Life Lessons in Air-Travel: What I Learned

Lynne K. Fukuda
Instructor of Anthropology
Central Texas College
Email:  lfukuda@hawaii.edu

            I often wonder how travelers, emigrants, adventurers, sailors, diplomats, stowaways, and other forms of travelers felt in the past.  I am certain that they would have experienced much more discomfort than I have, being more at the mercy of the elements coupled with the scary threat of epidemics, spoiled food, criminal fellow passengers, and lack of sanitation.  Without the technology or the knowledge of disease-causing organisms, these people would have been subjected to pain, sickness, lack of sleep, and hardships that are unimaginable to those of the 21st century.

            Having read of the terrible ordeals of the early immigrants to America, especially those who originated in Ireland, I imagined the stench of the lower sleeping quarters that often doubled as storage space.  Livestock, living vermin, sewage, and other smelly roommates would have shared the meager space with passengers.  The food, too, began to rot or turn rancid with time, having only the natural preservation methods available to keep food edible.  The quarters would also be infested with mice along with the infestation of clothing and bedding with lice.  Sickly passengers would pass on their contagion to healthy ones.  Pale with disease and sea-sickness, thin from lack of nourishing food, and lacking sleep due to the noise, activity, bad smells, and lack of space, passengers would endure their journeys because it was a necessity.

            Slave ships stored its cargo of African slaves in the berths like livestock.  Slaves were beaten, given rancid food and polluted water, and lived miserable lives as virtual prisoners aboard ship.  Some may have been kidnapped from remote villages of Africa where they once lived peaceful lives; others were prisoners of tribal wars, sold off to enterprising slaver traders.  Disease, injury, infections, and death all created morbid floating islands of half-dead passengers.

            Even privileged passengers aboard ships with captains of noble birth and possessing one of the best navigation systems of their time succumbed to deadly sickness.  Traveling through disease-infested countries of Africa or Asia, an unwitting passenger may have picked up a contagion such as smallpox, cholera, dysentery, or malaria.  Like wildfire, the disease would have spread among the ship’s passengers and to the crew as well who used the same unsanitary privies and drank from the same water sources.  Ghost ships with no living souls on board were said to have drifted on the high seas until passing ships found them.  In limbo, they drifted until the ship rotted away and melted into the depths of hell. 

            There are diseases on present day ships, often things such as Norwalk viruses and other types of viruses that cause flu-like symptoms or gastrointestinal problems in passengers who eat from the same source and come into contact with the same things.
 
            Even on airplanes contagion via food or from other persons has occurred at times.  One tragedy of this type occurred on a major airline in Japan around the time I was a small child.  The airline caterer’s chef prepared the food, though he had an infection on his finger.  The infection remained in the food that saw its way to the airplane.  Most of the ship’s passengers came down with food-poisoning, some even dying as a result.  The chef’s supervisor took responsibility, as is usual in the Japanese culture, and he committed suicide as a form of ultimate apology.  Having many family members in the airline industry, my family mourned the terrible loss and the tragedy involving the sickness and death of the passengers, the death of the chef’s supervisor, the loss his family suffered, and the resulting affect on the airline.

            Another food-related incident on a plane also remains in my memory.  It was during the period of cholera outbreaks in South America when I lived in Puerto Rico and later traveled throughout the cholera-infested regions of Peru and Bolivia.  A major South American airline served shrimp cocktail, which is usually prepared with blanched shrimp that is not cooked thoroughly.  When staying in Latin America, I was warned constantly about seafood that is not cooked well. I avoided eating all seafood during that time, but passengers of the airline, who believed that catering companies were exempt from serving possibly contaminated food, ate the cocktail shrimp.  Many passengers took ill, and one passenger died of cholera traced to the seafood served onboard.

            Terror struck the people traveling through the region, and I am certain that no one ate the shrimp cocktails served in the air for a while, or else the airlines stopped serving them.  I still never eat raw or undercooked seafood and avoid cold cuts and spoilable food when traveling, being prone to hives and other severe allergic reactions when ingesting slightly spoiled foods.

            How does one survive a long voyage avoiding much of the food that is regularly served, giving one no choice in what to eat?  I opt for hard tack and dried beef, dried or preserved fruits, and canned meals.  I boil my own water or drink bottled water wherever I am and avoid eating food that is questionable.  My own travel supplies usually consist of the same--dried fruits, crackers, beef jerky (if allowed), and bottled drinks.

