Travel musings

I can always tell when I’ve reached the right gate at the airport for my last flight to the island. Suddenly I’m surrounded by people dressed too warm for the airport, carrying random bags that don’t seem carry-on-sized. The mixture of islandese and French fills my ears and I find myself eavesdropping just for entertainment. It even smells like the islands, with the perfume and other strong scents. But I often prefer not to let on immediately that I’ll be sharing the flight with them. I wander past, absorbing the scene, observing my soon-to-be flightmates, then move a little further on until it’s close to boarding time.

Even on the plane I often delay letting on that I’m going home, not just a random tourist. Once the secret is out there’s just no going back.

This time arriving in the islands I waited until my seatmate’s English failed her and the conversation was just getting too frustrating to continue in her third language. So I switched to islandese… and there was no going back. Suddenly we had a lot in common and lots to talk about. She wanted to know if I was married, where I lived, what I did for work, and if I knew any of her family that comes from Clove Island. Word trickled to the back of the plane that there was a single white girl speaking their language and while waiting for the lavatory to be open I had my first marriage proposal in 7 months.

Arriving at the other end I told immigration that I already had a visa, went through the residents’ line, and waited for my baggage. (it all came! Hooray!) While waiting I fended off multiple taxi drivers and answered questions about others in my NGO and where they might be (we’re well-known at the airport).

Tomorrow I’ll take the “high-speed ferry” home to Clove Island. I left home, I’m going home, and if home is where the heart is I’ve got a lot of homes now.