fragments of a book – travelling with an australian
Three hours out of Sydney and on an infrequent trip to Hong Kong, Stuart Keisel sits trapped by his loaded lunch tray and the droning litany of misfortunes of his neighbour in the aisle seat, a regular HK commuter. Gus.
‘ I’m off that bloody crate last week after they cleared all the wreckage off the runway and then we get to stand around on hot concrete sunbaking with all our clothes on and dodging planes and mad fucken meth addicts driving luggage carts at each other while three hundred bloody chinamen with uzi pistols and bad teeth run around yapping like chihuahuas and what’s the chance of scoring a ride on the transit bus in this shitstorm
– which is probably lost looking for us seeing as how we are parked five fucken miles from the terminal and when the bloody Toyota rustbucket finally rolls up in a cloud of diesel dust it isn’t big enough for all of us so the big-arsed yank who bumped me off the stairs to get on first ends up having to wait a little while longer, the bludger,
– but he’s buggered like the rest of us anyway seeing as how there must be about forty thousand people standing in fifty lines waiting for five Hong Kong Custom spivs to take their bloody time and stamp one passport every fifteen minutes, that’s not when they’re doing their fucken hair and pretending to be Bruce Lee in a hat
– which gives the baggage handlers enough time to knock off half the fucken luggage and lose the rest which is tough on the fat yank with his matched fucken bags, the dickhead, and how lucky am I with a family of Palestinian Turks fresh out of Yemen in front of me all on their hands and knees looking for their passports in reed bags full of bananas and probably hashish for all I know.
The blokes looked pretty ripped come to think about it,
– half their fucken luck.