A rude awakening

Everything is dark and still. The blackness of my room has turned into a veil over my eyes and it is getting darker and darker. Fantastic, I think. I’m finally falling asleep. The last time I turned to see the blue haze of my alarm clock, it taunted by saying I only had 4 hours to go till wakeup. However, not to worry. Sleep is now upon me. I feel it. My body is relaxed, my mind somewhat emptied, and every breath I take takes me deeper and deeper until…
Click-click thud.
Oh no.
Click-click thud.
Not again.
Click-click thud.
Dammit Frank. Stop trying to get into my room! I hear his body slam against the door, and I know this time he is really insistent. For goodness sakes Frank, I think, not tonight. We have talked about this. Do not disturb me when I’m sleeping for a flight. How many times do you we have to go through this? I know you want cuddles, but I have to go to work and I need to sleep. I know it’s only 6 o’clock at night and normally I would be awake, but I have flight at 3 in the morning and need up to get ready by 10pm. Jesus Frank, I only have 4 hours to sleep left! Leave me alone! I suddenly remember that I have wedged a heavy suitcase filled with wine (Riesling, 2008) against the hallway door to stop him getting in. Ah yes. That should hold him.

With this thought, I feel my body slowly relax again and my mind wanders aimlessly till…
Click-click
But no thud follows.
Dammit, I think. He has managed to get into the hallway, which only means that howling at my locked door was next.

I turn on the lamp and wince at the light it emits. I unlock my door and look down at Frank staring up at me with his green eyes.
Meow, he explains.
I’m sorry buddy, I say. But out you go. I pick him up gently and give him a quick rub under the chin before I turn him out.
My cat Frank has learned how to open doors by jumping and grabbing a hold of the handle and pulling it down, and it has driven my flatmate and I crazy over the past couple of weeks. I add another wine (Cabernet Sauvignon, 2006) and some beers to the suitcase and re-wedge it back against the door. What a nuisance it is sometimes to have a smart kitty.



Just as I start to put my thoughts to sleep, my alarm wakes and says it’s not time to sleep anymore.

I was never really asleep that night, which meant I was never really awake afterwards either. The flight was a turnaround to the subcontinent, and I float through the event, my feet never really touching the ground as I dish out chicken briyani and sambar for the ‘I am wedge’ passengers. We were entertained by a drunk little man with his fly undone on our flight, who looked like Abu (the monkey from Aladdin) if he were human. He was on his way to Saudi for yet another 2 year stint before he went back home again, and was loading up on the alcohol to either drown out his pain of leaving his family again or the drudgery of his upcoming 2 years.

The galley at the back is lit like a hospital’s waiting room, its white fluorescent lights doing no one any justice, especially since that none of the 7 crew have slept for this flight. There are grey circles under everyone’s eyes and all our cheeks are tickled with an unflattering shade of yellow. Welcome to the unglamorous side of the flight attendant, a wakeup call to newcomers to the job that this is not as shiny as it was advertised. We look like those who stumble out of a club at 6am, when the alcohol has worn off, the lights are too bright, and we just want to go home and crawl into bed.

Exhausted after the flight, I occupy my favourite seat at the back of the bus, take off my jacket and lie down to sleep.
My head bouncing against the seat of the bus suddenly wakes me, and I know that my stop is up next. The bus and its trailer full of suitcases skips and double bounces against the uneven dirt surface rewritten daily by lorries, cranes, taxis, motorbikes and other vehicles, giving it a nice bumpy and spontaneous texture like the moon’s surface.

However, I am often grateful to the lack of road leading up to my building which causes my head to jump like a pogo stick on the backseat. Without this rude awakening, I would very likely continue to slumber silently at the back of the bus till the shuttle did full circle and I was back at work again. Just goes to show that important wake up calls may be rude, but without them, we’d end up right back where we were in the beginning.

The city built on sand

I walk off the bus shaking. The drive from Ninoy Aquino International Airport (MNL)to the hotel has taken longer than usual because of traffic, and in that time, I was engaged in a discussion with the Captain, which has left me enraged.

‘I run a law firm.’
‘Oh really? Cool. Where did you study law?’
‘I’ve never studied law but I know that lawyers don’t make the best businessmen.’
Strike one.

‘Social interpretation of intelligence equates to greatness in mathematics. If you asked 100 people who was more intelligent – a mathematician, a lawyer, a fashion designer or a musician, the majority would say the mathematician.’
‘Ok, if you didn’t study law, then what did you study?’
‘Mathematics.’
Strike two.

‘But that’s very black and white, Captain. Social interpretation is exactly that, a society’s interpretation, which varies from society to society. The world is full of black, white and grey. Embrace the grey, Captain. Embrace the grey.’
‘Don’t talk to me about grey. I write. I have been published. I write and recite poetry, I know all about the grey.’
Yeah, so? Hitler was also published.
Strike three.

The Captain is a local from The Desert, a deserati. I hate to stereotype, but as Ryan Bingham says in Up In The Air (2010), it’s quicker. The captain’s archaic and misled views are a stark reminder of how The Desert has catapulted itself into modernity and is struggling to find its own set of values. The Desert in the past 30 years has transformed itself from a nomadic desert people of fishermen, farmers and mountain people, to a glittering Babylon of hotels and resorts, man-made world firsts, and malls the size of small cities.

