Month: September 2021

8 Citizens of Nowhere (Changi Airport)

ARRIVE SINGAPORE       21.35                         DEPART SINGAPORE  07.40         

Beginning the descent into Singapore. We’re landing at Changi Airport in about half-an-hour (maybe less). The cabin is preparing to land; a sudden buzz of electricity charges and changes the torpor around me. People fidget, people manically check the overhead lockers, people queue again outside the toilets. An amazing sunset is occurring to my left. A vibrant, burning red blazes beyond the window. The sky is on fire. Ardent colours. I take photos. Don’t feel so good – light and lethargic. Am here for the next ten hours until my connecting flight departs tomorrow morning. There are no real expectations of this layover, now. When I booked the flight, I was looking forward to spending time here at Changi. Of all the times to get food poisoning the day before a long-haul flight was not the best. Seat belt signs chime on. The sun has now disappeared behind a wall of fog, leaving behind a changing kaleidoscope of nebulas and bursting supernovas. Exhausted. All I want is to shower; to lay down on my bed and close my eyes. But like the speaker in Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” there are commitments still to navigate:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The sky is now filled with colours and magic. Descending through silent clouds. And there are miles to go before I sleep.

Image by Karl Powell, CDG, 2018

I can remember waking yesterday – in the middle of the night – with cramps in my stomach. Laying in the darkness not daring to move I can remember thinking I was lucky to only have been ill this late into the holiday (the last day) and feeling ok with it (like it was some kind of pact). Then the illness struck. For an hour I vomited and struggled to keep down any water. It happened in violent waves. Sitting on the floor of the bathroom I can remember being surprised how physically tired I felt. After the illness had passed, I showered and lay back on my bed. I felt shattered and wobbled between extremes of being too hot or too cold. At one point, I lay as still as I could in the dark, trying not to move, to breathe softly, to not think, to be as motionless as possible. I listened to the sounds of the rainforest outside the room sing through the final arias of the nocturnal symphony. I could hear the ocean against the shore. Eventually I fell asleep sometime in that strange elixir of dawn and first light.

Image by Karl Powell, Approaching Singapore, 2009

At breakfast I felt ok. Nibbled on some fruit, had a coffee. My taxi had been booked to take me from my accommodation to the airport just before lunchtime (an internal flight then an international flight to Singapore at 6pm; ten hours before the second leg of another journey).

It didn’t take long before I was ill again. I made it to the bathroom in the cafe and then again to the one in room without disgrace. I lay on the bed, perspiring and now resigned to the situation; nothing else to do but wait for the taxi. My bag was packed and ready, but I was ill. Seriously ill. Now it was concerning. At what stage could I honestly say ‘the worst of it’ had passed? Would it pass? I plucked up the courage to venture to a chemist a short distance away. The walk there was painful and slow. Lethargy weighted each of my steps in the humidity and wet tarmac. My stomach winced, tender as if it had been kicked. But I made it and explained my story; buying hydration tablets and all manner of pills out of desperation to not vomit on any of the planes (or airports). Can’t remember much of the journey to the airport. Can’t remember much of checking in. Can’t remember much of that first flight. Everything just happened.

Image by Karl Powell, Changi Airport, 2013

There is an acute awareness of entering a parallel dimension inside an airport. Time operates differently. Past and future are no longer fixed. The conventional sequence of existence erodes. Personal time differs from external time; time zones are crossed by the hour, body clocks operate independently of local time, departure times and arrival times become one and the same thing. Time becomes a paradox of metaphysical theories. The airport becomes something of a wormhole – a rogue existence punched through the space-time fabric allowing Citizens of Nowhere to come and go as they please. Time breathes; Time just is. There are no longer the fixed coordinates which order our everyday lives. The airport is a journey into an alternative reality, where, to paraphrase the French phenomenologist Maurice Merleu-Ponty, the flow of time broods before us like a storm on the horizon and we are merely floating downstream towards it, always aware of its presence. 

Image by Karl Powell, Above Singapore, 2009

On arrival at Changi Airport (21.35) I flowed out into a terminal with the rest of the flight. And here in Singapore airport, like any other big airport, colours of confusion swirl and move without any familiar anchorage. Colours of clothes, of currency, of passports. Citizens of Nowhere all in transit, all in symphony, all in situ, searching for screens bearing information of the brooding future: details of flights, departure gates, destinations so far away. Staring at screens, pockets of silence eddying in the flow of motion, simultaneously reassuring and unnerving. I walked along coloured corridors, on moving walkways, weaving in and out of people as they weaved in and out of me. I could not go fast – my body ached and I felt drained. I looked at maps. I searched screens. Couldn’t find my flight. I walked through shops selling duty free and magazines. I found an information desk. They took my boarding card, checked something on a computer, confirmed my flight the next morning, advised me what terminal to go to. Before leaving, I asked about the airport hotel. Someone had mentioned it to me weeks ago – a transit hotel in Changi Airport where you could stay overnight. I was given a map of the airport; it was circled here and there, showing me where I was, where to find the hotel (and my departure gate at 07.40). 

