Travel and the human function

I first went to the Southern Hemisphere three years ago.
Two years later, June arrived once more with the school holidays while summer seared the northern hemisphere. Yet in New Zealand, it was the start of winter, neither skiing season nor flowering spring. The airfare matched our alleged third-world budget and covered the country's North and South Islands. So we went south again.
New Zealand is where weary Indians aspire to migrate after American and Australian options close. It is also home to friends who had survived Singapore's pigeon-holes and high road pricing for 12 years. Staying with them would save us motel charges on the Auckland leg.
With borrowed woollies and a pair of jeans, we arrived at Singapore Changi airport, two Indian families who had met a month ago. The children were excited about the kids' meals and I was gathering up all my reserves of sensitivity toward other Indians. I had abandoned those five years ago when we moved out of Delhi.
It's 9 pm and I am warm, blanketed and belted, thinking of nothing but snow.
Then I hear the Air New Zealand steward comment, "Wise choice," when a passenger refuses dinner. Old conversations and comparisons of airline menus are rendered futile in that moment. Why, I wonder, had we all looked forward to in-flight meals when they are plastic caricatures of food? Why did in-flight manuals advise eating light while the steward hands you a tray filled to the brim?
It was wise indeed to avoid it, but the Singapore Girl would never mention it. She is the acquiescent icon of bow-backed SIA service. The Kiwi steward is tall, blond and unafraid to denounce his employer's offering. Did that come in a package?
4 am comes by. I'm awake, straining my neck to watch a grainy Julia Roberts on the wall screen. For all the service, I miss personal screens and remote controls. With kids on either side, I am not sleeping. I imagine that it is blissful to be like Tharun, small enough to sleep flat on one seat, head on my lap. Precocious child with an attitude, he delivers these rare moments when he does not brush me away.
Triya and I need to work on us as well. Perhaps I should apologize for that being an afterthought, if she ever reads this.
The Pacific flanks the runway when we land in Auckland the next morning. Though I had longed for it to be vast, blue and the largest ocean ever, it is muddy with dwarf waves. An atrophied tail of the ocean, says Hyma, our long-lashed hostess.
Friends whom we had no time to meet in Singapore prove to be warm hosts. Father, mother and sons are at the airport to welcome us. My delight at seeing Hyma again is tempered by my sensitivity to Fauzia, our female companion who has never met Hyma but is now her guest.
Auckland disappoints. Like every other city, I want it to be better than the last one I have seen. The immigration officer, Clark, is a bright cheery spot. He chats with Mahesh and Fauzia, our travel mates. When Clark asks him what he would most like to see, I whisper to Mahesh. Mahesh passes on my message that I hope to see some hunky Kiwi men. Clark sings out, "You're cool," while I replayed memories of Aussie cheer three years ago.
Parts of the airport are being renovated and contribute to the congestion. It is a land of few people and large crowds. It's not cold enough for all the layers on the children, though it rains at the drop of a beanie. If only it had been dry, I would have settled for colder.
Clark is the lone New Zealander who shares with us something other than room rates, menus and directions. No one wants to add to our two-family noise.
We seem to be driving the same routes a dozen times. In the days before I started being observant so as not to be caught out by male perfection, I would not have known that. Now I recognize landmarks and remark helpfully, "We're lost. Came this way before."
We pick up the rental car, lunch at our hosts' home and drive out looking for a live volcano at One Tree Hill Park. One Tree Hill is filled with several lush trees, their welcoming arms dripping with all-day downpour. And cows and sheep.
In India, wandering cows signify our blind Eastern tolerance. In Caucasian country, even on exile ground, they are tres pittoresque.
The sheep are sheared and are no fluffy symbols of peace. "Cows! Just like the ones on milk cartons," exults Tharun, "but why are the sheep gray?" We sigh at them all through a miasma of rain.
My soul partner, love of my life, throws up on the side of the car. At the next pump, we re-fuel and the friendly attendant hands Mahesh the hose: "You might want to clean up." Flabbergasted, Mahesh ends up cleaning his friend's puke in a story which he - and I - will tell many times over.