ENGLAND: 5
Hassle at airport; too much weight with all that extra food; I have to pay a surcharge. Get to Stanstead; It’s raining, there’s no train because of the weather. The epitome of crap Englishness. Bus to Cambridge, train to Norwich. Back to Nautia in Eade Rd. Research Australia plane tickets, no dole, ask Mike who I am going to do some decorating for if he’ll put 200 quid in my bank account to keep me temporarily afloat, hitch to his, do DIY, get unexpectedly well-paid, buy Australia ticket, go back to Norwich.
I walk around the woods behind Helen’s house as if I am saying goodbye to them forever. I am entertaining the very real possibility that I might decide to settle in New Zealand (possibly illegally) and might very well never come back to England. I am mourning this beautiful place. I have not told anybody of my re-settling notion. I would just get talked out of it and never leave.
I feel REALLY shitty. Every bone in my body wants to stay right where I am at Helen’s in Wood Green. I sob my eyes out the day before leaving.
Helen drops me off on the A11. I am left with no time to think about anything: Three minutes later I get a ride to Heathrow Terminal 4 with a mathematician called Alan. He says ‘Is that any good to you?’ I joke to him that actually I am going to Terminal 3, but never mind.
How close can you get? This is auspicious I guess. I have anticipated it taking all day to get to the airport, so I am left with plenty of spare time. I use the unexpected free time as an opportunity to hop on a bus down to Reading and I go visit my dad, which we have a good connection this time. (It’s always a bit hit-and-miss.) I phone Glynis and Jeanette my two sisters to say goodbye and then head back to the airport with an hour to spare.
On the plane I talk to Lorraine a domestic servant housemaid type person who works for a ‘Lady’ in Northumberland. Another one of those snapshots into another persons completely different world.
Looking out the window, we must be flying over Turkey, Syria and Iran. I am surprised by how grey and cold it looks. We must be flying over mountain regions. Fascinating shapes of river valleys, artificial land boundaries and roads. I fantasise what it must be like to be down there amongst it all.
We arrive at Abu Dhabi airport where we transfer. This is my first time on Middle Eastern soil. Well Middle Eastern marble flooring anyway. Look! Nobody is trying to blow me up! Maybe I’ll use the hour I’ve got to go and buy some swanky gold jewellery…
Flying onwards again, we fly over India by night. The sky is very clear, and it’s possible to see clusters of fires marking where villages are. It all seems so tantalisingly close – I can almost reach out and touch it (except that the plane will implode if I open the window).
After something you might laughably describe as ‘sleep’ we arrive at Bandar Seri Begawan, a place I will bet my battered hat on that you have never heard of. It’s the capital of Brunei, in the heart of South East Asia. The Rivers are very very brown. The houses look wealthy colourful and large. I can’t tell you any more than that about the place. The Bruneian airport officials have this air of personal service and attention you get when you go to Very Tiny Places that want to be acknowledged as being real live countries. If only the west was like this.
Another plane and three and a half hours later (about twenty blur in total) and I’m in Darwin.
I am welcomed to the great red land by a cute customs official who looks about nineteen and who proceeds to search absolutely everything about my person at least twice. The drugs dog seems to like my guitar, and so do the customs men when they discover that the end comes off so that you can put things in. Some other poor bastard gets the unenviable task of having to examine my gooey boots. Bloody hell I’ve never had such a thorough turning over as they are giving me here.
The pretty young customs official asks me ‘Do you like to party?’ which is a bit ambiguous as I always thought that was an invitation more than a question.
‘Do you use any recreational drugs sir?’
I tell her that, well yes I do occasionally as it happens but I’d be a bloody fool to bring any with me now as I would risk completely ruining my holiday and wasting the price of my plane ticket. So no, I don’t have any recreationals about my person.
Which astonishingly, I think she approves of my honesty. I clearly don’t look like a ‘straight’ person and it would be an insult to her intelligence to lie anyway.
I am met properly in the arrivals lounge by the glorious Leona who is all smiles and hugs.
Driving back to hers is very exciting; all hot and humid and tropical and lovely. It’s like being in Belize except with money. ‘You’ll probably be wanting to get some sleep?!’
No Way! It’s four-thirty in the afternoon, broad sunlight and really exciting!
Getting back to hers, I get a bite to eat and then get together with some serious JETLAG.
Richard Terry 