Helen Auer
Lit. Journalism
Writing Assignment 3

Open My Eyes

I have never been more relieved to have my feet on the ground than the moment I got off the plane in Jakarta, Indonesia. Twenty-four hours of travel becomes a hazard to one's sanity. My back ached, legs wobbly from disuse, and my mind was caught in a strange mix of exhaustion and nervous tension. It could have been worse I suppose. I was extremely lucky flying primarily in business or first class the entire way on my father's frequent flier miles, but the close quarters and recycled air gave me a nagging irritation which I think was claustrophobia. A tingle continually ran up and down my spine which urged me to get up and run. Of course doing such a thing on a jet was impossible but my mind created its own torture trying to find some way to break free of the flap-buckled seat belt without actually moving.
Twenty-four hours of nothing but sleeping, eating, and trying to remember how my legs work. I want out of here!
If I had made the fourteen hour flight from L.A. to Hong Kong in an economy seat, I would probably have gone insane. Thankfully I would not be making that trip again for two weeks. Now that that ordeal was complete, I gathered my bags and put them on a cart, all the while looking for my friends who were to pick me up. I anticipated a broadening of experience and culture. I welcomed it. However, if I had known how great a culture shock awaited me in the next hour, I probably would have opted to stay on the plane.
The first thing I noticed once off the plane was how warm and humid it was. The airport had many open walkways between souvenir stands, tiny restaurants and the terminals. Tropical breezes embraced me, the moisture soaked into my dry skin and lungs before promptly making my cloths go limp and sticky. The second thing I noticed was that in comparison to this place, American airports are mostly sterile white and blue with metallic decor. Walking in the Indonesian airport was a shock of earthy browns from the rough tiled floors and textured wallpaper to the actual Indonesians themselves. I couldn't locate my friends, so I decided to follow the crowds from the baggage line into the greatness of a third world country.
Some people here need to learn what deodorant is.
Once on a trip to London, England, the leader of my travel group told everyone to try and not look like tourists. Being of Asian decent and in a caucasian setting, it was something I couldn't achieve at that time and was the victim of the Japanese tourist stereotype on multiple occasions. However, in this place where nearly everyone had oriental features I had a better chance of blending in - or so I thought. Pushing through the clustered group of people beyond security who leaned on the metal partitions, I must have had an invisible sign on my forehead which screamed “foreigner”.
I really want a shower right now. And some form of caffeine.
I struggled through the primary mass of bodies consisting of families and then realized I had picked up an independent mass of bodies which moved with me. Four or five men between the ages of forty-five and fifty-five hovered around my cart. They were all greasy, sweaty, and intent on finding any sort of favor. Gap-toothed smiles were as shady as their behavior. They stood inches away from me, talking rapidly in Indonesian and trying to take my luggage away. Boxed in, I clutched the handle of the cart and my purse, shaking my head and trying to move on without touching them. Two were not trying to be “helpful” and kept making kissing noises, leaning close to my ears. I cringed, avoiding eye contact, and tried to search past the worn hawii-patterned shirts for my friend. I didn't want to say anything. My American voice would most likely be a beacon to even more of these creeps. They wouldn't leave me alone. It was like walking with my own rain cloud over my head. I grit my teeth and tried to look confident.
So help me, if one of them touches me I don't care what kind of international scandal will happen! I have two brothers. I can throw a punch. Dear God, where is Fina? She said she'd be here when I got off the plane.
I waited for what felt like a half hour for the “hover-gang” to get bored before finally realizing that the men were simply not going to leave me alone. I had no idea what some of them wanted, (I knew what the “kissers wanted”) but they certainly were not going to get anything. Perhaps if I kept moving they would give up. Keeping a razor eye on my things, I shouldered past the group and out to the pickup zone. Cars were packed bumper to bumper, honking and rumbling. Taxies lined the sidewalks while the drivers shouted and yelled. People milled about with their luggage, standing and waiting for their rides or taking a cab to an unknown destination. How I wished I were truly among them. All I could do was pretend to be apart of the crowd until Fina arrived to save me. Walking quickly and desperately searching for any sign of my english-speaking friend, I dodged behind a concrete pillar and lost the “gang”. However, I had substituted one trouble for another. Taxi drivers smiled amicably and waved for me to come over. Younger men than those who had harassed me inside the airport continued offering to take my cart. Again and again I received puzzled looks when I replied,
“I'm sorry, I only speak english and I'm waiting for a friend.”
