The flight was nearing its end; my seatbelt was tightly fastened as we glided through the heavy clouds, which broke occasionally to reveal tree-covered hills and clusters of apartment blocks. I caught the briefest glimpse of a Maersk cargo ship cutting through the deep turquoise sea, and I wondered where it was heading.
On the other side, I briefly made out a few apartment blocks, which quickly disappeared from view as we tilted from side to side amidst the thick grey clouds. My skin felt dry, and my eyes were heavy. I wiped my face with a small towelette as I checked the seatback pocket for anything I may have left behind. The lightest of rain splattered against the window like tiny darts as we turned sharply to the right, just as my stomach felt the familiar sensation of being left behind, reminiscent of a funfair ride. The Rolls Royce engines roared, and I quickly glanced at the sick bag in the seatback pocket, just to be safe. I wanted to ensure it was there since I had a very sensitive stomach. Come on, make it down without throwing up... We seemed to wave goodbye to the heavens with a sway from left to right, before a very sharp turn had me reaching for the seat in front. Now, we were flying above the concrete canopy of Kowloon’s apartments. One minute, we appeared to almost hover like a helicopter; the next, we were racing across a cacophony of chaotic rooftops with their criss-crossing washing lines and power lines. Below them lay a labyrinth of teeming streets with processions of red taxis and beige minibuses. We then descended rapidly and landed on the harbourside runway with all the grace and elegance of a brick, just as the overhead baggage bins rattled and two French backpackers behind me clapped as we touched down. Thirteen hours ago, I was at Heathrow for a short flight to Paris. The damp and drizzly London evening, the churning feeling in my stomach, the hint of self-doubt—yet here I was, I’d arrived. I was amazed that the undercarriage survived; such was the ferocity of the impact. An elderly Chinese lady in the opposite row let out a long, exasperated breath while fanning herself with the safety card. It was very muggy on board, and everyone seemed desperate to disembark this Air France 747, our home for the last twelve hours. I had spoken to the two backpackers earlier, and they told me they were heading to Hong Kong to catch a connecting flight to Beijing later in the week, with the ultimate plan of travelling overland to New Delhi. They had no visas and no clue how they were going to manage it, but it didn’t seem to faze them. Courage or craziness? Either way, they seemed like real travellers—not like me, a 21-year-old clean-cut boy playing at being an adult, off to Hong Kong to find a job. I sort of wished I was going with them, embarking on some real travel. I had a swish apartment waiting for me; at least the name, Grand Panorama, had me dreaming of opulence, even if it were only for a week before I'd have to move into a cheap as chips youth hostel. I suppose what I was doing was better than temping in some dull office in Bracknell and living at home with my parents, but there was still a feeling of trepidation. Who knows, maybe I’d “find myself” in Hong Kong? Although, at that moment, I just wanted to find myself in a shower followed by a bed. As the plane turned at the end of the runway, the wing pointed toward Hong Kong Island for a second, and I watched the harbour activity under a muggy grey sky. A French cabin crew member welcomed us to Hong Kong, which was shortly followed by classical music. I was here in 1982 as a kid when we left Australia, but I'd obviously forgotten a lot of it, and one thing I'd forgotten was how small the airport was. "THAT is the terminal?" I said to myself, but it was perfect. My adventure was only just beginning...
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James WrenArchives
January 2025
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