Staring life in the face, 1989
It was hot, and wet, and sticky…
For those of you old enough to remember, there used to be an airline called SABENA, Belgium’s national airline. It has long since fallen victim to modernization, heavy competition in the sector, and a variety of other factors, so Sabena is no more. But traveling with the airline in the 1980s just felt exotic. From Toronto we flew into Brussels international airport, and looking at the flight board; all those names, all those places; Abidjan, Nairobi, Bamako, Algiers, Casablanca, a smattering of European destinations, then a whole list of Asian and other astonishing places. You have to remember, this is me at 22, traveling from North America to some obscure part of the world – yes, I had traveled before, but only within Europe and Canada, so this was a totally different experience. Ask anyone who’s ever been in an airport what they thought the first time they traveled international. There is a certain mystical allure about it all, and no matter what people tell you about how they ‘hate’ airports, when we have a chance to travel international, we’re still all little wide-eyed boys and girls going on their next exciting adventure.
Sabena’s DC-10 Brussels – Bangkok
The sense of adventure…
As I was scanning the large board with its constantly changing place names, I finally saw the name, Bangkok, the final destination for this trip. I had another 14 hours to go until arrival, and the flight was in an aircraft that was old, but reasonably kept, as were the aircrew. Perhaps as a sign of things to come, and as a precursor of today’s no-frills airlines, there were no freebies on the flight, only a meal and water. If you wanted something more or stronger, a coloured pin was put in the cushion of the headrest, keeping track of your consumption, and your bill was presented near the end of the flight. Too bad SABENA is no more, they just had that ‘explorer’ kind of feel to it.
Please, take me back…
14 hours after wheels-up in Brussels, and somewhat slightly worse for wear, the DC10 landed at this unpronounceable place called Don Muang International Airport, Bangkok. A city I had no knowledge of, in a country that was totally alien to me. It wasn’t so much the name or the distance that left an impression, but rather the wave of hot, sticky air redolent with strange smells that engulfed the cabin the moment the doors were opened. Have you ever experienced the overall effects of weather and climate? Imagine leaving your home (Canada in this case), 96 hours previous, with temperatures in the low twenties, then going to a country where temperatures were in the mid teens (Belgium), and then arriving in a place where the first things you notice are the distinct odours, and something that feels very similar to having a wet-musty towel suddenly slapped over your face? The temperature on arrival was 35 degrees, and climbing, and humid. Three steps out of the plane and I was soaked with sweat. Ten steps further and I was clamouring for water, and 5 steps beyond that I was ready to call it quits, crawl back to the airconditioned comfort of the airliner and just beg them to take me back.
Fortunately, it was only a short walk from the aircraft ramp to the arrivals hall. The airport in those days consisted of only one arrivals and departures building that had been built, or so it looked, a century earlier. With the boom in tourism in the 1990s, the airport was expanded, but by the beginning of the 21st century it could no longer handle all the air traffic coming through Bangkok. Today, Don Muang airport has been replaced with Suwannaphoom International airport, 50 kilometres distant and on the other side of the city. Even so, Don Muang continues to serve aviation needs as a domestic airport and is home to several low-cost airlines. Once through immigration I made my way to the luggage collection area. The luggage belts groaned under the weight of the arriving assortment of travel bags, suitcases and seaman’s bags. Funny, I noticed they stopped groaning the minute I took my 70kgs of goods off them. Hmm.
Bangkok from Rama 9 bridge, December 1987
I’m supposed to be met; by whom?
The stroll from the belts to the customs section wasn’t that bad, at least the air conditioning was working well in this area, it was just embarrassing having to explain what a baseball bat and glove were and what had possessed me to bring them. The leather jacket didn’t help any either. With nothing to declare, the next goal was to find the person or persons who were supposed to meet me at the arrivals area. I had been given no description, but figured it couldn’t be too difficult.
As I mentioned, the airport wasn’t all that large in those days, and in actual fact, the arrivals area was in an open area right in front of the parking lot, and that’s when the second heat wave hit. The move from the tarmac into the cool interior of the terminal building along with the business of going through immigration and customs had temporarily lulled me into a sense of comfort. Stepping out of the terminal and into the maelstrom of a huge crowd of people, cars, taxis, buses and motorcycles, this second onslaught of hot, humid weather felt even worse than the first; oh for a clean, cool airliner cabin. Among the crowd stood a wildly gesticulating person, tall, skinny and sunburned, glasses and curly hair. With no other ‘farang’ anywhere nearby, this had to be our guide for the day, and our boss for the years to come. There’s not much more I can remember of the welcome at this curb-side arrivals hall-cum-parking-lot, other than the words:
Welcome to Thailand – a refreshing splash
