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Changi Airport in Singapore is a good sized airport, not as big as
O’Hare in Chicago, but it is much larger than
the airport in Jakarta. I don’t remember what terminal I was in, but
I had just flown in from Surakarta,
Indonesia. I was sitting in one of the smoking rooms
looking out at the hot, humid sky and the green trees beyond all of the planes
that were being loaded with luggage; planes that had arrived from all over the
world and now the luggage was being unloaded from them, through the large
windows, it was the first cigarette I had had since before I boarded my flight
for Singapore. Singapore is more
hospitable to smokers than many airports, for the most part it’s impossible to
find a place to smoke once you go through the metal detectors and then you have
to go to your designated gate to await your flight; but in Singapore there are
smoking rooms located throughout the terminals and in them there are faces from
all over the world. Most of the faces I
was looking at were Asian but there were European faces too. When I see an Asian face I can’t tell what
country they’re from, sometimes I can because their clothes give them away such
as when I see a woman wearing a hijab I know that she is either most likely
from Malaysia or Indonesia. The ones
that look more western and affluent are most likely from Japan; it is a much wealthier
country than most Asian countries. It
could be a rich man or woman from Thailand
or Vietnam
or any Asian country; it’s impossible to say; what I do know though is that it
is not an average person from a country that is for the most part Muslim. You don’t see many average or poor people at
airports anyways; they don’t have the money to fly somewhere and even if they
did they probably have no reason to go and most likely they don’t know anyone
in another country; their lives are rooted in the village or town they live in
and perhaps they have relatives in other villages and towns but most of them
will live their entire lives without ever leaving their country; some will live
their entire lives without ever leaving their village or town.
I can’t say for sure, I have no idea what
the statistics are, but it seems to me that many more Asians smoke than
Americans. Smoking is really frowned on
in America,
though no one is complaining about all of the money they make from it. You can buy a pack of cigarettes for $1
American dollar in Indonesia. Lucky Strike is one of the best brands they
carry; they don’t taste or smoke any different than American cigarettes. Why they cost so much less is beyond me. It depends on what the exchange rate is at
any given time, so if you look at it like that, they aren’t inexpensive; one
American dollar is equal to about twelve Indonesia Rupiah. Exchange rate aside, if they can sell them
for one American dollar in Indonesia
why can’t they sell them for two or three American dollars in America? It seems to me someone is making a whole lot
of money and as their making all of that hand over fist all the while their
customers are looked down on…..it’s true that smoking isn’t good for you, then
again neither is shoveling more food than you can possibly eat into your fat
face and despite the number of alcoholics no one is trying to put the breweries
out of business. They tried that one
back during the prohibition era but it didn’t work out very well. You can’t stop people from doing what they
want to do. All it did was create a
giant amount of cash flow for gangsters and rum runners.
There’s never just a person or two in the
smoking room. It’s a good sized room and
there are always at least twelve people or more puffing away. Some of them are by themselves others are in
a group of people that work together or whatever. Now and then one of the Airport security
women stops in and has herself a cigarette.
She stands with her back against the window and lifts one of her long
legs up and rests the heel of her shoe against the window as she rests her
nonsmoking palm on the handle of her pistol.
For an Asian woman, one that is most likely from Singapore, she is uncommonly tall;
most are on the shorter side, but she’s close to six feet tall. She is young, most likely in her twenties,
and she has a very pretty face and her skin is a dark brown. Whenever she stops in and lights one up I
find myself looking at her. It’s not
just her beauty that captivates me though; there is an interesting quality to
her; she doesn’t look like she would be working as security at an airport, she
comes across rather causally as though she doesn’t have a care in the world,
unlike the three men you see walking around together in military uniforms, each
one of them holding a machine gun in their arms. Their faces are without expression; the
message they are sending couldn’t be more clear; if anyone gets out of line or
even thinks of getting out of line you can count on three guys clad in military
uniforms and combat boots showing up with their machine guns. She doesn’t look anything like them; she
doesn’t have a military uniform on or combat boots; she looks more like a
police officer, she looks more like a woman that you see handing out meals and
beverages on a plane; they tend to be on the beautiful side. Now and then you might come across a
stewardess that isn’t a beauty but it doesn’t happen to often unless they are
older and past their prime, even then there are traces of lingering beauty of
what they were when they were younger.
