;
then, in the early morning airport car park, a fond and quiet embrace,
the ubiquitous ‘take care yourself’. It seems a hundred-year-ago time to me.
On the plane, the stewardess, pretty of course, came my way,
asked me if I knew how to open the escape hatch to the wing.
The notice said ‘Pull’ in English, ‘Tarikh’ in Malay.
I said ‘Pull.’ In emerald baju batik, biro in her front, pretty thing.
‘Yes, pull and throw out.’ Pleased with me. Big smile. Being a fairly frequent long haul flier,
I have, of course, escaped from aircraft through emergency time and again.
In truth, I’m also a frequent tongue-in-cheek liar.
But she seemed so happy with my knowledge of the door of the plane.
We left early, that March morning, before the sun gathered heat
for the endless two hours along the coast of peace and beach
where Mercedes from Singapore take their annual open-air retreat
that in their efficient garden city of hygiene and housing, they cannot reach.
The airport, small but pretty, makes an effort to try
and welcome, with car park trees and flowers, where
we caressed a kiss, and had a quiet goodbye
in the warm Pahang mid morning open air.
Police guns watch your every move, every blink of the eye.
The heavy, packed bag I hoist onto the belt for a joint human-scanner check,
her brother comes, but final call’s come and gone, I’m on my way, try to smile, goodbye,
a short lounge walk, then the apron, bag hurts shoulder and neck.
Coming in to land at Kuala Lumpur, clean, modern, new.
The reduced engines cut their thrust, and sing,
you think, until the empty ring road appears, you might plough through
the oil palm trees that seem to brush the wing.
The rear flaps were extended, groaning, some time ago,
wary airbrakes hesitant, quiver, as if they are unsure.
Water vapour trails slip away in empty flow,
the touch down with the slowing tiger’s roar.
Through the marble maze of this tent waiting place,
rice cooker plastic string bites hand and skin,
in sweating clothes, of prior coolness, not a trace,
swearing, can’t find the bus to the Concorde Inn.
Try to telephone, to find out. No answer, at first.
No success; it’s then I notice British coins that I’m using.
Idiot. A string of mild self-criticism erupts and burst.
Not many around, so no-one knows what the fool confusing.
Wandering by the sweaty front, becoming less irate,
(I said I’m a liar) find bus by accident, ready to depart,
four bouncing minutes through an oil palm estate,
on a motorway, empty for the most part.
Check in. Pay. Two mineral water, complimentary,
the French-window room, clean, quiet, bright.
Open German beer she was kind enough to pack for me.
Now, just an empty wait for the touchdown of the night.
Late afternoon, to the restaurant, empty like the rest here.
The conference people now back in the seminar room. I think only me,
with fifty odd tables. Chicken chop, chips, draught Carlsberg beer,
the food tasty, emptiness perfect. I don’t like people in close proximity.
That evening, listen to quiet music in an almost empty bar,
perched on one ridiculously high stool, (with peanuts, maybe.)
In a big, comfortable, but lonely bed, thoughts are
arresting the sleep that doesn’t come so quick to me.
Morning. Past pool, garden, souvenir shop in indolent way,
(the latter brimming, empty; perhaps the hurry, maybe the price)
to fine breakfast cuisine, here, western; there, local, mainly Malay,
I had cold juice, chicken curry, fresh fruit, a heap of white rice.
I have found here an encouraging place to eat.
In fact, the next food was not on the thirteen and a half hour flight,
but in a Bangladeshi restaurant in a wet Watford street,
some twenty hours later, on a empty March night.
I think of my wife, and would like to have her company
now, holding her, to bow and kiss her hand, in the way the Malays do, in an open place;
then, in the early morning airport car park, a fond and quiet embrace,
the ubiquitous ‘take care yourself’. It seems a hundred-year-ago time to me.