It felt like I would never get out of the airport. All I could do was smile, shake my head, and pray. Every few minutes or so I would change locations, feeling utterly lost and trying to hide it. I could feel real panic begin to rise. When I panic, my mind starts conjuring up wild scenarios and possible endings of my situation. I practically never panic.
I'm going to disappear in this country and never been seen again. It'll be one of those unsolved mysteries. My picture will be on television and no one will really care.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a tiny old woman who had watched me maneuver out of the path of another cart-pusher. She looked like the perfect asian grandmother with a large salt-and-pepper bun on the back of her head and a brightly flowered dress covered with a paler flowered apron. She pulled a small wheeled suitcase with brisk steps towards me. Inwardly I sighed, preparing for another onslaught of unintelligible jabber. Keeping my voice as low as possible, I answered her questioning voice with my usual answer. She tilted her head to the side, looked me up and down, and then took a few steps away. Confused, I continued with my fake appearance of confidence and watched for my forgetful friend.
My dad used to work at the Pentagon. Maybe that would help them find me. He's good at asking the right questions to find stuff.
Another man made a beeline in my direction. Maybe if I ignored him he'd go away. This time the grandmother intercepted. I almost laughed out loud, partially in relief, and partially just because I was rapidly reaching the end of my rope. She didn't even reach her opponent's shoulder but she drove him off with a barrage of sharp words and jabbing finger. He didn't stick around for long, looking embarrassed and shamed at being routed by someone a fraction of his size but most likely three times his age. The little lady cast a side glance in my direction before returning to her place an arm's length away.
Thank you God for sending me Angel Grandma to protect me. Remind me never to lose faith again.
But all good things must come to an end, and her ride came a few minutes later. With one last glance, she left me on my own once more. Deciding I had overstayed the usefulness of the pickup area, I cautiously made my way back into the “stalker zone” with the vague hope that my friends may be searching for me inside. No such luck - I once again attracted three men. I must be wearing a sign of some sort.
Dear Lord! Do these people have nothing better to do than pick on me?
It was doubly hard to shake the new “hover-gang”. Finally, when one of them offered the use of a cell phone, I accepted. He was better dressed and cleaner than the others who stood centimeters away. I called Fina who ironically was almost to the airport and thought my flight came an hour later. Trying to keep the insecurity out of my voice, I begged her to hurry. When I hung up, I realized I had taken a big risk. Taking the phone was a sign of weakness and I could see two more men headed my way. I started getting tunnel vision focused solely on getting out of the “hover-gang” and back to the safer pickup zone. The owner of the phone blocked my escape, holding out his hand.
With broken english and a broken toothed smile, he asked, “Money? Give?”
Will he kill me if I only have American money? What's the exchange rate? I only have traveler's checks, twenties, and a five. Is five too much? Too little? No way I'm giving him twenty with all these people around.
I dug out a five dollar bill, trying to hide the rest of my funds from prying eyes. He almost snatched it from my hand, face lighting up like Christmas and said, “Thank you! Make this happy grandfather!”
I smiled back, glad that somehow I had done something right, and saw my friend's petite, cultured figure coming around a McDonald's sign outside. Ignoring the others, I waved franticly. As I did, a new young man came up next to me and began taking my baggage cart away. Now I realized that anyone not a traveler or family member was merely trying to make some money. I didn't care anymore at this point that a stranger had control of my personal property. Fina was here, she could handle it. He pushed along side me, till Fina reached us. Glaring at the unwanted assistant, she waved him off, firmly taking control of the cart.
She whispered, “Where did you find this guy?”
I rolled my eyes, beyond the point of hysteria and replied, “You have no idea what I've just been through.”