When she was done smoking she walked over
and snubbed her cigarette out in a tall silver metallic ashtray that stand
about three feet high and then she glanced over at me and smiled. I smiled back and then she opened the door
with her long brown fingers and was gone.
I looked around the room again at the other faces that were standing and
sitting, talking, and laughing, happy faces, excited faces, tired faces, faces
that were somber and serious as they talked on their phones about something
that must have been quite important or urgent.
I looked at my watch. I still had
more than five hours to go before it was time to board my next flight. I’ve had long layovers before and this one
was a long one too but I don’t mind, I love Changi Airport;
it’s one of the most interesting places I’ve ever seen. Part of its appeal is that it is very Asian
since it is located in Singapore
and yet is very westernized, much more so than Kuala Lumpur
or Jakarta. I had been living on rice and spicy chicken
grilled over an open flame, served with cucumbers and chili sauce that’s so hot
it makes my throat burn and my eyes water.
Thoughts of biting into some more familiar tasting food began to fill my
mind. After I put my cigarette out I
stood up and took hold of my luggage which was nothing more than a backpack and
opened the door and began walking through the terminal again. There were interesting, beautiful women
everywhere, women from all over the world, there were too many faces and bodies
to look at but I did my best to take in what beauty I could as walked past them
and the glossy shops selling everything from expensive perfume and liquor to
duty free cigarettes. Before I had
something to eat I needed to exchange some money. It’s better to exchange some money and pay
for things in Singapore dollars, if you pay in another currency that they
accept when they give you change the exchange rate probably won’t be as good as
it would have been had you stopped and exchanged some money first so that’s
what I did. I walked into a place where
a beautiful woman in nice clothes was standing behind a counter. There was no one in front of me so I just
walked right up to the counter.
“Hi.
I’d like to exchange some money, please.”
“Good afternoon. How are you?
What currency would you like?”
“I would like some Singapore
dollars.”
“Very well, and what currency will you be
buying it with?”
“United States dollars.”
She pointed to a large board in back of
her that listed all of the different currencies and exchange rates.
“Is that an agreeable amount?” She asked.
“Yes, that’s fine. I’m only exchanging Twenty dollars anyways,
just enough to get something to eat.”
I handed her the twenty dollars. She counted out the money and then she handed
me twenty some Singapore
dollars and some change.
“Thank you very much,” I said, as I put
the money in my pocket.
“You are very welcome, sir. If you decide to exchange some more money
we’ll be here.”
She smiled at me and then as I walked away
she tended to the man behind me.
There are many different options at Changi
when it comes to something to eat. Most
of the options are oriental cuisine, Chinese, Japanese and there is also a
place or two where you can sit down and have yourself some Indian food if
that’s your thing. Personally, I like
Indian food, and I like the bread that Indian places bake too. It’s probably the most exotic food I’ve ever
had, they use so many different spices and sauces I can’t really think of
anything else that compares. I wasn’t in
the mood for Indian food or music, there happened to be some playing, I was
after some American food. Some of the
fast food places have American names and food but they have a Singaporean
influence. You can get a burger and
fries but they’re not going to taste the same as they do in America, most
likely they’re going to be spicier and there may some different ingredients
too. As I was walking along I saw what I
was looking for, an American looking place that served chicken and mashed
potatoes. I haven’t had mashed potatoes
for longer than I could remember do I got myself a double order along with a
sandwich with a breaded chicken breast on it and I got myself a large coke to
go with it. The girl that had prepared
it for me had set it all on a tray; after I paid her I walked with my tray over
to the dining area and sat down. It was
delicious. It was the best food I had
had for a long time. The mashed potatoes
were fantastic, the gravy they put on them couldn’t have been better. They were so good that I went back and got
another order of mashed potatoes and gravy; I got myself another coke too. When there was nothing left but the tray and
plastic fork and the wrapper that it came in I stood up and emptied my tray and
then I was once again walking through the terminal past a sea of brown faces. It was time to play some chess but first I
went back to the smoking room and had a quick cigarette; I didn’t even bother
sitting down. I just stood there and
smoked, looking out the large windows once again at all of the planes that were
arriving and then when there was nothing left I snubbed it out in an ashtray
and made my way to the public use computers.
