English attracts my immediate attention, though I try for a languid look rather than a sharp, ears-alert jerk of the head.
Taca takes off. I envy them. Five hours to go.
Lines make for strange bedfellows. Excited-looking middle-aged women, and some beyond middle age, dressed (as most women in Latin America so often are) in clothes designed for twenty-year-olds. A young mother in tight jeans (and the requisite stilettos) with a toddler in a lime-green playsuit, on a line harness. A business man mopping his flushed brow, jacket over arm. A man in light-gray and white. A succession of young women, of men in bomber jackets. I have switched sides and now face a nursing mother and a thirty-something man in basketball jersey and jeans. The ubiquitous mumbling voice mutters something terribly vital over the loud speaker. Of course, no one understands, or hears over the Asian gentleman on his cell phone. Couples of mixed heritage - most frequently latinas with Englishmen of Australian natives, remind me of ages-old interracial couplings of European men with indigenous women.
Sometimes, style is what demonstrates cultural heritage. Impossibly high heels, worn as if they were sneakers, tight, embroidered or be-ribboned jeans, fashion-forward shirts, the latest jackets, all belong to the latinas, who take their style from Europe, and are used to traveling in full makeup and mini skirts. Sneakers, comfortable leggings, jeans with wear-and-tear, denote less style-driven travelers. Men wear suits (business travelers), slacks and loafers (students or family men), or sports clothes. The hierarchy of luggage is prevalent among men. Backpack, over-the-shoulder bag, small rolling suitcase, and the coveted briefcase, all intimate traveler status.
Children make the world go round, but not today.
A young girl (around five) grows strong carrying her not-much-younger sister. Until she gives up and baby is transferred to Mom's arms. A three-year-old exclaims ay, caramba! in such a perfect imitation of her adult counterparts that they ignore her and keep on chattering.
I should be walking, but the curious eyes have me cowed - for now. Suspicious eyes, too: the security guards almost outnumber the passengers. Ever-present cleaning women polish already-shining floors, unearthing the tidbits of airport life. The walls in some parts (e.g., the restroom) are made up of thousands of rectangular cuts of rough stone. Some have gone AWOL from their sentinel duty, taken as souvenirs.
Colombia will not have given me anything physical, ticket stub aside. Not even a stamp in the passport. I had debated changing money, just to have some pesos, but I will save that for the return trip. I am fighting the urge to check for my gate, so I can escape this eavesdropping, spying existence. Or, more basely, for something to do. I curse my pencil's rapidly deteriorating lead. I will NOT check for a gate until 5:45. Perhaps I should have eaten outside the gate area, but who knew there would be only one small, mobile refreshment stand in here?
Moving sends pains along my tailbone...too much sitting. A change of seating and I can now be stared at by the nose of a plane. Having left my warm seat, I am struck with sudden chills. I figure all the people will think I am slightly off kilter, with my shoddy-looking bag, my shudders, my vague stare, my bizarre meanderings back and across the Great Hall. So much the better to be left unharmed. The plane emits gaseous brown clouds, abruptly and briefly, like puffs from an old steam train. Only one, though; an aborted journey.
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I am fighting against sleep and for sanity. Not sleep so much as an apathetic coma. So it's true. Boredom is a killer. I wonder what will happen when I arrive, how customs will be, where whoever it is will meet me, sign in hand, Japanese or no in tow. I wonder if the myriad suit colors of the employees represent a coherent job structure, as marked as that contained in the spectrum of skin color in Latin America. The person behind the desk, guarding the boarding door, wears red. The walkie-talkies wear navy.
Can I check the gate yet? 5:40. Not yet. Still four hours to go. This must be what hell is like endless waiting, unable to eat or drink. Can't sleep safely, can't detach your damn carry-on from your arm. The kids are cute, loud, and energetic. I envy their energy. Of course, they haven't been here for four hours.
I'm hoping for a miracle; for an unsolicited, undeserved, very fortuitous act of fate. Better luck playing the lottery. I'm about ready to create a campfire using my Brazil Travel Guide book, hunt some wild birds, and go cavewoman in this airport. I'm just hoping my luggage won't be playing in the carousel for hours before I arrive in Sao Paulo. No, I'm not loopy at all.
We're well past the half-way mark now; three hours until I can board the plane. I realize I have finally lost it.
...
Took a break to draw something incredibly inane. I wonder if I can call with my credit card. I'd call home, tell them that Colombia is just one big airport where people ask me where Gate 4 is over and over again. Perhaps I'd call Mars. I am losing it. Still no gate posted. I debate crossing security lines to call, get money, restore my contact with humanity. Now I know what to do on my return layover: get some plata colombiana for show, buy a book and food, and hole up somewhere else. Sitting next to the plant does not make me breathe any easier. Let me stop. Please.
7:00. 19:00. Two-and-a-half hours to go. Sala 6. Puerta seis. Gate Six. I am hungry and so tired I am imagining moving spots. The entertainment on the airport's TV network was "Animals of the 21st Century", which included a monopod, hopping mollusk over 40 centimeters tall; carnivorous, sandpit-trap laying plants; gigantic (massive, dinosaur-sized) squid with hard shells that live in forests; and their enemies: smart, flexible cephalopods that - ready for it? - swing from trees like packs of howler monkeys. This is assuming 200 million years of evolutions. Oh, and these guys will live where London used to be. Well, it beats the vaguely pleading Latino band on right now. Yay AIR TV, right...
I'm still hungry. Before, I could have sworn that this black-and-white photo was moving.
How does this, or why does this, announcer sound excited about everything, such as arrests, announcements of who ordered the torture of Iraqi prisoners, etc., as if these were all games of fútbol?
Finally, 8:05, 20:05. snot-nosed kids are whining, mothers are snapping, and English-speakers have come to the gate - and gone. Anti-mule adds are everywhere on TV, in the bathroom, on signs in the Great Hall. Not anti-equines, but anti-drug trafficking.
Under an hour to go. I made it.
Fin Parte I / End Part I
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