Airport Stories Part II

In the wake of 9/11, we've all noticed heightened security scrutiny at airports, and we're all now pretty much accustomed to performing the ritual dance of removing shoes, belt, diapers and genital piercings at the security gate of any developed nation's airports. Presumably this is to screen passengers who try to smuggle a pair of tweezers aboard and pluck the pilot's eyebrows to the extent where he is blinded by the bright sun of the stratosphere and sends the plane into an irreversible death spiral.

Then there's the practice of 'frisking' which I've always been personally opposed to. I'm not really comfortable with a man putting his hands between my legs and groping my inner thighs, even if it is in the name of security. Then again, if attractive young ladies did the job, guys would probably strap small decoy items to their thighs in an attempt to get a more thorough pat-down, resulting in delayed flights and general travel chaos. In any case, for the sake of security I hope that friskers have a keen sense of touch and a knack for lumps that shouldnt be there. They should certainly have full senses in both arms. They should certainly have both arms. They certainly shouldnt be amputees, as much as I want amputees to have fair access to good jobs.

One guy who certainly shouldn't be a frisker in this age of terror from the skies is an amputee currently employed at Detroit Metropolitan Airport as... a frisker. Yes, thats right, of all the able-bodied potential friskers in Detroit (a city with an official unemployment rate of 30%) a man with a prosthetic right arm was given the responsibility of physically checking people getting onto flights. I had to rub my eyes as he patted down the left side of my body with his motionless prosthesis, which was about 4 shades lighter than the rest of his skin (it was probably fitted to him during the winter). I spent the flight musing as to how the hell a guy with a plastic arm could be employed to feel for potential bombs and weapons. Was it in fact a super sensitive probing device developed by the CIA? Or was it just affirmative action taken to a new extreme?

In Papua New Guinea (PNG), security check procedures are rather improvised. Tourists are issued 3 month tourist visas on arrival in PNG. When I landed at Jackson's Field, the country's only international airport, I was immediately confronted with a single long line for foreign citizens. After about an hour in line I reached the desk, where a very stern looking, very square woman placed a little sticker in my passport, stamped it, and waved me through. I was then confronted by an even longer line, where everyone, including local citizens, had to submit to a rigorous customs check. Here, we were searched for contraband, flora and fauna that could potentially harm the island ecosystem, and of course, pornography.

Security Desk at Kavieng Airport, New Ireland Province, Papua New Guinea

The line moved as slowly as the languidly rotating cieling fans overhead. As we crawled along, I had time to appreciate the colorful local advertisements for tinned tuna and beef crackers, apparently the country's favorite snacks. In my semi-delirious state, I giggled to myself and elicited some preemptivly suspicious looks from the security personel. Bear in mind it was about 6 AM, as I had been on the overnight flight from Hong Kong. After what seemed like an age, it was finally my turn to put my stuff up on a table and have it rummaged around in. The fellow doing the rummaging had a real primitive look about him, like a tribal elder who was now trying his hand at a minimum wage bureaucrat's job in the city after one too many run-ins with cannibals in the jungle. It was a look I would later see in many of his fellow citizens, mainly those from the highland areas, a look of deep set, dull eyes and a slightly agape mouth.

The custom's agent proceeded to take everything out of my bag and plop it on the table. Underwear was held up and examined in the light, books and magazines were leafed through page by page to make sure they didn't contain any racy imagery. Then he came accross a bag of gifts for my friends in PNG, which had been bought during my recent stay im China. He pulled out a large golden box covered in Chinese characters, opened it and removed a bag of dried green leaves, looking painfully like a big fat bag of cannabis. He shot me a look that the high priest with a dagger would give the sacrificial victim on the altar.

'Whats dis?'

'Oh, thats tea from China.'

The look of suspicion intensified. He opened the bag up with his knife and felt around, picking up some leaves and crushing them between his grubby fingers. Even more disbelief and consternation flashed across his face. He grabbed a handful and put it up to his nose, taking in a long, deep breath through his flared out nostrils. Then, in a moment that could best be described as: Welcome to PNG!, he put his lips to the leaves in the palm of his hand, scooped up some leaves with his tongue, munched them for a few seconds and then flashed me a wide, betel nut stained grin. 'Yeah, its tea!' He said, stuffing the rest of the leaves back in the bag and waving me through.

