Postcards From Abroad: Changsha, China, 1 July 2007: Flight CZ6306<br><i>Long Day's Journey Into Night</i>

Friday, August 10, 2007

Changsha, China, 1 July 2007: Flight CZ6306
Long Day's Journey Into Night

Stranded in Changsha, Shenzhen-Wuhan-Shenyang, around 9pm, 1 Jul 2007

      H - young, petite, in a skyblue singlet with loud silvery glittery swirling letters emblazoned on the bosom, and matching eye shadow - asked me how long I had been waiting. Too long. China Southern Airlines flight CZ6306 was to have taken off an hour ago at 2:30 pm from Shenzhen Airport, bound for Wuhan, then Shenyang. But there was no sign of the plane. Neither official updates nor explanation materialized. A rumour went around: CZ6306 was still stranded at Zhuhai Airport due to bad weather. Turned out to be true. Bad luck. Well maybe not too bad after all. Zhuhai was less than an hour away.
      "You don't sound local."
      "I am from Singapore."
      "You speak so softly and care-ful-ly. I can barely grasp what you are saying. Is this how Singaporeans speak?"
      "Not all. My Huayu is not vey good. I have to think very hard before I say something in Huayu," I stammered haltingly, sotto voce.
      "Huayu?"
      "Huayu. No?"
      Long pause. Broken only as understanding slowly dawned on H's face.
      "Ohhhhh. It's Guoyu. Or Putonghua. We don't call the Chinese language Huayu here in China."
      "That's, er, true," L nodded nervously in agreement.
      L possessed the gentlest of voices, cri du chat. Long hair pinned back squarely, unveiling finely-plucked eyebrows and bemused eyes that danced behind long narrow drawn eyelids, her quiet diffident air was made complete by a below-knee sun-dress with sea-green floral prints and floppy large collar that screamed girl-next-door. H was different - modern, vivacious, confident, spunky, the only one with make-up on. They had been utter strangers before they met at check-in but were now talking animatedly like old friends. Both were traveling by air for the first time.
      "I have a few days off from work. I am flying to Wuhan. My big brother is there. He's a hairdresser," intimated L shyly.
      "Isn't Wuhan very hot this time of year?" I queried in wonderment for I did not relish my own first trip to - and upcoming week-long conference in - Wuhan notorious for its oven-like summer heatwave.
      "It will be fine. I am so looking forward to seeing Wuhan again. I remember having a swell time when I visited with my family more than ten years ago, although my memory of the sights is now blurry. I was only a small child then," L's eyes twinkled, her excitement grew apace, undented by my thinning enthusiasm.
      "I shall be going onward to Shenyang. I hope the flight will board soon. With this delay, it will be very dark when I arrive," H intoned worriedly. And with sibyllic prescience, as we were all to find out.
      Flight CZ6306 arrived two hours late, accompanied by gathering glowering clouds and light rain. We met M in the flight boarding queue. M, with the sad doe eyes and tired beautiful face, was in a tee-shirt and a matronly overall top. She too was flying for the first time. To Shenyang to meet some friends there for a holiday. Bound by their common predicament and situation, H, L and M broke into easy chatter.
      "I should have taken the train. It's way cheaper. At least I know when I will actually arrive," M rued, her plans in limbo.
      "No way. It's more than thirty hours by train to Shenyang. I am almost sure we shall be in Shenyang in but a few hours," H injected wishfully, albeit with little conviction.
      Sheep-like we filed into the plane, glad to be going somewhere finally.
      Almost 6 pm. From my window seat, I thought I could see the intersection of the Yangzi and Hanshui Rivers. They divide Wuhan, the capital of Hubei province, into three parts: Hankou, Hanyang and Wuchang. I hurriedly studied my notebook for details of how to make the long journey by bus from the airport to my destination: Bahaolou, Huazhong University of Science and Technology, Wuchang. My thoughts were jolted suddenly by the pilot's announcement. Due to heavy thunderstorms in Wuhan, it was too dangerous to land. The plane had to turn around from the city and detour to Changsha.
     "WHAAAAT!" the passenger cabin exploded in spontaneous collective protest. Changsha was in another province, Hunan, almost one-third of the way back to where we started off - this I quickly discovered to my dismay, flipping furiously to the map section of the inflight magazine.
      Hands shot up, voices were raised, children cried. The toddler seated behind me had to go to the loo. Number 2.
