When I Flew International

Aashish Mishra

International air travel can be quite a magical experience. Getting on planes bigger than houses, soaring through the air at unbelievable heights and speeds, passing through airports the size of cities, everything about flying appears glamorous and all-consuming. And for the most part, it is. Global aviation is a well-oiled system that keeps the world moving. But still, this scribe happened to make a few observations during his flight from Kathmandu to Brussels last month that he would like to share. These are, of course, solely his personal observations that should not reflect on any entity, individual or service provider involved in the sector and the readers of this article may not find these instances funny or amusing. These are all the writer’s subjective perceptions.

The “organised chaos” began right from the security check. As I joined the snaking line of travellers, I couldn’t help but marvel at how open to interpretation the directives seemed to be. The instruction to remove our shoes, for instance, seemed to prompt a range of responses from those in the queue. Some executed a graceful ballet of footwear removal, while others began a frenzied struggle of untying knotted shoelaces and wrestling stubborn footgear seemingly determined to not let go of the lower extremity of the leg below the ankle.

This columnist is convinced that the “no liquid on board” sign is a hypnotic code that turns our brains off. As soon as one’s gaze falls upon those four words, one loses all comprehension of the states of matter. Is my body lotion a liquid? Is my hand sanitiser a liquid? Is this water a liquid? Am I a liquid? Say ‘liquid’ a few times it starts messing with your tongue. Lee-ku-weed. As you are thinking all this, you reach the front of the line and the policeman, with your passport in hand, asks you for your name. “Hello sir, my name is Liquid.” 

Then comes the dreaded body scanner. It incites a strange mix of confidence and vulnerability, that machine. On the one hand, once you have relinquished your wristwatch, you have nothing more to give, and you enter that mechanical door frame as pure as the day God made you. On the other hand, if it gives off even the softest beep, everybody looks up with condemning eyes. For them, you are now a drug mule, a terrorist, or worse, a guy with loose change in his jeans pocket.

Once past the security checks though, it is a smooth walk (and/or ride) to the boarding gates. The airport staff herd passengers to their planes like expert shepherds, guiding them through the maze of stalls and screens to ensure no one misses their flight. 

The real battle begins once seated inside the plane – the unspoken battle for legroom. As this penman settled into his seat, he noticed the silent war passengers were engaged in to claim an extra few inches of leg space, one that the person in front was much too eager to declare on him. As soon as the aeroplane left the tarmac, he fired his first shot. He reclined his seat with the determination of a mediaeval knight defending his castle. This writer tried pushing back, employing tactics ranging from strategic knee nudges to elbow jabs. Ultimately though, he was defeated. This was the dude in front’s plane now. The scribe was just flying in it.

Crouched into a ball and calling on the devil to smite the wicked beast that now lay comfortably asleep in the seat he had thrust upon him, this journalist found solace in the in-flight entertainment options. Hundreds of movies, TV shows and documentaries accessible at the touch of a screen. 

Dozens of critically acclaimed content by award-winning creators available to feast his mind on. So, it even baffles him in hindsight that this writer chose to let himself be consumed by a documentary about rubber bands. If you asked him what about the film appealed to him, he would not be able to answer but he would be able to tell you that the largest rubber band ball consisted of more than 175,000 bands and weighed an unholy 4,594 pounds.

Then, as the sun slowly set behind the hills now below our feet, a peculiar symphony emerged. The cabin became a cacophony of nasal melodies, with each aisle contributing its own unique opus. It was a harmonious blend of soprano snores, a triumphant exclamation of people snorting, “I am determined to let my sleep hamper yours.”

But this scribe made it to Brussels, and he made it back – and he is a stronger man for it. His years of experience in Kathmandu’s public transport had built his resilience.