            In the heyday of air travel when my parents—both airline employees—were rewarded with first class travel, our planes were as luxurious as ocean liners.  I wined and dined with well-to-do passengers, where our flight attendants or stewardesses, as they were once called, served a small number of their wards quietly and attentively.  Friendly and cosmopolitan, they chatted with their guests, making pleasant conversation.  It was a relaxed atmosphere, where the clink of fine china resounded as we took our meals on white linen with a cloth napkin.  Steak, side dishes, and tossed salad (tossed right in front of our eyes), appetizers that included shrimp cocktail or crackers with caviar or even sushi and drinks, and a dessert cart to follow with sweet wine, different cheeses, and fruits as well as cakes and coffee or tea.  We were in seventh heaven.  Our meals were carefully prepared, and we did not question their safety.

            When the journeys seemed long, we took time to read a few magazines that were available for our viewing pleasure, saw a movie or two, and played with the complimentary playing cards containing the logo of the particular airline. For children, there were toys, coloring pages and crayons, and plastic wings that resembled the wings that the flight crew proudly wore.  If a child were quiet and good, he or she would have a visit to the cockpit escorted by a kind stewardess.

            The aisles were large, and as a lively but well-behaved child, I walked about, stopped each time by friendly passengers who asked my name.  Stewardesses came forth to offer me cookies and juice.  At lights out we all sank into our spacious seats with our fluffy pillows and woolen blankets and wiggled our toes in complimentary slippers.  Some planes had footrests, and others had reclining seats that acted as virtual beds.  We sighed and went off into our much needed sleep.

            I wonder what the pilot thinks of these days, having to double-lock his cockpit and fearing violence in the cabin and a possible terrorist or bomb on board his plane.  It is no longer as in ancient times when vermin like mice and lice where what we all feared, but it is now criminals and fanatics who try to destroy a plane and kill passengers and crew that we fear.

            My unfounded fears of violent or terrorist passengers never materialized.  My mum and I were once bumped off a flight, however, that resulted in violence.  It occurred during the 1980s when the plane was hijacked over Greece.  It was pure luck that the reservation agent misspelled our last name, so we were unable to locate our seats.  We missed the experience of being hijacked and meeting a terrorist on a plane face to face.
 
            On the many hundreds of flights we have taken, though, my mum and I have met many pleasant, interesting, and kind passengers.  Often, even with languages differences, we managed to introduce ourselves and learn small but interesting details of one another’s life, still allowing ourselves anonymity.  Privacy was always protected, and just for the brief times we shared a cramped space in a plane, we shared a meal or two and a movie and chatted.  It was to my young mind, even at the age of five, that all people were basically the same since we all came from planet Earth. 

            I traveled many times in the economy section of the plane. Although the seats were smaller and lacked the luxury of first class or even business class, they were not completely occupied, and lifting up the armrest, we stretched out to sleep, undisturbed.  We also walked about, mingling with others, chatting, drinking and even eating.  And now, like the unfortunate passengers of the ships of death from old Ireland, the modern passengers too were cramped in their small spaces, sometimes dying of blood clots from sitting in one position for hours.  Even the spread of diseases such as tuberculosis, influenza, bird flu, and SARS struck fear in the passengers.

            Fellow passengers who misbehaved were also problems in the old ships.  Violent passengers who strike out at their fellow passengers or at the flight crew have increasingly become a problem.  Think of how stressful it would be to be confined for hours with a violent or agitated passenger who needs to be restrained.  What does one do without a policeman on board? 

            The lack of good food on board a ship was a terrible concern for the passengers of old.  Many brought their own stashes of food, such as dried meat, biscuits, flour, dried fruits, and some potable water.  But these, combined with the ship’s fare of watery soups, hard tack, dried beef and polluted water would soon run low so that passengers often stole from one another, or even resorted to violence to have some food.

            It was much to my horror that on a recent trip to the East Coast many economy-class passengers were shoveling down food even as they boarded the plane. “I heard they aren’t feeding us any food on board,” a healthy, hefty man said to his wife as he stuffed hotdogs into his mouth and drank a milk shake.  Others ate large bowls of Hawaiian ice cream as if it would be their very last dessert for many days.  Others shopped in the over-priced airport restaurant and ate their food in a serious mood.

            I later learned, much to my shock, that indeed there was no decent food to be had in the economy section of the plane.  A five dollar purchase came with crackers, cold cuts, cheese and cookies. Drinks, of course, were still complimentary, and bottled water was available.  I sighed in relief, having hid my large liter bottle of Hawaiian spring water, to discover that potable water was available on board.  Studies indicated that airplane water was often contaminated by coliform and other microbes.  Bottled water was often safest, even if it came from possible industrial areas of the mainland US.

