FAR CATHAY

I wrote this bit years ago when I was still in the corporate world. I was trying my hand at an observational piece - my son Matt who was good enough to give me a bit of guidance said my normal diary bits at that time were somewhat boring

Stretching my legs after the nine hour hop from Melbourne, in anticipation of the rather longer journey to London ahead, I wander through the departure area of Hong Kong airport during the three hour layover before take off. People of all races mill around, some browsing through the duty free shops, others obviously heading for their flights. In the quiet eddies outside the main stream of humanity there are bodies stretched out on the floor, apparently fast asleep and oblivious to all around them. They are clearly not as concerned about their departure time as those who stand, agape, before the flight monitors.

I head back to the comparative quiet and cool of the First Class lounge. Australia and England are locked in an Ashes series and play in the Lords' Test should be starting about now. A television set mutters to itself quietly in one corner, but no matter what channel I switch to, there is no news of the cricket. Maybe the locals are not really that interested, even though they live in what is still a British colony. I try the business centre, but they just grin and offer me the financial screens which flash the latest prices on exchanges all over the world.

A seat by the window gives me a good view of the non stop activities of this bustling port. Aircraft roar in and out through the narrow approach and exit chasms. With land at such a premium there is not the luxury of having open space around the aiport. This constriction is also reflected on the ground, where aircraft are taxiing here and there, apparently missing each other by inches. I play "spot the tail fin" for a while, trying to see how many logos I can recognise, but tiring of this, especially as I am losing, I turn my attention to the crowd around us to see how they deal with the ennui of transit.

Some are doing what airlines encourage all passengers to do - eating and drinking. I cannot recall a flight anywhere when food and drink was not supplied. We even used to get it on the short hop from Kariba to Harare where the poor overworked hostess barely had time to dish out the food, pour the drinks and clear up between take off and landing. That was what Eric designated a one drink flight - he used to prefer five drink flights. I have in fact been on some flights where the aircraft were too small to have any staff other than the pilot but they still insisted on ensuring that passengers did not starve or die of thirst, handing over a picnic pack with the boarding pass.

At the next table two expats are intensely playing an incomprehensible card game. Not a word is exchanged as they slap cards down, bet and collect, sphinxlike in their concentration. In my imagination, I can see them, stuck in some far distant part of what used to be the British Empire, sweating under the punkahs, gin and tonic at hand playing this marathon and seemingly pointless game.

Normally there are very few children in these lounges - passengers more crusty than I have been heard to remark loudly that they should actually be banned. The family which now arrives gives credibility to that belief. Like a breaking wave, they roar in, spreading themselves into my territory, interrupting my reverie. Annoyed as I am, I think it might be an interesting exercise to try and work out where they are from and where they are going to.

I only have a brief glimpse of the man in the family. He looks a bit swarthy and wears a hat, but, having lead his flock through the hazards of the departure lounge to this oasis of quietness he disappears. He leaves behind him half a dozen children and a thin, rat faced woman who seems to have no control over the little blighters. Dark hair stretched back tightly on her skull, her bright red lipstick emphasises the pallor of her skin. Ignoring her brood, who are scrambling over the furniture, knocking over glasses and generally behaving like a pack of hyena pups, she lights up a cigarette, gazing around her in some agitation.

Her eyes light up when she spots an old Eurasian woman puffing up in the rear, hanging on to yet another brat which is bellowing its lungs out. The noise of their passage spreads a wake of turned heads and sour faces tut-tutting through the lounge. My first thought is that this must be grandmother, but not so. This is the East and this is the amah - nanny not Nana. As she arrives, rat face bales out. Maybe the man and the woman, obviously the parents of this pack, find them as trying as the rest of us, maybe they have to go to the rest rooms. Whatever the reason, they do not appear again until just before their flight is called.

Another amah appears and the noise subsides gradually to a dull roar. The nannies and the kids communicate in American accented speech and I notice that the young boys are wearing yamulkas. So that makes them a Jewish family, probably from the Phillipines - yes, the father was wearing tropical gear, which made the black hat more incongruous. Obviously not too Orthodox, else they could not be flying on their Sabbath. But where are they going to? The children are wearing anoraks and padded leggings, but this is the northern hemisphere and it is summer up here. Maybe the parents are consigning them all to Tierra del Fuega - it should be pretty cold down there by now and that would not be a bad idea, as an alternative to infanticide.

Mother suddenly materialises, drink and cigarette in hand, causing an eruption of offspring, all jostling for attention. She snaps orders to the amahs who shoot off, taking only the smallest one, who cannot yet walk. The noise level rises again as the brood realise that they have a free hand, with their controllers out of the way. The amahs re-appear with a load of drinks and snacks which they distribute like zookeepers at feeding time. The riotous assembly subsides and snuffles its collective way though the goodies.

A flight is called and, on cue, father appears, as harassed as when he arrived, draped with cabin baggage. The flock rises, takes up stations in a wedge like formation and heads for the exit to the collective relief of those lucky enough not to be sharing their flight. Quiet descends. I go back to my contemplation of those around me and the clock ticks on. Only an hour to go now.