Several of the computers were taken but there was one that was open so I
set my backpack down on the carpeted floor and then I put my hands on the
keyboard and followed the instructions to log on and then I went to the site
where people play chess online from all over the world.
I was in the middle of a very intense game
with a guy from France,
I was playing white and if he were to make a mistake I would have him trapped,
but he didn’t make a mistake yet; he countered me move for move as I sought to
break through his defense. When I
concluded that he favored his knights I put him in a position where he had to
trade them but I soon found out that he was equally good with his bishops. It was his pawn movement though, that’s what
he was truly gifted at, that’s what stood in my way more so than the position
of any of his major pieces. Any avid
chess player knows that pawns are the secret to chess. Individually they don’t have much power and
they can only move one space at a time but together they determine the outcome
of the game unless someone makes a careless mistake with a bishop or a
knight. Every now and then that happens
but for the most part the game is decided by the movement of a pawn or
two. They only give you so much time to
use the computer; my time ran out so I had to log out and then log back on. It was a real dogfight. We traded piece for piece, neither of us was
able to gain an advantage. There would
be no quick checkmate. It was one of
those games that was going to go down to the last several pieces and it would
be decided by whoever was one move ahead or by whoever had one more pawn than
the other guy. I had to log out and log
back on several times. All of our major
pieces were off the board other than our kings; neither of us had been able to
establish any advantage; however, I was able to keep him playing defense the
entire time. I was still in control of
the flow of the game; not once had he been able to make any kind of offensive
move, he had been countering me the entire game and now I still had that one
slight advantage; I was white; he had to counter me. It was going to be a stalemate unless I could
beat him by one move; whoever got their queen back first was going to win the
game. I knew it and so did he but he
wasn’t able to stop me from getting my queen back first and when I got it back
he was in check; that’s the opening that I needed. I had to keep him in check and not let him get
his queen back and that’s exactly what I did.
I kept putting him in check until I had positioned my queen to take his
pawn. It was only a few moves after that
when he was no longer able to mount any resistance. The game was over, the only pieces that I had
left on the board were my king and queen and a pawn but that’s all that was
needed.
When our game was at last over I took a
step back and looked around. Several of
the computers were available, no one was on them, no one was waiting to use it
so I kept playing chess. I stood there
for more than two hours playing game after game. I played against opponents from Russia, India,
Spain, Germany, Greece,
Turkey and China. I won five of the games; I lost the other
three. I probably would have lost
anyways but it’s difficult to log out and then log back on and not lose your
concentration.
I looked at my watch. I still had more than seven hours to go
before my flight was scheduled to take off.
I was tired of playing chess, there was nowhere to sit down, I had been
standing the entire time, so I walked over to the place with the delicious
mashed potatoes and ordered myself another coke and then with drink in hand I
headed back to the smoking room. As I
sat there drinking my coke and smoking a cigarette I found myself thinking
about the chess game I had blown when I was playing against the guy from Germany. I was black; he was white. It was one of those games I should have won;
I was two pawns up but I made a stupid mistake and then his killer instinct
kicked in; before long I was no longer two pawns up; I was only one pawn up and
I had lost one of my knights too. I
tried to get back into the game but I wasn’t able to; he was too careful and
methodical, he was too good to blow the advantage which was his. I don’t mind losing when someone outplays me
but when I make a bad move and practically give them the game it’s sometimes
hard to stop thinking about it.
I then found myself looking out the large
windows at the greenness of the trees and thinking about a chess game that I
watched one night when I was out walking through the crowded streets in Surakarta. It was incredibly hot and humid; it always
is, I was sweating profusely when I saw two men sitting on the sidewalk playing
a game of chess. They were just sitting
there in front of a doorway smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee, one man had
sandals on his feet, the other was barefoot, as I stopped and stood over them
as they looked up at me and smiled. The
man that was playing white……….physical description of the man……….he had a
somewhat better position than the man that was playing black but the game was
still very much undecided. I only know a
few words in Indonesian and I didn’t want to disrupt their concentration so I
just stood there silently as they moved piece after piece. Neither of them tried to speak to me either;
they were entirely focused on the game.
