A Crack in the Sky

Costa Rica

February 15, 2011

A break in the rain.  The crow of a rooster, the murmer of a dove, the gurgling of an oropendola.  A breathing sky.  The town began to move.  Alive.  A distant cow uttered a depressing moo.  A myriad of birds sang excitedly.  The sky was lighter and now only a cool mist swept through the valley below, illuminated by a struggling sun.

But then, a drop. 

The tapdance starts once more.  The wind quickens its breath, the clouds grow thick, and so begins the light smattering of rain upon tin.  Harder.  A drone.  Then lighter.  A saturated sigh. The clouds thin and reveal a yellow sky.  A quick note, then all at once the birds explode into song.  And the whole drama repeats itself again, and again.

Another day indoors.
Resumes. Coffee. Literature.
A wet step  into the future.

Girl on the Wing

I rolled-up to the check-in booth at the Norman Rogers Airport, in Kingston, Ontario, and handed over my passport.  A rotund blonde woman with a British accent smiled and printed out all three of my boarding passes.  She spread them out like playing cards and read each one over. 

"What are you doing in Guam? she inquired, rather shocked.  She knitted her brow when I told her. 
"Are you hearing this!?" she called over to her co-worker.  "Endangered crows!  How about that!" 
"We have plenty here," the other clerk joked. "Why not take some with you!" 
Ha-Ha. 
"How does one find a job helping endangered birds?" she asked. 
"Well," I said, "I studied biology... and well, the internet is a start.  And it doesn't hurt to know people". 

She blinked at me and shook her head as if to defuse a small bomb in her brain.  She smiled again and handed my passport back.  "Have a great time!" and she waved as I rolled away.  "...Endangered crows, how about that..." was all I heard as I headed for the luggage check. 

The aiport was quiet. There weren't a lot of air-bound passengers running around at 6:30 AM.  Not in Kingston anyway.  And not on a Sunday.  My large, black suitcase passed the safety test and slid away down the conveyer belt.  I wouldn't see it until I reached Guam.  And I was happy for that - it was a very large suitcase.  It contained eveything I would need (or I believed I would need) to live comfortably on a small, isolated limestone atoll in the middle of the Pacifc Ocean for five months.  I didn't want to deal with it again in Toronto... or Hong Kong.  I had travelled enough to know that the last thing one wants to lug around an enormous aiport of an unfamiliar country, is all your crap. 

My step-father waited in the main hall, patiently grinning at me.  My parents were supportive of, if not a little bewildered by, my worldly, bird-oriented, excursions.  They were the ones who helped book flights and purchased travel health insurance (and sometimes even put it all on their credit cards!). "For the miles", they always justified.  I always paid them back of course.  They taught me to always ask questions and do the research, and know my rights (!).  Needless to say, I love them endlessly for all of their valiant efforts.

I received a few final words of wisdom from my step-dad as we chatted until the AirCanada Beechcraft appeared on the tarmac.  My stomach was in its usual pre-travel knots and I unconciously tapped at the polished gold- and green-speckled concrete floor with the tip of my sneaker.  A voice on a loud speaker stated that "flight 199 to Toronto" was now boarding.  We said our goodbyes and as he hugged me, my heart tightened.  I forced tears back, and swallowed the lump in my throat.  "I'll let you know when I get there," I assured him.  No matter how many times I skip the country, I always feel (a) a little guilty, and (b) great saddness, when saying goodbye to my parents.

But alas, the world awaited, and my excitement at seeing a new country, and embracing a new culture, soon aided in clearing my emotional distress.  That ball of anxiety in my chest remained however, gnawing away at my insides.  "What if U.S. Customs doesn't permit me to stay for the entire five months?  What if I get lost in the Hong Kong airport?  What if I can't sleep on the plane?  What if I have to pee but the person sitting next to me is asleep and I can't get up?  What if, what if, what if!  I had to stop.  So I told myself to "stoppit".  It didn't help of course.  My stupid brain kept up with the annoying "whatifs", but I mostly ignored it.

