India Journal, December 2009. Entry 1

East Passage

It wasn’t until I returned home that I read V.S. Naipaul’s “An Area of Darkness” on the recommendation of my friend Chris. As we traveled, I had shared impressions of our trip via FaceBook: wonder, awe, fear, delight -- and an overwhelming sense of grief. She thought the book might help put my short experience into perspective.

I found it most interesting that he, too, approached the sub-continent from the East, through Egypt. Our own journey commenced in Boston and continued on to Paris and  Bahrain International Airport for a five hour layover.  His travels took him on a more leisurely route, via steamship. But, like Naipaul, I felt a certain “falling away” of all things Western on this trip East.

Bahrain International Airport is a study in modern contradiction. I stand out here, the only blonde woman in the departure lounge. I am being observed, and I try to observe my surroundings discreetly. It’s a challenge. I am already fascinated with differences. Women in full burka or embroidered jiljabs, revealing only shy but beautifully made-up eyes; wealthy businessmen in traditional white amirati thobe and ghutra, sporting Italian loafers and showy Rolexes; perfectly-groomed saleswomen in western dress, Santa hats and head-scarves; the Bahrain Polar-Express Bear Band.

I guard the cover of my US passport but know that my appearance has already marked me as an American. Our Gulf Air flight from Paris to Bahrain takes us directly over Bagdad @ forty thousand feet. How absurd to be this close to, yet above all the “action” on the ground. I say a prayer for peace; I say a prayer that Obama will move with more speed to bring our young men and women home.

The row of chairs in the waiting area face each other, and across the aisle sits a young Muslim woman with four precocious youngsters, all appearing to be under the age of nine. She seems to be traveling, too, with a parental couple, perhaps her own parents or her in-laws. She wears a full burka; her shoes are designer, quality; she speaks almost non-stop on her cell phone while her children play tag, argue, drink juice and get crackers all over the carpet. A stooped man with a hand broom must come by several times to keep the area clean. She is oblivious.

I need to find a restroom before we board, and unlike other international terminals I have been in, there seems to be no signage for the washroom facilities. I ask one of the pert Mrs. Santa saleswomen and she directs me down the hall and around the back of one of the many Duty-Free shops. I follow an elderly Muslim man and very pretty, meek young woman, whom I assume must be his daughter or niece. (I pray she is not his wife!) I also assume he is escorting her to the ladies restroom, and follow them down the corridor - and into the men’s room. She will not be un-escorted – anywhere - in her travels. She briefly catches my eye, and then looks way, embarrassed.

My heart breaks a little for the first time on this journey.

They are calling for boarding when I return to the departure lounge.

Another eight hours and we will be in Delhi.