One fellow who should have been checked more rigorously for marijuana at the airport is a Mr. Kinman Chan of San Fransisco. He's the kind of airport freak that frequent flyers dream about and can only hope and pray to someday meet. I quote from a recent news article:

Kinman Chan had a really bad flight. The airline passenger blames pot for dropping pants on his flight from Philadelphia to Los Angeles. In addition to dropping his pants on the flight he also attacked some crew members and had to be subdued and the flight was diverted to Pittsburgh. Chan claimed that he ate double strength marijuana cookies for a medical condition which was not disclosed.

He's now facing up to 20 years in jail for interfering with a flight attendant's job. In hindsight, Mr. Chan probably would have appreciated a more stringent security check.

Airport Stories Part I

Airports belong in that category of places that includes Starbucks, IKEA, McDonalds and the internet. You know, the places that have lost all but the faintest semblance of local flavour and customs, thanks to globalization or some such thing. You can walk in and follow the same steps to get where you're going, whether you're in California or Calcutta. But what makes airports unique is that they're the great mixing places of people from all walks of life from around the world. Within any given international airport, you can find people coming from or going to any corner of the earth, in varying depths of jetlag and/or sleeping pill induced stupors.

Whenever I'm travelling long distance and have a few hours to spare at an airport between flights, I like to head to the bar (or nearest equivalent), have a beer and start a little thing I call weirdo watch: looking out for interesting characters to make the time pass a little more quickly. Amongst others encountered while on weirdo watch, I've met Mexican lesbians, Korean 7th Day adventists and a couple of Swedish coworkers returning from a 3 month stint on an oil-tanker in Saudi Arabia. The latter were getting drunk at 6 AM at Frankfurt airport, with the noble justification that this was the first chance they had to enjoy ice-cold draught lager in over 100 days.

Sometimes airports reveal surprising things about countries. I once spent a couple hours at Manilla's Ninoy Aquino airport in the Philippines. I didn't set foot outside the complex, but if the airport's employees reflected the demographics of rest of the country, one could easily surmise that the vast majority of Filipino males must be gay. Upon leaving the plane, a couple skinny men with bug eyes and plucked eyebrows hopped up and down and greeted passengers with 'Welcome to the feeleepeeeens!' Perusing the airport shop for some snacks, a young man in make up and a tank top approached and recommended the dried papaya, licking his lips. 'It's super, I eat it all the time.' As I drank a local San Miguel Brew in the lounge, Filipino x-factor blared on a huge tv from the 70s, rigged up on a rickety looking ceiling bracket. A handful of male airline workers on a break sat beneath, mouthing the lyrics and casting their misty eyes up at the latest budding star, a young man in tight jeans. Some stewardesses and cleaning ladies congregated in another corner of the room, looking glum. After my short visit to the country, I have a little more understanding for why so many women have decided to leave and work abroad.

But sometimes confirm one's suspicions about a country. A layover at Paris' Charles De Gaulle airport confirmed that oft repeated sterotype: French people are arrogant bastards. I was hungry and looking for some tasty French cuisine, but the three hours I had between flights didnt allow me to venture into the city. I decided to enquire at the info-booth.

'Bonjour, do you speak English?'

'Sometimes.'

'Can you help me?'

'Maybe.'

'I'm looking for a good place to eat. Where's there a nice restaurant around here?'

'For you? You... go to McDonalds, it is that way, ten minute.'

Asshole. Eventually, I found an outlet of a local steakhouse chain called Hippopotamus, where I had a half decent porterhouse. A funny name for a place serving beef, non?

Incidentally, I was once asked my own opinion on the best place to eat at an airport. While walking to my gate down the main concourse at Detroit Metro Aiport (the new McNamara Terminal is the finest place in the city by the way, which isn't too tricky) I was confronted by an obese woman with her fat kids. With a look of desperation in her eyes, she demanded:

'I need FOOD!'

This was slightly startling. She wasn't exactly starving. I asked her what she meant.

'Look, I've got a 45 minute flight over to Milwaukee, and I'm gonna get a bag of peanuts. Me and my kids can't wait that long! I need FOOD!'

Inspired by my French experience, I suggested McDonalds. Her eyes lit up and she demanded to know where it was, then thanked me profusely and waddled off with her plump little family.

Vietnamese Snake Meat Extravaganza

In the Summer of 2008 I found myself in Hanoi, Vietnam's steamy capital city. In Hanoi, French colonial legacies of fine dining meet the South East Asian attitude of 'If it moves, eat it!' Hence, there's some pretty wacky stuff on the menu, and its all painstakingly prepared.

