Romantic Roads

The unfurling waves from the plane seem so slow compared to the vantage point of the cliff house or the beach where the waves break. At this altitude, just a few thousand feet above, the tapestry of the jungle is broken by the individual tree tops which emerge from the ocean shore crawling up the hill sides. The white lines of the wave crests emerging from the Pacific azure run along the now thin looking tan sand that separates the jungle from the ocean’s boundless hue. This framed scene comes from the window of a Kodiak 100 utility aircraft, an, as Amity thinks of it, “it’s tiny” plane with seating for about 10 people. 

For us now, transport of all kinds has taken ourselves to destinations exotic, and well, not so exotic. But this flight marked a remarkable departure, it was our first journey that blended fear with excitement, an intoxicating mix. Of course I’m still here, nothing significant happened other than knowing after the flight that I wanted more of these experiences. This was the first flight of many where there was no bougie airport building in the traditional sense, think Hartsfield Jackson or Istanbul International. No, here passengers are kept cozy with just a wood seated bench under a metal carport type canopy, just big enough to keep the weather off if it was raining. For this flight, this morning was void of rain, a sliver of sunshine cast through the blue partly cloudy sky and the verdant jungle tree tops. The warm morning light displayed monkeys and coati chasing after one another on the ground and in the trees, almost as if the morning was showing us a lively send-off. 

There was confusion on our part of how all this worked, getting on the plane that is. This stress of confusion has abated in our travels since this flight, since the excitement of travel has overtaken the palpable uncertainty, but at this time the stress was there. Our early morning driver was helpful in the sort that she pointed to the bench under the canopy and said to wait there, this was the arrival gate, baggage claim, airport lost and found all at once. With our luggage in hand from the driver we towed our belongings to the arrival bench and waited. 

With the sound of what now is familiar, the blazing single engine plane rolled into sight from down the runway to the end where we were seated. The pilot facing the plane toward the end of the runway roared the engine into a crescendo, twisting the plane back towards the part of the runway where the plane had emerged. Our transport out of the jungle was here, being cast in the sun as our hope of a safe journeys’ exit. As the engine cut and stilled, the silence of the jungle enveloped our ears once more. 

A booth between the arrival bench and the chainlink fence that enclosed the runway was attended by officious gate attendants. Here we took a moment as we now so often do, and watched. We watched how the locals approached the attendants, discussed something, inked entries in a black faux leather covered paper logbook, and then were given large, wooden, plaques. The kind that in elementary days the teacher gives as hall passes to use the bathroom or go to the principal’s office. Or what Amity loves so much, paddles. Kinky. So, we ventured to the booth and replay what we’ve seen, and we are handed our large, wooden, plaques…of plane tickets? This was fascinating, in all of the modern wonders that we were about to get onto, here a simplistic check in system of hand written records and a ticket that can be recycled for many years to come. 

Drawing courage from the place where butterflies roam in our bodies, we head through the chainlink gate towards the plane, giving up our plaque to the runway’s gate keeper, a fee for the entrance to the aircraft’s belly. In a kind of jubilant way we aren’t quite skipping across the tarmac but our adrenaline pushes us close to this edge. By the United States standards we’re in a developing country, getting on a small plane that will fly out of the jungle and fly over the water. No one from home knows where we are at. I’ve seen too many movies and read too many Reader’s Digests of how one eats their fellow passengers when they crash, I hear it tastes like chicken. I’m ready for this.