Sydney, 21 Nov 2014

Walking through The Rocks district in Sydney's harbour area, I hear music and singing. Coming closer, I see a group of youngsters under a bridge. One of them is playing guitar, he has a microphone and amplifier. The others are standing around him, dancing, singing along. From time to time, they lie down, right there on the sidewalk, for whatever reason, then get up again.

The song finishes, the boy starts the next one - "Today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you...". I must have listened to "Wonderwall" about a thousand times during my teenage years. Listening to bands like Oasis was not exactly cool or mainstream back then. But I loved the songs, they were true and helped me through these years.

The kids under the bridge sing enthusiastically, the boy with the guitar starts a line, and lets the others finish it. It touches me that they like this old, immortal song, but makes me almost melancholic, as if I was mourning my youth of days long past. I watch them from the other side of the road, an outsider, an observer.
Am I that old? Well, I am getting married soon. "Wonderwall" is on the playlist for the wedding night.

Amsterdam, 19 July 2014

In one of life’s many ironic coincidental twists, I seem to be following the tragedy of Malaysian Airlines. I remember the uneasy shiver that overcame me when arriving in Bali a few months back, and reading my mom’s concerned email. I had been on a Malaysian Airlines flight via Kuala Lumpur, the very same day when MH 370 disappeared shortly after its departure from KL – without a trace, as we all found out over the coming weeks.

Today, I am travelling from Basel to Amsterdam, reading through 3 pages of newspaper articles on the passenger plane that was shot down over eastern Ukraine. The plane, again a Malaysian Airlines flight, took off from Schiphol less than 48 hours before my landing there. As I arrive, the airport is busy, burstling with people, I glance at watches, whiskey and whatnot in the duty free shopping area. Everything is business as usual. Of course – what else would you expect.

The newspaper also featured a paragraph on the future of the airline. A small photograph showed the MH director, who had offered to step down after the MH 370 disappearance, but then stayed on, because no one else wanted to deal with the messy situation. He, and his 19,000 employees, now get a 2^nd chance at losing their jobs, along with the lost reputation of their airline. Ironic. Almost cynical.

Rejected, deported and stranded

What to do in a place where I didn’t choose to be? Where all I do is focused on getting away as quickly as possible. To the place I had planned to be.

I want to sleep in a city where I don’t want to wake up. Sleep, and wake up to have gotten over the absurdity of having travelled back to Hong Kong, just hours after I had left it. Sleep, which I was unable to do on the plane, because I was weeping out my anger, frustration and disbelief.

He was flipping through the pages. Back and forth. “Where is your visa?” – “I thought I didn’t need one.” Amazing how the brain functions, how slow it can be in catching up with reality – at this point, I was still completely calm.

Lying on a hotel bed that could be anywhere, trying to digest the irony of having been on Indian ground already, only to be deported back to where I came from. On the very next flight. I was so illegal that the plane was not allowed to take off until I was on board. Walking down the aisle to my seat, I felt all eyes on me. Sorry folks, I myself would have preferred to have you leave without me.

More and more people come, all wearing uniforms. Blue ones for the immigration guys, red ones for the airline folks. My passport is handed from one to the next, the red lady is constantly speaking into her cell phone, somebody is producing official papesr. Somebody should have produced an official paper for me before, and should have glued it into my passport. That’s the mistake I made.

I was so illegal that the airline got fined for bringing me into the country. Just days before, I had been the co-organizer of an international workshop with 100 participants. That’s the democracy of bureaucracy, it really doesn’t matter who you are (I didn’t try to bribe the officers…).

What, you didn’t know that India was kicked out of Schengen, after they left the Euro zone? Succeeding in at least smirking on the jokes and cheer-ups that my friends send over email. The marching orders for this kind of situation are clear: Make the best out of it. I know. I will. But not yet today. Hong Kong is out there, but I refuse to see it at the moment.

And of course today happens to be a Sunday, so the Indian consulate is closed. Tomorrow happens to be Dragonboat Day – a public holiday.

Two days later, I have 45 minutes to spend outside of my tiny guesthouse room, before I have to be back because the consulate MIGHT call any time after 10. Wandering up and down the street, being the only one without a purpose amidst waves of people rushing to work or wherever it is they are going. At the “Café des Arts” (A chain breakfast restaurant, where machine people with face masks serve scrambled eggs, grey coffee and something like sausages, with an incredible efficiency), I stare at a wall that has taglines such as “It’s a wonderful day”, “What a beautiful world” and “Time of your life” written on it. Loneliness is creeping in.

An elderly couple sits down at my table. They have brought along their own yoghurts to complement the mash on their plates. It feels good to be acknowledged with a smile.

There was a happy ending to the story: After 3 days in Hong Kong, my visa got cleared, and I did make it to India.