It seems every aspect of Vietnamese life revolves around food. Every square inch of flat land in the countryside has been dedicated to rice cultivation. Rural women spend all their waking hours tending their crops in the electric green fields, covered from head to toe in silk gloves, masks and hats to avoid any sun rays penetrating their ivory white skin. I was told this is so that nobody suspects they are a peasant rice farmer - apperantly only they have tans. In the city, every street corner in the city features a lady in silk pajamas is squatting over a steaming vat, ladling out steaming bowls of pho, Hanoi's famous beef broth. This is served with noodles, fresh herbs and plenty of chilis, and is delicious.

My two Vietnamese friends from college, Katy and Phuc Minh Nguyen (what a name) happened to be in Hanoi when I visited. Unsurprisingly, they both wanted me to try their favorite Vietnamese dishes. Katy insisted on trying cuisine from Hue, a city in southern Vietnam. This features a lot of peanut sauces and a curious deep fried rice pancake that you fill at the table with shredded meat and bean sprouts, sort of like a taco. Minh, on the other hand, had something else in mind.

His dad and cousin picked me and my mom up from our hotel in the city and we started driving out of town, crossing the Red River on a rickety old steel bridge buzzing with a swarm of mopeds. We soon got off the main road and found ourselves on the winding lanes of Le Mat village, essentially a suburb of Hanoi . Its famous throughout the nation for one thing: snake meat. We stepped out of the car into a beautiful courtyard and made our way up a winding, engraved wooden staircase to a terrace with a roof but no walls.

"Most restaurant in Le Mat too touristy. This one only for Vietnamese," said Minh as we climbed the steps. Stacked up on shelves all around, the tongues of king cobras pointed at us from jars and bottles in which they were pickled in a yellow liquid.

We sat down at our table and took in the strange atmosphere. Conversation wasn't exactly flowing, as Minh's dad and cousin spoke about 3 words of english between them, and our Vietnamese wasn't any better. Before long, two waiters came. Instead of menus, they brought a writhing burlap sack, a bottle and a funnel. One waiter opened the bag, while the other reached in and deftly pulled out a hissing King Cobra, holding it out for us to inspect. Minh and his family sat emotionless, and his father nodded slightly, never altering his Brahma cow-like facial expression.

"Its a good one," said Minh. "Plenty of meat."

Our scaly little friend barely had time to stick out its tongue before the other waiter removed a small dagger from his pocket and plunged it in the serpents neck. They both moved the bleeding snake over the funnel and one began squeezing the blood from its main artery into the bottle, while the other milked the venom from the fangs directly onto the tile floor. The Nguyen family watched the macabre spectacle as calmly as ever. Public displays of emotion are frowned upon by Vietnamese society, which values integrity and 'keeping face' above all else. My mother also seemed to have adopted a passive expression, but this was probably induced by the petrifiying effects of shock and horror.

Soon, the blood was all drained and the beast stopped writhing. The butchery wasnt over yet though. The knife was now jabbed into the snake about 1/3 down its body, and a beating heart was pulled out and placed in a shot glass. Another small organ (I was later told it was the pancreas) was also extracted and placed in the bottle. The shot glasses were placed on the table and filled with blood from the bottle. Being the oldest non-Vietnamese male at the table, I got the glass with the thumping heart.

"You must drink it! Shows respect for our cuisine." Without thinking too much about it, Iheld my breath and took the whole sanguine concoction down in one gulp, appreciating that my esophagus doesnt have nerve endings that might cause me to feel a moving reptile organ bandying around in my guts. The snake was taken to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, the barrage of dishes started coming out. First off was snake soup, accompanied by a dish of crushed, lightly fried snake bones for sprinkling. Then came the garlic snake springrolls, followed by dishes flavored with ginger, chilis, lemongrass and coriander. Everything was prepared in the most delicate, manner and was delicious, with one glaring exception: the snake meat.

Snake meat, for those of you who have never tried it, tastes like a cross between boiled white fish and a rubber hose. With every chew, you hope to unleash some semblance of favor, but to no avail. Were it not for the yummy sauces and seasonings on all the dishes, I may have vomited the slimy stuff up. Of couse, Minh and his family waxed lyrical about the delicious meat and benefits to male sexual function. His father kept smiling at me and making small punching motions in the air with his fist.

I felt slightly woozy for the remainder of the afternoon. Perhaps some of the toxic venom (which remained on the floor throughout the meal) turned to fumes and wafted into my nose. Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but I wont be ordering snake meat on the menu anytime soon.