I was going to wait until their game was over and then see if I could
play the winner but they were taking a long, long time between moves. It wasn’t a game that was gong to be over
anytime soon; it would probably last for hours, so after I stood there for a
good half hour or so and then I found myself wandering once more through Surakarta.
There were men standing on crowded street
corners selling fireworks. They had
green wooden carts just like the street vendors that sell food and there were
firecrackers and bright colored packages of all kinds with Chinese symbols on
them. There were places to eat
everywhere, one street vendor after the next selling chicken on wooden skewers
that had been cooked over and open flame and there were restaurants where you
could go in and sit down and order something off of a menu and there were
places that were packed with people sitting at tables, men and women and
children, the women were mostly Muslim and they had hijabs covering their hair
and there was nothing more than a tin roof or a tent tarp overhead, there were
no walls, it was all out in the open air, mosquitoes and flies buzzing around
in the thick night air, and there was a place with people sitting on woven mats
of bamboo as they ate chicken and cucumbers and hot red chili sauce, chicken
that had been grilled over an open flame by a woman standing in front of the
fire, fanning herself with a bamboo fan with one hand as the other tended to
the chicken and the fire. And there was
another woman that made the rice and there was another one that walked around
and collected the empty dishes and brought them back to where she had a bucket
of water and washed them right there on the street as people sat there and ate,
as other people walked by. It cost very
little money, only twelve rupiah, about a dollar American, so I decided to try
some of the grilled chicken for myself.
I placed my order with the woman that took the money and then I walked
over and sat down on one of the woven mats and lit a cigarette as I watched the
cars and taxis and mopeds speed by.
There were plenty of rickshaws too but they weren’t the kind where a man
holds the rickshaw with his hands as he hurries down the street; the rickshaws
all had a bicycle in front of them. Men
with cone shaped hats and bare feet sat on the seats of those bicycles and
peddled their customers wherever they wanted to go. The rickshaws all had canopies too so that if
it rained their customers would be sheltered from it unless it was one of those
rains that has a fury to it as it falls from the lightning streaked sky; the
kind that would best be described as a torrential downpour. When it rains like that nothing will keep you
dry other than a roof over your head, no cone shaped hat made of bamboo will
keep you dry, no flimsy canopy over a rickshaw will keep you dry either. I like it when it rains like that. I find it to be rather beautiful; the streets
are all but empty, everyone is trying to stay dry. I just sit by the window, there’s no glass or
screen on it, and I look out at the dark rainy night as I listen to the voice
of the rain, rain that makes everything green and hot and wet. When it’s over the people come out again and
the cats do too, you can see them walking across the roofs, and before long the
streets are crowded again unless, it’s late at night…
A woman brought my food over and set it
down in front of me. She smiled and then
she turned and walked away. The chicken
was good, but I didn’t eat it with the chili sauce, I tried a little bit but it
was way too hot for me, I have no idea how people can eat something that
hot. The cucumbers and rice were good
too. Now and then some girls would walk
by and smile at me, there were men that smiled at me too, but other than that
no one paid me any attention other than the rickshaw drivers; every single one
of the that peddled past me asked me if I wanted a ride somewhere. They always look so disappointed when I tell
them no. I feel bad for them. Rich men don’t peddle rickshaws around; it’s
the poor men with bare feet that peddle the rich ones around. I have no idea how much money they make in a
day but it can’t be much unless they get a lot of customers or a long ride or
two.
When I finished my food and set my plate
down in front of me a middle aged woman with large dark eyes soon appeared and
collected my plate and fork. Moments
later another woman was washing them in a bucket of water and next to the
bucket plates from other customers were being stacked up by the woman that
walked around and collected the plates.
