For all its dysfunctionality and its unkemptness, Tribhuvan International Airport is rather uncomplicated. File Photo: Kabin Adhikari/OnlineKhabar
I left for the airport an hour earlier than necessary in view of a possible traffic jam. There wasn’t any, so I reached the airport an hour earlier than necessary. I wandered in through the security check. Everyone made the alarm go off but nobody was alarmed. Least of all, the security guards.
Everybody had the security wand waved in the air around them but it didn’t look like the wands had batteries in them. Either way, I collected my bags and went to stand in the longest line for the flight I was to take.
First-time students heading for the US were worried about the weight of their bags. What would happen if their bags were overweight? Could they shift the weight into their friend’s bag? They slanted their gaze at my rather deflated check-in duffel bag, clearly half-empty. I pretended I didn’t notice. Years of travelling meant I had shed a lot of load and travelled with only the barest of necessities: Some change of clothing, a few books. A couple ahead of me chattered nervously about the weight of their bags. Would the airline allow 46 kgs? When it was their turn, it turned out that the dates on their tickets were wrong. Their flight was scheduled for tomorrow. How could it be tomorrow? Could they please step aside while the attendants handled the rest of the passengers?
I checked in my deflated cabin luggage. The first-time students glared openly at my only carry-on: A miserably thin sling bag. They could clearly have used the weight that I hadn’t put in my luggage. I passed them by and headed up the escalator to where the White Embarkation Cards were. The cards everyone must fill out, hand them in at the point of immigration before heading through Security Check and into the Gate area from where flights are boarded. For all its dysfunctionality and its unkemptness, Tribhuvan International Airport (TIA) is rather uncomplicated. One cannot get lost. One can only get confused.
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At TIA, most of the confusion encountered takes place around the Embarkation Cards area and usually concerns the Embarkation Cards. There is nobody to help. There are usually numerous people, who need help. Impromptu volunteers set up shop, filling out their own cards while helping fill out cards for other people. Flights to Dubai and Malaysia coincide with my flight time, which means there are many migrant workers who need help, who are flying out of Nepal for the first time and do not know how to fill out these cards. Two young boys approach me as I’m filling out my card. Can you help us? We don’t know how to fill out these cards?
I explain to them what to fill out in each blank but their blank expressions tell me something else. Do you know how to write? I ask. No, they say, we never went to school.
Most of the confusion encountered at TIA takes place around the Embarkation Cards area and usually concerns the Embarkation Cards. Photo: Faisal Akram/Flickr
I finish filling out my card and check the time. That extra hour can come in handy now. I ask for their passport and boarding pass and start filling out their forms. They are young Pariyar brothers from Sindhuli, barely sixteen, heading to Malaysia to work for three years. As I’m filling out their cards, my mind races to the village they grew up in, their names that defines the castes they have been boxed into, the opportunities that have been kept from them, the circumstances that have classed them into one of the most vulnerable strata, leading up to the event when they have to ask strangers like me for help even as they are trying to help themselves by escaping their circumstances, hoping to find a job that would solve all their problems.
In that little circle of people, waving their passports and boarding passes for flights heading to Dubai, Saudi Arabia and Malaysia was a representation of the Nepalis, who had been left behind and were now leaving Nepal behind. Young men from Parsa, mostly Muslims. Fifteen from the same ward. Twenty from the same district.
“What is your name?”
“Sadam Husen.”
I turn to his passport to double-check.
“Have you thought of changing your name? This could spell trouble for you when travelling.”
“My father passed away. It would be near impossible now to get new documents.”
My own embarkation card is in the hands of a student heading for the US. He has filled out the side meant for Foreign Nationals. I give him mine so I don’t have to explain it to him, just tap on the title that says for Nepalis. There are many hands waving in my direction. An hour and half has gone by. Another girl has set up shop next to me. She is helping those I cannot get to. I must catch my flight, I tell her. She smiles distractedly. There are many waiting for help.
At the immigration point, the lines diverge. There is one for migrant workers and another for students and Nepali nationals. Most of us working outside of Nepal are migrant workers. The words we use and how we classify ourselves is stark. A girl comes up to me and asks me what to expect at the different airports. She is heading to Portugal to work as an au pair. She has never travelled before and is very nervous. Does she have to exit the airport at any point?
Time passes swiftly when conversing with people. At TIA, it is easy to converse with people because everyone is looking for someone to talk to. The man nervous about the 46 kg finds me. They changed your flight? I asked.
“Yes, I had a congresswoman with me,” he says, “they even put me in business class.”
In the far corner, the two Pariyar brothers are huddled in one seat because all the seats are taken.
(The writer is based in France. She can be reached at [email protected].)
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