At 7 I lined-up behind the other four people going to Toronto and walked across the tarmac towards the tiny Beechcraft.  If this plane had eyes they would currently be avoiding my worried gaze and darting around, pretending to be interested in the geese that were flying overhead (um, can't those get stuck in the propellers and cause plane crashes?).  The machine was at least thirty years old, but I figured (rather optimistically) that zero crashes in thirty years was a good-enough statistic.  We climbed aboard the small bus with wings and took our narrow seats.  The pilot spoke a few words about safety, showed us how to buckle-up, pulled the door closed, and then disappeared into the cockpit.  Suddenly, an obnoxious, rattled recording of what-he-just-said, played over the intercom in english, and then again in french.  The engine fired-up.  One propeller, and then the other, began spinning furiously, blotting out the nasal safety spiel, as well as my own thoughts.  The plane lurched forward, made a 180-degree turn, and headed down the runway.  We taxied for a few moments and then all at once we were speeding towards Lake Ontario.  The little-engine-that-could of an aircraft sputtered and gasped and grumbled until finally, we were in the air.  The ground fell away and soon Kingston was nothing but a brown blanket of empty cornfields and scattered suburbs, interspersed with pathches of grey forests and small, black lakes.   Once we were above the clouds, and I could no longer marvel at the ground below, I peeled my face from the little oval window.  My nose left a smudge on the glass and I felt compelled to wipe it with my sleeve.  The little hole in the glass had a donut of ice forming around it and I wondered just how cold it was up here at 17,000 feet.

Forty-five minutes later and we were in Toronto.  Pearson International was a little bigger than Norman Rogers, so we taxied for a long, long time before we reached the terminal.  My connecting flight to Hong Kong departed in less than two hours and I prayed (to whom, I have no idea) that I would get to the correct gate in time.  The Kingston-five exited the belly of the plane in the same fashion as we boarded.  We crossed the tarmack, heading for a pair of sliding doors that led into the bosom of Terminal 1.  I had seen this terminal a week earlier when I arrived from Costa Rica and everything was familiar.  The water fountain was still at the back right corner, next to the washrooms and behind the recycle bins, and the best-sellers at the newstand were still waiting for a good home, or at least a plane to be forgotten on.  I hurried by it all and skittered up the stairs (I refuse to use escalators), looking for those big TV screens that tell you which flight to where is leaving from what gate.  A-Ha!  Found one.  I scanned both screens until I saw Hong Kong.  And it was leaving from terminal 1.  I rejoiced at not having to take a shuttle across the enormous concrete sprawl that is Pearson International, and headed for gate 73.

I knew where I was supposed to be before I even saw the large numbers indicating my gate at the end of the hall.  There was a giant line-up of very fashionable Chinese, Korean, Japanese, and Phillipinos waiting to board flight 901 to Hong Kong. I hate waiting in lines so I opted to hang out against the wall, where I could discretely eye everyone up and down.  They began boarding the plane with priority First- and Business-class passengers,  but no one understood and everyone rushed ahead, ignoring the Star Alliance Members Only sign.  Needless to say, it took a long time.  There still remained the issue of getting the rest of us snivelling economy-classers on the plane, so I left my wall and searched for a quick sip of something to drink. 

By the time I returned the line had barely moved.  Actually, it seemed to have grown.  So I decided to hop-in and avoid waiting at the end of an-even-longer-line of unfortunate econo-class souls, all the while slurping at my five-dollar organic pomegranate-sweet green-tea (with ginseng!).  I did eventually get on the plane, but it had been a slow and agonizing process.  I glared contemptuously at those comfortable (and unworthy I might add) first classers splayed out in their reclining seats that no-doubt turn into beds when the lights go out.  While everyone on the plane huffed and snorted as they smashed their enormous carry-on bags into the overhead bins (how did something that big pass as carry-on?), I was paused in infront of one young woman exploring her speical, shiny new space-pod; fingering her fancy ear-buds, fluffing her ever-so-fluffy pillow, and deciding what on earth to do with her extra large endangered seal skin blanket.  I couldn't help but wonder, how the hell can she (or anyone!) afford to fly first class?  Do you know what a first-class flight to Hong Kong costs?  A lot. Let's just say you could easily buy a 5-year old Honda.  Hell, give me the car and Ill drive to Hong Kong.