I took my pack of cigarettes out of my shirt and lit one. I bought them yesterday for less than one
dollar American at a little neighborhood store that sells everything from
cigarettes and coffee and ice cream bars to laundry detergent, bags of rice,
bottles of coke, cheap jewelry, bags of chips, candy, and fruits and
vegetables. They keep the cigarettes on
a shelf directly in back of where the cashier sits so no one can rip them
off. Some things are the same no matter
where you go. Surakarta has its thieves too.
Some young street musicians were playing
guitar and singing and there were several of them that had percussion
instruments too. They were steadily
making their way towards where I was sitting.
Whenever they stopped in front of people and played their music, they
only stayed long enough to get some money.
The moment someone reached out and gave them some coins they moved
on. They never finished a song. Before long they were standing in front of
me. I listened to their music for a
moment and then I reached out and gave them some coins. They thanked me and then they moved on. Less than ten minutes later I could no longer
hear them singing or strumming their guitars; I could no longer hear the beat
of the tambourine; they had disappeared into the darkness of the night. The Muslim girls in their white hijabs and
linen were still walking by though, they were on their way to kneel on their
hands and knees in prayer, their foreheads resting on top of their hands, at
the mosque. I’ve walked by the mosque
before when it’s prayer time; there are hundreds of people kneeling outside of
it, their sandals removed and piled high in stacks as a man’s voice fills the
darkness as he sings praises to Allah.
For some reason whenever I find myself thinking about Surakarta, it’s that night that I remember
most.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but could I
trouble you for a cigarette.”
There was a guy standing in front of me,
he was about the same height as me, 5’ 10” or so. He had very fair skin and he had curly brown
hair that was on the longer side and he wore a beard. He was wearing a white tee-shirt and a pair
of kaki shorts and hanging from his shoulder there was a black leather
bag. He had blue eyes and there were
freckles on his face, he could very easily have been American or European, I
couldn’t tell where he was from; the only thing I knew was that he spoke
English but it was with an accent.
“Sure.”
I took my cigarettes out of my pocket and
handed one to him.
“Thanks, I sure do appreciate it.”
“I know what it’s like to be out of
cigarettes. I’ve bummed a few myself.”
“My name’s Joe Smith,” he said, as he
extended his hand. I reached out and
shook his hand. “My name’s Joe too,” I
said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He sat down next to me and lit it up and
then after he exhaled as said, “Let me guess, you’re American.”
I smiled at him.
“How’d you know?”
“Just a lucky guess. I almost said Canadian; it’s hard for me to
tell Americans and Canadians apart.”
“How about you? Where are you from?”
“South Africa.”
“Really?
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from South Africa before.”
“There’s not that many of us. Now you have.”
He looked out the window as he took a long
drag and then he looked at me again and asked, “So what brings you to Singapore?”
“Fate mostly, I guess.”
He laughed.
“Sounds like a woman.”
“Isn’t it always?”
“Sooner or later I suppose it is.”
“So what part of South Africa are you from?”
“Cape
Town.”
I don’t know why I asked him that. I know absolutely nothing about South Africa. I’ve heard of Cape Town before and Pretoria
and Johannesburg; I remember seeing something on the news years ago about
Nelson Mandela and Apartheid and I think they have some surfing contests there
too and they are known for Great White sharks in the water. I don’t know what European power colonized
it, was it the British or the Dutch or someone else, what tribes did they take
the land and resources from and call it their own? Was it the Masai or Zulu or some other
tribes? Are there lions prowling grassy
savannahs as hyenas laugh at them, are there rhinos trying their best to elude
poachers that are after their horns and the magical powers they believe they
contain? are there giraffes, are there
gorillas, I don’t know. I know all of those
animals are native to the African continent but what part of Africa
they call home I have absolutely no idea.
Are there women with dark skin and bright colored dresses walking around
with baskets on their heads? What kind
of food do they eat? Does diamond mining
take place in his country? Is it a war
torn country ravaged by poverty and disease?
Are there untold numbers of displaced refugees or are those things
taking place in other African countries?
What country or countries do they border, Rwanda,
Congo, Kenya, I have
no idea. I was too embarrassed to
ask. Foreigners always know so much more
about America
than what we do about them.