Image by Karl Powell, Three Friends BKK, 2017

From Terminal 3, a Sky Train to Terminal 2. Singapore Airlines, Air India, Etihad Airways, Lufthansa Airlines, Silkair. Transfer Lounges, Walking Times, electric bulbs and neon signs become the canopy of stars overhead. Moving through the fatigue that had weighed me down I passed through coloured lights, busy bars, people moving until I found the Transit Hotel. Leaving behind the flow of people, I entered the silence of a glass door and approached the familiarity of a reception area. A smiling face told me rooms were available. Minimum purchase of six hours (with additional hours added on by the hour). Money paid. A key card in my hand. A room of one’s own.

The hotel room – 422 – was perfect, clean with a shower and a bathroom. Another world within a world. A step off the carousel. My own space again. Stillness and silence; the hum of air-conditioning. Here I could leave my bags, put them down, let them be and walk around without having to drag them behind. The shower – a welcomed shower – left me feeling refreshed (skin, scalp and face). In clean clothes I sat on the bed like a Nighthawk in one of Edward Hopper’s paintings, feeling the weight of my body sink into the solitude of mattress. And then my stomach began to speak again. This time, not tender pangs of anguish, but an eagerness to eat again. The joys that can be found in the smallest of things.

Image by Karl Powell, Doha: World of Business Lounges, 2019

And so, I re-entered the cloud city of Terminal 2 at Changi Airport. I walked slowly now and noticed how amazing this airport really was. Free from the stress of needing to pay attention to small things, of guarding your belongings, of having senses stimulated beyond retention I became a Citizen of Nowhere once again. The legs could stroll and I could marvel. There was a cinema that played movies for those in transit. There was an area playing live music. There were places to eat all about me (Thai, Indian, Italian). And yet despite these temptations all my body craved was a whopper from a Burger King (with fries and a coke). This would be my first meal in nearly a day. I walked and sat in a large, open Sports Bar with a giant screen. It was screening a match between Liverpool and Celtic. It was only a pre-season game but it was of importance as Liverpool had recently appointed a new manager, Rafa Benitez.  I sat and ate slowly, watching the Reds win 5-1, and everything felt good.

At some stage I went back to the room in the transit hotel and slept. I slept well and set my alarm. The illness had passed. And so I slept soundly in Changi Airport as a Citizen of Nowhere – lost in time, unaware of coordinates, transiting beyond borders. And everything felt good.

Image by Karl Powell, Approaching DXB, 2016

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7 Sunday Night, Paris

It is night time at Rue Rambuteau. Almost eleven thirty at night (Sunday night). I’m sitting outside Café Au Pere Tranquille once again. It’s a beautiful night (has been such a beautiful day). The drizzle that fell for most of today has left for now but the pavestones outside the Forum des Halles still shine with the wet. The red neon sign of the Cafe Au Pere Tranquille reflects on the floor with a few remaining puddles there. The coolness of tonight’s air is kind, perfumed by the sweet smell of pipe tobacco, smoked from a table nearby. Each table is candlelit with a small, fat nightlight candle, sheltered from the evening chill within a glass lamp.

Image by Karl Powell, Cafe au Pere Tranquille, 2007

All is quiet but things are happening here. Take now for example; the clicking wheels of a suitcase are being dragged backwards across the flagstones surrounding Forum des Halles. This echoing noise fails to stir a man fast asleep in a doorway, camped inside a red, puffer coat (some bags beneath his feet). The song of a whistling man carries through the air as he walks home alone. Couples meander from all four walkways. Two Senagalese women share a joke as they walk, speaking softly as they pass us by. Their footsteps sound tired though, maybe aching, labouring home with long, laboured strides. As they disappear down towards Rue des Halles the sound of jazz pipes out for a moment, for the duration that an open-doored bar swings a glass portal open to the night and closes again to keep in the warm. As I write, an old man, passing by, stops and politely bums a cigarette from a couple sat at the table in front of me. They smile and oblige and the old man moves off into the night smoking. Giant street lamps gently sieve soft creams of buttered light down onto the pavement. Distant shops, near the Metro, glow in oranges and yellows. Many apartment windows are open, or asleep, some are watching television with their neon images flashing changing facades of cobalt blue within; some – one or two – are burning the red light. Sat on a street corner you can see many things.