I scuttled down the isle to my seat, 27 F (yay, window seat!), and squeezed past an old man and a young man.  I plunked into the firm blue cushion, then realized I had to pee (damn, window seat...).  I waited until we were up in the air before I dared try to squirm past my new airplane friends and make my way to the toilets.  They seemed annoyed when I motioned that I needed to get out but all-the-same, they filed out of their seats just for me.  Ahhhh.  I headed back to my cramped seat vowing not to drink anything for the rest of the flight. This time neither old man nor young man moved from their seats and I was, once again, forced to squirm over them.  An elbow here, and a knee cap there, and a nice big butt-in-the face, and I was in.     

I was mildly concsious of being on an airplane once again, but I had forgotten what that entailed.  Slowly the reading lights went out, and the window shades were drawn.  I was unaware that because we'd be flying over the international date line that 12 PM Eastern time meant that it was time to sleep.  Everyone was sleeping.  One of the flight attendants hissed at me to pull down my shade because I was disturbing the other passengers.  I looked around the plane and realized that it was dark.  "Oh", was all I managed to say.  When I realized that what I meant to say was "Take it easy, bitch!", she had already flounced down the aisle.  Is it me, or has Air Canada opted for hiring the most unfriendly staff in the aero-hospitality inudstry?  Honestly, I don't like being in the air for 14 hours either, but this is your job, asshole.  Serve me my gingerale with a smile goddammit!

I had planned on devouring a three-inch thick mystery novel during my day-long journey over the Pacific; however, the in-flight entertainment system proved too tempting, as thus, kicked my big fat book's ass.  There were tons of television shows, movies, music, news, and games to choose from.  So I prodded at the screen, selected a feature, and soon became one with my blue, cardboard box of a seat.  Ten hours later and I had watched three blockbusters, two avant-guards, and one episode of Californication (I wonder if the guy next to me was offended by the sex scenes and frequent nudity?).  I felt like a zombie.  I had succumb to the fact that I was not going to be able to sleep.  Besdies, my previous attempts involved much eye-twitching, and writhing around trying to find a comfortable position.  It turns out there is no comfortable way to sleep on a plane, unless of course, you're a member of Christy Walton's family.  That's what the first classers are really paying for.  Not the leg room, not the fancy meals, not even the complimentary champagne.  It was sleep that was worth so much.  Well the joke's on them!  I don't need sleep, I can sleep all I want when I get to Hong Kong. 

And that's exactly what I did.

I'd like to mention here that Hong Kong is gorgeous.  True, I only witnessed it from the perspective of my little plane window and then from the big airport window, but from what I saw, it was nice.   Green mountains, blue sea, pretty boats, tall, tall buildings, and a bridge system that connected all the islands.  I'm sure there is much more to Hong Kong than that, and I'll be sure to figure it all out some day when I return for a longer stay.  Fortunately, this time, I would be in Hong Kong no more than ten hours.  At first I bawked at the fact that I would have to hang out in an airport for nearly half a day, but soon realized that this meant I could curl up somewhere and fall asleep.  Upon passing through the security check-points, I heeded the sign that read "Connections" with the little world symbol next to it.  I soon found my way to the large departure lounge and to my surprise, a fancy reclining chair that made sleep possible.  I sat down in awe, placed a sleep mask over my eyes, hugged my backpack, and slept... for six hours.  And for free I might add. 