When he was finished with is cigarette he
reached out and tossed it into an ashtray and then he stood up and said,
“Thanks again, mate.” He looked at his
watch. “I best be going. I’ve got a flight to catch.”
“Where are you off to,” I asked.
“Shanghai.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“I hope it will be. I took a job there.”
“Enjoy your flight, and good luck. I hope things work out for you.”
We shook hands again and then he turned
and opened the door and was gone. It was
only moments after he left when the door opened and the tall, sensuous woman
with a pistol on her belt walked in. As
she had done before she walked over and stood in front of the windows, she
leaned her back against the glass and lifted her leg and put the sole of her
shoe against the glass too and then she reached into her shirt pocket and took
out a pack of cigarettes. There was
nothing for me to do other than to light another cigarette and look at her and
wonder what she would look like without her uniform. It was hard to tell how large her breasts
were due to the type of shirt she had on but I liked to think of them as
shapely and soft with large, dark nipples.
The longer I looked at her the more my imagination took over. I saw her walking through the…..
When she finished her cigarette she
reached into her shirt pocket and took out another one and lit it. She stood there with it between her fingers,
smoke drifting up towards her face from the hot red end of it, as she examined
her hands. She was still leaning against
the large picture window and the bottom of her foot was still up against the window
too. There was a look in her eyes that I
wasn’t able to discern. What was she
thinking about? Was she thinking about
what she had to when her shift was over?
Was she thinking about her husband or children? Does she have a husband or children? Was she thinking about what she was going to
on her day off, or was she lost in some long ago memory, one that she was never
able to let go of despite the years that had passed? It made me sad to think that I would never
see her again after today. Any minute
now she’s going to take her last drag and then she’s going to snuff out what’s
left of it and toss it in an ashtray and then she’s going to open the door and
walk through it and I’ll never see her again.
I’ve never seen her before today; I don’t know the first thing about her
and yet I already missed her.
The door kept opening and closing. People continued to come and go; one of those
people was her. There were some other
girls to look at, some of them were quite pretty, but it was time for me to go
to. I stood up and slung my backpack
over my shoulder and then I opened the door and as I walked through the
terminal I looked for a bathroom. It was
time to let the coke out the other end.
It wasn’t long before I arrived at a bathroom. One of the great things about Changi is that
the bathrooms are the same as they are in the states. They aren’t holes in the ground with a bucket
of water beside them and there is more than enough soap to wash your hands and
there are sinks to wash them in. I felt
like a new man again, one that had just been reborn, but it was still hours
before my flight was scheduled to take off.
I had been awake for a long time, twenty hours or so; it was time to get
some sleep.
I walked through the terminal looking for
a lounge; eventually I came to one. The
big, comfortable reclining chairs were all taken so there was only one thing to
do. I lowered myself to the floor and
placed my backpack under my head and then I pulled my baseball hat down over my
eyes. I have no idea how long I was
asleep for but it wasn’t long enough.
Someone was touching my shoulder and then I heard a voice say, “I need
to see your passport and ticket please.”
I reached up and removed my hat and then
as I was sitting up I put it back on my head.
Three guys in uniforms were standing there looking at me as I reached
into my pocket and took my passport and ticket out and handed them to the guy
that was standing closest to me. I was
on my feet now, rubbing my hands over my eyes as he looked things over and then
he handed my passport and ticket back to me.
“Everything is in order. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They walked over and woke up a guy that
was sleeping on one of the chairs, as he was handing them his passport and
ticket I lowered myself to the carpeted floor once more and once my backpack
was place I laid my head on it again and pulled my baseball hat down over my
eyes. I wasn’t able to fall asleep at
first, I had been up for so long.
It took me a moment to remember where I
was when I woke up. I pushed my hat back
up until it was on top of my head again and then I sat up and looked around me
as I yawned. I sat there for a long
moment and yawned again and stretched my arms and then I picked my backup up
and when I was on my feet again I began walking back towards the smoking room. That’s when I saw her walking towards me, the
woman with the ocean in her eyes. It was
in her hips too, and as I watched her walk past me I knew that I would never
see her again. I also knew that I would
never be able to forget her eyes.
1st Draft
12-7-17, 12-12-17, and 12-13-17
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