Image by Karl Powell, December, 2007

A moped surges through the silence suddenly, scattering the skittles of stillness in midnight’s other hours. A woman sits upright on the bike, riding side-saddle, and is glimpsed for the briefest of passing moments: here, there, gone, with the sound of an engine rumbling along behind her. Then, the table in front of me, push back their chairs, stand up. They leave something on the table, take their cigarettes with them and walk around the small herb garden of plants that seems to enclose this outdoor patio. Black and white hold hands hold tight each other’s silences, and kiss warm lips of tenderness in this happy, velvet doorlight.

Image by Karl Powell, Walking, 2007

It is late. Cold air touches my face; drinking wine here has left my cheeks feeling flushed. Time for me to head back to my room, soon. Above me, the thick velvet violet of the night sky – illuminated by the surrounding streets here. Some buildings even have rooftop gardens closer than us to there. One star shines brighter than all the others. It shines so high and bright above this part of town. Wish I had a camera now. Wish I could capture this moment forever; I really do not want to go to sleep tonight. I really do not want this day to end. I love being here so much. Looking at that star I have just one wish tonight – just the one ask. And I make the wish. I wished upon that star. And as I begin to move away from my table, a small white dog, with a black sock in its mouth, trots out of the darkness, past the café, and heads down towards the Siene.

Image by Karl Powell, Rue Rambuteau Asleep, 2007

Breakfast this morning was unhealthy. Beautifully unhealthy as the coolness of morning breathed in. Espresso followed espresso. Then the pastries arrived: almond croissants caked in butter, soft (so soft) that the crunch was found with a rip and tear of delicate ease. Pain-au-chocolates melting in your hands, across each fingertip on point of contact; dissolving on the tongue once lips closed. Satin creams of goats cheese folded up into crunching envelopes of bread, put into place forever with a single press of a flat, steel knife. I sat and I ate and almost wished I smoked cigars for breakfast, too.

Across the Rue, on the building opposite, daylight crept over the giant mural of Marilyn Monroe (the Warhol version) painted there. It was raining. Lightly. I stood at a window and watched the Parisien rain fall for a while. Everything looked so nice in the drizzle (almost as you’d expect it to be). It left everything polished and shining for those who were already up and walking about, moving through this Sunday morning sheen. I caught sight of an old man laden with heavy, plastic shopping bags. He stopped by a set of steps leading up to the Forum des Halles, putting his bags down. He readjusted whatever he had to, picked up the bags back up and moved off into the drizzle. And daylight kept lifting, lifting the darkness of night so that soon, so soon, the Seine would once again run to the colour of absinthe until sunset.

Image by Karl Powell, Warhol’s Marilyn, 2007

Mid-morning. Sunday Morning. I am sitting at Café Bouledogue. I am drinking hot coffee and eating more bread on green, leather seats. This café is so clean, spotlessly clean and shining. Polished brass sings, gleaming mirrors shine. Light tiled floors are unblemished.  Old wooden chairs. An aria of opera begins to play, leading each note and clef around a curling spiral staircase in the corner of this restaurant. A giant bottle of absinthe is shaped like the Eiffel Tower and sits behind the bar. The day has come to life. Two men behind the bar polish cutlery. They rise and shine each knife and fork, folding them up inside a napkin mattress. A waiter sets the tables. Then a young woman bounces in, breezes in with a mid morning smile, orders the happiest coffee I’ve ever heard. She chats to the men polishing cutlery. Her coffee is served in a white cup, which she holds close and takes with her. Bon journee! That’s what she said as she smiled all the way out into the mist and drizzle. Bon journee.