      "Too bad, no can do," was the stewardesses' brusque business-like brush-off.
      Illumined by the dying rays of the setting sun, Changsha's verdant hills, rice paddi fields and mirror-like lakes looked serenely beautiful from the air. Huanghua airport was, in contrast, drab and cheerless. I searched for and found H, L and M huddled together on a row of chairs, eating Niushifu brand beef-flavoured instant cup noodles. The 8 RMB noodles were overpriced, but were the only food available. Ubiquitous boilers dispensed hot water for cooking the noodles.
      "Hi. Sit down here," H patted on the seat beside her. "Have one of these."
      I sat down, accepted her proffered savoury snack, peeled away the tacky plastic wrapper and nervously bit into an anonymous thin slab of spicy saltiness.
      "Duck's tongue. Local specialty produce. Very good," H volunteered in quick staccato, before turning back to continue her conversation with L and M.
      She was showing them photos of her colleagues taken that morning, the final day of her job. The last two years, she had worked in a Shenzhen shop, selling cosmetics, 9 am to 9 pm daily, one day off a week. It was a good job, better-paying than the factory work she did previously. Nevertheless, she wanted to move on to better things. She resigned from her job, packed her bags, stuffed her hand luggage with expensive cosmetics, and was traveling to Shenyang to meet a friend. If things went according to plan, they would set up a business there to sell cosmetics. Youthful brashness, but impressive self-assuredness.
      "I make these," L pointed at my backpack.
      She worked in a factory making branded backpacks for export. No, she could not afford the expensive bags she made. Neither were they available for sale locally.
      "I make these," M pointed at my shoes.
      She too worked in a factory. Making branded shoes for export that she could not afford were they sold locally, which of course they were not. Deja vu.
      One and a half hours into the wait, China Southern Airlines mustered up packed dinners for us stranded passengers. We supped joylessly on rice, shreds of oily cabbage and meatless hog bones. It was scant comfort for our growing frustration.
      10 pm. News broke that the weather in Wuhan was clearing. A boarding announcement was made. Hurrah! Ecstatic beyond belief, H, L, M and I eagerly went through the perfunctory identity and ticket checks, and walked, almost bounced, to the waiting bus on the tarmac. Squeezed into the bus, we were quickly ferried to the waiting plane.
      There was another one hour's wait in the plane. In the meantime, two other planes flew off to Wuhan. Our pilot said we had to wait to see if these earlier planes could actually land before we set off.
      "WHAAAAT! AGAAAAIN!" the passenger cabin exploded in spontaneous collective protest. Again.
      Murmurings of passenger mutiny grew louder and louder. Invectives were hurled at the hapless stewardesses, who ploughed up and down the aisle with stern grave expressions, doing nothing useful really. ARRRRGGH! Nonplussed with bewilderment, I was by now numb to everything around me. I just hoped for an end to the lugubrious ordeal.
      Around 11 pm, our plane took off. How much the decision was instigated by vocal passenger insistence, I did not know. If we had waited any longer, the aircrew would surely have been lynched. I dared not think about whether the decision was a safe one.
      The plane landed in Wuhan around midnight, eight hours late. The weather was eerily calm: wet glistening runways and scattered damp drizzle the whimpering vestiges of the foregoing thundering malevolence. Zombie-like, I collected my luggage and exited the airport. Luckily there was a waiting bus to Wuchang's Fujiapo bus terminus. I bought my 30 RMB ticket, deposited my luggage in the trunk and boarded the bus seconds before it moved off.
      The bus sliced effortlessly through the thick darkness of the Wuhanese night, on roads almost empty of traffic. The first stop was Hankou railway station. As the bus started to slow down near the stop, I felt a hand brush lightly across my shoulder.
      "Hope you have a good time in Wuhan. Bye," L purred softly. Her body, back-lit against the glaring suddenly-switched-on lights on the bus, flitted past me and floated to the front of the bus to get off. I could barely make out a shadowy silhouette in front of her. Her brother, surely.
      As the bus pulled away from the stop, and their figures slowly receded and finally disappeared from view, I felt I had lost something.
      I never got to know their names. It had not seemed necessary. Then.