At 10 PM the gate began to collect with tourists and soldiers heading for Guam. I always wondered who went to Guam.  The only thing I knew about this island in the South Pacific was that it had a U.S. military base and a horrible snake that ate all the birds (seriously, there are no birds left on Guam).  I later found out that there is more to Guam than killer snakes and the U.S. Army.  For one, it's flat.  Very flat.  And it's dotted with Remada Inns, Double Tree Hiltons, Holiday Inns, and Best Westerns.  Oh, it also boasts a giant shopping plaza where one can purchase Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci and Versace. Since the only people who live on Guam are militia, Phillipinos, and descendents of the Chomorros, the only people who shop here are Japanese tourists.  I didn't stay to discover the rest of the island's secrets.  Instead, I was to board yet another plane.  I was going to Rota.  Rota is the second island in the Mariana chain, just north of Guam.  Just north translates into a twenty-five minute voyage on a plane smaller than the creaky Beechcraft back in Kingston.

But I wasn't going yet.  No, I still had the fun task of pleading with a U.S. Homeland Security officer to grant me a five month B1 Visa that would allow me to volunteer on a project that protects endangered birds. 

"What bird?"
"The Mariana Crow"
"Huh?"
"The Aga".
"???"
"Um..."
"Nevermind.  Are you making any money?"
"Not a penny".
"And how do you expect to live for five months with no income?"
"I have money saved from my last job".
"Uh, huh...".
A sigh. 
"Alright".  Stamp. Scribble.  "Welcome to the Marianas".

Well shucks!  That wasn't so bad.  I had envisioned much worse.  In my extensive experience, U.S. border partol officers can sometimes be, well, dicks.  This guy was cool.  Or so I thought.  When I went upstairs for my final security screening, the female officer controlling a line-up of people heading for Honolulu looked at my passport and exclaimed to her partner, "This one's special".  Because I was going somewhere besides Honolulu? I beamed back at her, and quite at the expense of my own dignity.  Turns out the red "SSSS" stamp on my boarding pass did not stand for Super Special Super Star.  "Ma'am", a large officer pulled me aside.  "You need to be searched".

What?

Apparently, the only white girl who came to the Marianas to help save endangered wildlife was a threat to national security.  Go figure.

So off I went to the back room and got felt up by a rather serious woman with a rubber glove.  Don't worry, I didn't lose all my dignity.  While my boobs were being patted down I looked on as another man and woman tore my backpack apart. Of course, wildlife biologists are notorious for smuggling large amount of cocaine and heroin.  Why?  Oh, because dealing is the only way to pay off our massive school debts.  Naturally.

After the grope-fest, I placed everything back inside my bag and walked away, feeling a little taken-advantage of.  It was the only time I ever really wanted a cigarette.  I passed a food court on the way to my gate and remembered that I hadn't eaten anything in hours.  The sad meal on Continental consisted of a chewy roast beef and pickle taco, and a sad, watery fruit salad.  I had been both amused and horrified.  I bought a banana muffin and a Starbucks iced mocha and headed for my final gate.  Good 'ol number 17.  I devoured my muffin and chugged the coffee-drink, which left me with one hour to twiddle my thumbs until the 7:30 AM flight left for Rota. 

7:30 came and went and no plane.  There wasn't even anyone else in the gate.  I found some random airport personel and asked if perhaps the gate had changed. 

"No.  Fly to Rota, gate 17". 
Alright. 

I returned to my seat and stared out the window.  I could see the ocean across from the steaming tarmac.  I watched a brown butterfly waft along the breeze.  I wondered at the species.  A sparrow flitted past the window and landed on a railing.  My heart fluttered as I frantically rumaged through my backpack for my binoculars.  Guam does have birds!   It was a Eurasian Tree Sparrow... Introduced.  At least it had feathers. The butterfly floated by again.  What the hell was a butterfly doing wandering around a landing strip?  I thought that perhaps he was lost, but there he was again.  Either he's the stupidest butterfly that ever lived, or there's something about airport tarmacs that is crucial to butterlfy survival.  I hoped for his sake it was the latter.  Were there no flowers to sip nectar from on Guam? 

