Hold the plane! (Jakarta, Indonesia)

My three weeks in Indonesia had come to an end and I was driven out to the Jakarta airport good and early for my Singapore Airlines (SIA) flight back.  After checking in my bags, I went up to the viewing gallery as there wasn’t anywhere else to go — this was January 1974. 

The announcements over the tannoy were muffled at best, with even the Indonesian ones being incomprehensible to my Indonesian students, never mind the English ones.  On the tarmac I could see an SIA plane, presumably mine.  Then, to my horror, I saw my fellow passengers walking out towards it.  I dashed down from the gallery as fast as my ex-athlete’s legs could go.

The passport control man, however, did not share my sense of urgency.  He asked me if it was my first visit to Indonesia.  Fair enough, they always asked that.  Yes, I said.  Did I like Indonesia?  Yes, yes, I did, and please, please, my plane’s about to leave.  “Don’t worry, it’ll wait.  And did you have a good time here on your first visit to Indonesia?”  Yes, yes, I did, and please, please, please, the plane will leave without me if I don’t go now.  “Don’t worry, don’t worry.  And do you think you will come back again?”  Finally, he released me.

After my first few big strides towards the plane which was about 100 metres away, the plane’s propellers started churning.  I hitched up my ankle-length batik dress and started to run.  Trust me to choose to wear my new purchase of a long and tightish dress for this occasion of all occasions!

I could see the pilots in the cockpit, so I waved to let them know I was bound for their plane — there were no other planes in the immediate vicinity, but I thought I should indicate my interest all the same, just in case.  They waved back, but the propellers carried on whirring.

They then started pulling away the front (first class cabin) gangplank, so I yelled and hitched my skirt up higher — to attract the attention of the men dragging off the gangplank as well as to run faster.  It worked, for they noticed me, and pushed it back into place.  

As I clattered my way up the gangplank, the air stewardesses and stewards were lined up on both sides, looking like they were receiving royalty.  Except that they had their hands on their hips, wore a cross look, and chided, “Why so late??  Why so late?!!”

Typically, I’d chosen a window seat, so I had to squeeze past two passengers to get to my seat.  I’d barely clunk-clicked my seatbelt into position when the plane took off — it’d already started taxiing the moment I got on and they shut the door. 

The American woman next to me, Sally (who remains a friend to this day), said, “The whole plane was watching your progression with great interest through the windows, wondering if you were going to make it.  My, you can really run!” 

(Jakarta, Indonesia, 1974)