Caught at the halfway point of the West and East, The Desert’s vantage point should have been an insightful one. However, it is as if they looked around the world for references of what it is to be a successful nation, and all they saw were the most obvious and shiniest examples in a commercialised world – a degree in mathematics, business, mega structures, luxury, and decided to make these values their own.

The Desert failed to take notice of the more understated examples of success such as recycling and public transport. Free speech (the reason why this blog is written anonymously). Human rights.

I live in a high-rise apartment building on a construction site in The Desert. For 2 years, my neighbours in the building opposite have been 200 Bangladeshi and Indian construction workers, who work 12 hour shifts in 50 degree weather with 100% humidity in the summers. I see them crawl under any source of shade they can find for a quick sleep during lunch. I see their meagre lunch of beans and rice, eaten with their hands, and I feel my heart break as they hold out their food for me, offering me lunch as they notice me staring. I see them get trucked out in dilapidated buses back to the compounds further out in the Desert, out of sight from the tourists, where they sleep 13 men to a room. The Desert is modern-day Ancient Egypt, and these men are its modern-day slaves.

My neighbours are no longer there. The building opposite my apartment is now finished, its facade brightly lit and dazzling. My neighbours are off to another building project as they continue to write the legacy of The Desert, of which they will never get a mention.

So if you ever pass through The Desert, or see its twinkling lights from afar, know that despite its self-promotion and shininess, all that glitters is not gold.

Here's to you, Mr Hamer.

After months of procrastinating, the desired blog has finally been created. This is ashamedly 2 years in the making, and if it wasn't for an influential passenger I encountered on a flight on New Years Eve 2009/10 from London (LHR) to Dubai (DXB) it would probably have taken me another 2 years to get this this off the ground.

It was a dreary night to be working - another New Year's Eve spent without friends and family around me. London churned out its best London weather for the momentous evening with an oppressive gray sky that blanketed the city so closely you felt you were in bed under the covers even when you stepped outside. It doesn't help that the hotel The Airline puts us up in is in the middle of Heathrow, hardly an attractive face of London, so this Trolley Dolly stayed in, signed up for the overpriced in-room wifi Internet of 10pounds and skyped with the boyfriend who resides in Australia. I 'enjoyed' the 5pound buffet breakfast downstairs in the restaurant/cafe, and I am not ashamed to say that I had seconds of the pork sausages.

My mood was sour as I waited for the passengers to board the New Year's Eve flight. I was grumpy and tired, and very unimpressed that a girl in security made me throw out my MAC liquid foundation because I had forgotten to put it in a clear baggie. I was especially miffed because she was a girl, and damn-right knew how expensive makeup is to replace. Bitch.

However, 2 passengers came and sat in my area, in quite a jovial mood. The middle-aged men moved effortlessly in the cabin, stowed their items away in the hat racks with such ease that it was evident that not only had they frequented the skies, but most probably had done so together. They saw me watching them and English guy asserts me, 'We're not gay'. I smile for the first time that day.

I learn that the two men are a journalist and his Irish photographer partner-in-crime on their way to Kabul, Afghanistan for a two week trip. Fascinated, I rack their brains about their job, their lifestyle, and what this trolley dolly with aspirations in journalism can do to get into the industry.

'Blog' the journalist says. 'Newspapers are dying, and blogging is the easiest way to get your material out there. If a potential employer wants to see your work, it's easy for them to access not only your blog, but also your followers and their comments.'

I exchange a steady supply of gin and tonics (lemon and ice, please) for their anecdotes, advice and simply their company that night. I was so engrossed by the light-hearted pair that the flight literally flies by.

Journalist offers me his business card saying 'If you are really interested in getting into journalism, next time you're in London, give me a call and I can introduce you to some people. I, personally, don't know anything. I can introduce you to people who know more than me, and maybe show you around the office. Do you know where Canary Wharf is?' Now I know what you may all think this sounds like, but we aside from journalism, we also talked extensively about his wife and children and my boyfriend so this was in no way anything more than a kind gesture on his behalf.

Two weeks later, I come home from a flight and find the business card in my Moleskin notebook. Hmm, really must get in touch with that journalist, I think. I find him on facebook easily, but instead of finding his profile, a group created with his name and the letters 'RIP' pop up instead. I look closely at the photo, and after reading its information, I learn that the journalist and photographer were involved in a car bomb explosion in Kabul. The journalist died, and the photographer suffered extensive injuries, was in critical condition but alive.

Never did I expect that one of my passengers would be dead after two weeks of meeting him. To think that New Year's Eve flight was the last one he would ever take from London, that it would be the last time he would have seen his family before the flight is unfathomable. From the amount of posts on his wall, it was clear that he had touched so many people's lives through his kindness, generosity, and most importantly, his unyielding desire to do the right thing.

So, it is to Rupert Hamer I dedicate this blog to. I hope he knows that though it may just have been another flight for him, through his kindndess and generosity, he inspired this trolley dolly to finally organise her thoughts, and turn her thoughts into words.

For the purposes of this blog, I will remain anonymous as I want to leave my thoughts and observations uncensored as much as possible in order to give a wider and deeper perspective into this weird job, without compromising my position with the company. The airline I work for will be noted as The Airline, and where I live will simply be referred to as The Desert.

I hope you'll follow me along my last few journeys with The Airline as I see my time with the company ending soon.

Be safe,
Trolley Dolly