As I pondered the ecology of butterflies, a chubby young man approached me.
"The flight to Rota has been delayed"
No kidding.
"The plane needed to be fixed."
"How long will it take?"
"You'll get a new plane.  A smaller plane."
"Smaller?  Than what?"

And there it was.  A little six-seater with duct tape on the side door rolled up to the gate.  The chubby guy motioned to me and I headed out the door followed only by two other people; a Japanese couple visiting Rota on their honeymoon. 

The three of us stood staring at the little plane with skeptical expressions.  I have to admit, though, I was excited.  I had never been in an airplane this small and I was sure it would be a very personal experience.  A sweaty man in a white shirt that I took to be the pilot, appeared next to me on the runway and watched as two men shoved my suitcase into the plane. "Be careful, mate!"  the pilot cried in a thick Australian accent as the two men positioned the last of the luggage and cargo boxes into the back seats.  I turned to the couple standing behind me and smirked.  The young woman covered her mouth as she let out a small laugh. 

With a swift gesture from the pilot we all climbed into the flying tuna can.  Wait, those are strong words.  It really was a charming little plane.  I had faith that all would be well.  Besides, the plane had made it this far, right? 

We each took a seat but were quickly redistributed by the pilot so as to balance the weight in the plane.  We buckled-in while the pilot showed us how to pry open the window in case of an emergency. 

Is 95 degrees with a 90% humidity index considered an emergency?
No.

Did I mention that the Marianas are hot?  I may have implied it some time back there when I told the butterfly story, or noted the sweaty pilot.  Well, it is hot. And it was hotter still in the plane.  I now believed the butterfly to be even dumber than I initally thought.

The pilot began flipping switches and pressing buttons until the plane sputtered to life.  We jolted forward and proceeded to taxi along for at least eight minutes, passing by various yellow signs. G1.  Arrow.  G8.  A6 - A10. J... H... K...  Finally we were on our way.  The machine lurched and spat and with all its might, we took off into a bright blue sky.  From this perspective, Guam appeared almost beautiful, and much larger.  But it was still flat.  I knew there were bird-eating snakes hiding in every crevice and I was happy to lose sight of the foresaken clump of limestone. 

Now, the Pacific stretched infinitely in all directions.  It was a short flight and 20 minutes later, Rota came into view.  Unlike Guam, Rota had what you would call mountains.  Green crags greeted us to the south and a large, densely vegetated central plateau sat mightily to the north. Songsong village lay knitted in the narrow southern tip of the island, hugged by white coral sand and a turquoise bay.  I smiled down at my new home.  No more "whatifs" plagued my brain.  No more American officials to deal with.  No more rubber gloves.  There was nothing more to worry about.  Except for the landing.

We circled the island and dropped down towards the airport, which was located at the northwest side.  The plane teetered and dipped back and forth, struggling to find balance as we neared the earth's surface.  The ground came rushing forth.  One wheel made contact, then the other, then both.  I held-on tight to my armrest and tried to avoid entertaining visions of skidding sideways, rolling, and finally crashing in a ball of flames.  But I didn't have to try very hard.  We had landed safely.  The young Japanese couple began clapping and I joined them with a wide smile.

My journey had come to an end. 

All in all, I had spent 34 hours and 22 minutes in transit: 20 hours in the air, six hours sleeping in a reclining chair, and 8 hours waiting in various line-ups.  The next time you hear someone say, "small world!", tell them to fly to Rota.  We'll see how small the world really is.  But after I collected by big, black suitcase, and said goodbye to my new Japanese friends, I stepped outside of the tiny, cinderblock building that was the Rota airport, inhaled the thick, salty air, and knew that it was all worth it.