Image by Karl Powell, Cafe Bouledogue, 2007

Midday. Sunday. The rain had stopped. I walked for an hour or so through the Cemetiere du Pere Lachaise. I travelled here by Metro (it didn’t take long). The first thing that strikes you is the sound of serenity; an echo of peace moved in the feint wind, lifting up all rolling leaves and shaking out the last drops of the morning rain clinging on to tree branches. Birds were singing. There was a funeral happening today at the Crematorium. Up ahead of me, as I entered, I saw lots of mourners in black gathered there, a hearse sat outside, full of flowers. As always, Pere Lachaise was busy with tourists. They come to see those who have been buried here alongside other Parisiens: Frederik Chopin, Marcel Proust, Carmen’s Bizet, Edith Piaf, Gertrude Stein and Jim Morrison of The Doors. Coming here can make you aware of the influence the arts play in the lives of those treasure them; of those who love the creative spirit in all its expressive fonts. The ability to feel and touch the humanity of living in this moment now, and to fashion it in a language or form that transcends so much limitation. The tomb of Oscar Wilde exudes a pink hue – an angel in statue covered in endless lipstick kisses and graffiti from admirers. So many write words there. One from Natalie quoted from the author’s own work; in ink written on his stone, “The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. Thank you.” Further along, on the simple tomb of Amedeo Modigliani someone had left flowers for the Italian artist. Someone, whoever, had come along much earlier and left a long, stemmed red carnation and a handwritten poem on his stone. The carnation had caught droplets of rain, which sat in the petals of burgundy quite still and round. The poem’s blue ink had long run free in the morning’s rain. The words had blurred but the poem remained. 

Image by Karl Powell, Natalie, 2007

Midnight. Sunday (moving to Monday). Alone with the stars in the night sky and the dreams in our heads and our hearts. The darkness at night never feels empty here. It is alive with music, with people, with meaning. And for a moment – the briefest of moments – the sound of jazz drifts out across Forum des Halles once again, moving along Rue Rambuteau as an open-doored bar swings a glass portal open to the night and closes again to keep in the warm.

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6 In transit, in Colombo

It is late afternoon. The sky begins to slide; peaches and pinks begin to mellow in the clouds, with their pastel hues starting to dance on a few waves far out at sea. The sting of the day’s heat has left now and humidity seems to be building in the air. The sun sags down towards the ocean horizon and is about an hour away from setting. It will be gone soon. The blues in the sky deepen and are filled with moving chunks of cumulus cloud coming in off the ocean, all bloated and saturated with moisture, gliding across the heavens like icecubes in scotch.

Image by Karl Powell, Coconut Trees, 2013

For a while I tried to photograph this changing canvas blooming overhead. One photograph became a frenzy of many, with each one more memorable than the previous (so I told myself). Then you realise the futility of trying to capture some experiences in a photograph. You just can’t. While clouds and colours mesmerise within a private dalliance of time, birds are flying through camera frames – darting past images, evasive when wanted in shot – their songs are audible, everywhere, soft and echoed through the moving leaves of tall, thin palm trees. Row upon row of tall, thin strings of long-lined coconut trees, rise upwards, rustling and alive in this afternoon breeze. Rain occasionally sprinkles. It falls and blots some of the ink from this pen on this page. Words blur as they are written. A rainbow flashes for a moment, radiant in colour, dissolves into nothing in a second. How to capture all this? Maybe it’s better to put away everything those and to just absorb all this beauty as it unfolds, until the day ends (until the adventure ends), all the way to a tangerine twilight. The determination to hold on to the end of something can often blind us to what actually remains; easier, then, to just let go and to be amongst the moments.

Image by Karl Powell, Bentota Railway Station, 2013

Reflecting, then, on this trip. Today has been lived through a blur of concerns: checking out and checking in, packing and unpacking, haring in and out of taxis. Cannot believe how tired I feel. I left Bentota this morning around 10. It was a three-hour road trip along the coast up to Colombo (arriving some time after 1 o’clock). The driver mentioned some new highway, Express 1 or Galle Road, linking the South to the capital (there wasn’t much conversation). My flight out of Sri Lanka leaves at 1am; rather than wait twelve hours at the airport for an overnight flight, I booked a room at a hotel close to the airport.  I’m glad I did. I’ve showered, slept and am now writing by a pool (only two flights ahead of me now – probably won’t be in my own bed for at least an entire day).

Image by Karl Powell, Galle Road, 2014

Sri Lanka has been an amazing experience. On reflection the trip was too short. I should have stayed for longer, a few weeks more, to travel, to have seen as much of this beautiful place as I could. And yet in the short time here I had, I did what I could. There was Galle Fort, a walled area of homes, churches, mosques, temples, shops and cafes (they even have a literary festival here each year). The journey there from Aluthagama on a train was something so special – a two-hour train line running the length of the shoreline with waves breaking as we thundered past en route to Galle (all windows were open and stayed open). There were many kind souls I met there. I hope I can return properly and spend time there. Think I need more time. Think I need to come back here again. There are many places I had earmarked months ago and wish I had seen: Sigiriya and Sri Pada (Adam’s Peak). Sometimes it’s just not practical or possible to do and see everything – better to leave room for next time. The sun is now setting. Wish I could stay here for a while longer. One more swim, then, one more, then time to let the holiday go, to gather up these poolside things and move indoors once again. Clouds continue to float in. I feel so relaxed. I have loved today so much.

Image by Karl Powell, Happy Passenger (Aluthagama to Galle), 2014

Back at my room in the hotel, time is running out. I am trying hard to slow this endless march towards the buzz of an airport but already it is seven o’clock (my taxi pick up is booked for ten-thirty). Everything is ready, everything is packed, everything is on edge – waiting for a departure lounge, luggage trucks on tarmac, flashing lights, empty seats, criss-crossing lives you will never meet or see again, standing still in swirling madness, inane and endless security checks, burning eyes, aching backs, searching for seats, searching for passports. To take a break from thinking, I go downstairs for a meal rather than room service – opting for dahl, coconut sambal, fish curry and an egg hoppa. On my way to the restaurant area, between the lifts and lobby, I had to walk through a mini mall in the hotel. It had a few transit shops flanking each side. Some were open, some were already closed. One shop open sold souvenirs, silks and clothes. An elderly couple worked there and were very kind and patient when I entered. I bought a few scarves and tea towels as presents. When they were being wrapped I saw a large table cloth for sale. It caught my eye immediately. It was made from cream linen and had five large elephants embroidered on it. It wasn’t cheap, nor was it beyond my budget, but the money I needed to buy it was back upstairs in my room. The shop closed at eight-thirty. I decided to eat first and to come back and buy it.

Image by Karl Powell, CMB > KUL, 2013

Opposite the souvenirs was a book shop. It was hard to resist a quick look inside. As always, on entering, you immediately you remember what magical places bookshops are. Able to transport and transform you through ideas and imagination. Shelves full of thoughts, dreams and observations, willing to be shared, waiting to be heard. A man who worked there chatted as I look to choose something to take on the flight. He asked where I was from. He asked about cricket. He asked me what I thought of his country. I told him the truth; that I had loved my stay and found it to be one of the most beautiful countries in the world. He looked at me in silence somewhat taken aback. I mentioned that I hoped to visit again some day and to see other places. I named those places I hadn’t been able to see. He recommended another place. He repeated the name of the place a few times, before I asked him to write its name down in the book I’d purchased: Nuwara Eliya.

After dinner, I returned to my room. Suitcase still packed, ready. I counted out cash for the tablecloth and put it down on my bed with me. There is something so unique about a hotel room. The silent anonymity of the room and your neighbours, the sanctuary from a bombardment of so many new sensations. A corridor of footsteps and a lobby bringing other worlds together. The wonderment of being a citizen of nowhere and the deliberate choice of being somewhere else in the world for a brevity of time. The bed felt heavy. I put on the television. There was a movie on one of the channels. It was Midnight’s Children, the cinematic version of Salman Rushdie’s novel. It was on in the background as I idled time, (re)checked my departure times, repeatedly wished I could stop time and just stay here for a while longer. I watched pockets of the movie before remembering the tablecloth; picked up my money, carried my door key, caught a lift to the ground floor and walked to the shops. The bookshop was closed. Its lights were out. The souvenir shop was closed; its lights were on. I walked closer to look inside for signs of life and read a sign on the door ‘Back in 5mins.’

Image by Karl Powell, CMB: Waiting to Board, 2014

And so at 10.30pm I waited in my room. I was waiting for reception to call and to tell me my taxi had arrived to take me to the airport. Last minute brinkmanship; I could wait. Maybe the taxi was running late (stuck in traffic). There was no real urgency, after all, it was only a five minute drive. Maybe I had to ring to confirm first. At 10.45pm I gathered up my belongings and made my way down to the lobby. Maybe the driver was waiting there. It was empty. It was dark. It was quiet. The Duty Manager at the hotel rang the number I had been given for the taxi. There was no answer. He rang again and left a message on the answer phone. We waited for a short while, talking together, before he offered me a voucher for a complimentary taxi to the airport. It was a gesture much appreciated. I thanked him. Just as he was about to call a local driver, the one I had booked arrived out of the blue. It was now eleven o’clock. It was now time to go. We drove out of Colombo into the darkness, into the ending of another adventure, leaving behind a wonderful afternoon in the night. We drove out into unknown roads and unseen streets, moving, merging, turning, overtaking and arriving at Colombo international airport. This was it, then. The holiday was now over. Back into another airport. I checked in and wandered off towards the security checks. I stared at a flight board, found my flight and made my way to the boarding gate. Everything was on time.

Image by Karl Powell, The First Leg of the Journey, 2013

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