            On the way to my destination, I learned that not only was there an outbreak of E.coli poisoning in raw spinach but there was also an alert on raw vegetables such as tomatoes and lettuce that had been found to have salmonella poisoning.  I looked at my food in terror as the salads turned into monsters that threatened me with a terrible death.  I rejected all fruits and vegetables on my journey and recalled eating fresh tomatoes and lettuce in my vegan sandwich at the Honolulu Airport.  It was too late to be paranoid, and I prayed for my stomach to be well.

            As always, I had a stash of safe foods, having learned from family and friends never to travel without dried and preserved food and water in case of dire emergencies. I preferred trail mix, dried fruits, beef jerky or beef sticks, crackers and cheese, and candies, including cough drops. I had a friend who brought with her a cooler of local Hawaiian favorites including Spam musubi (rice ball with Spam and nori) and cold fruit drinks.  Another had vacuum-packed bags of kakimochi (rice crackers), and some carried cracked seed (sweetened preserved Chinese fruit snacks).  I wondered what regular American passengers would think of being exposed to ethnic food on their flights as the airlines shrank their meals and made carried-in food a norm.

            Being rather squeamish, and at other times a bit queasy, on long flights, although I do eat and appreciate local Hawaiian foods, I did not think I would appreciate having a fellow passenger nearby munching on strong-scented foods.  Cheese and crackers, potato chips, tortilla chips, and an occasional hamburger would be fine, but dried shrimp or squid, teriyaki fish jerky, sticky Chinese seed snacks, and garlicky stir-fries did not appeal to my jaded senses.

            My stomach was often upset by the change in climate and time zones; I ate very little, feeling that a meal at what would be my normal one in the morning was not an ideal time for a heavy dinner.  I lived often on bread and tea and decided, perhaps, paring down the meal to crackers and cheese and cold cuts for five dollars was not such a bad idea after all.

            I learned from having less food that it was better for my stomach, because waiting time in line, at the gate, and even in the plane before takeoff, and the long hours of flight gave me a nervous stomach.  The most basic of foods, drink and bread was comforting.  Like a tired prisoner held captive in the airplane, I rested more and ate less, promising myself a feast when I reached my destination.  The heyday of air travel was over, and I satisfied myself with fewer interruptions as I slept.

            I glanced at my fellow passengers and saw no one fall ill and die.  Everyone was talking and walking and even laughing in a relatively happy mood as most people seemed to be on the way home after a trip to Hawaii. Tanned and warmed by the sun, they did not seem to look forward to the cold weather and clung onto their summer attire until the blast of cold air in the plane made them crawl into warmer clothing.  A few Hawaii passengers were among them, but they ate their meager meals quietly. Thankfully, no one had thought to bring their ethnic foods with them.
           
            Checking into the airport was always a great ordeal filled with confusion. As a child, it was simple in most places. We showed our IDs or passports, and officials nodded or stamped our things. Sometimes, there was a rude interrogation.  At others, a friendly chat with a curious customs agent who wanted to know about Hawaii.  Sometimes, the passport control agent acted as a travel guide, informing us of the best places to visit, stay, and dine.  In communist or socialist countries, the airport was almost like the border of a forbidden country.

            In the later years of the 20th century, with small attacks by terrorist groups such as the IRA and fundamentalist religious groups as well as the occasional mentally ill terrorist-wannabe, European airports were as closely guarded as military outposts.  Young soldiers in full uniform brandished machine guns in the airports. My mum and I, although often called to the gates at the last minute on standby, feared running to them since we believed that jumpy soldiers would shoot at us, suspicious of foreign-looking individuals rushing past them.

            Yet, seeing the military men with their weapons did not strike fear into our hearts. Instead, we felt safer, knowing that well-trained men guarded the airports and would-be terrorists thought carefully about attacking under such circumstances. 

            It was chance and fate, however, that saved my mum and I many times in our travels. As if angels guarded our way, we often missed out on major events because of errors, traffic delays, cancelled flights, or by mere happenstance.  As in the time when fish-poisoning delayed my bus trip from Bolivia to Peru and spared me an attack by the Shining Path, we dodged bombs, bullets, and hijackers on our hundreds and thousands of flights.

            A heavy traffic jam in Frankfurt let us avoid being at the airport when it was bombed.  I wonder where my mum and I would have been when the bomb went off.  I am certain that we would not have died, but perhaps we would have been trampled in the chaos that ensued after the bomb went off. I did not wish to view the carnage or to witness such a tragedy.  But angels once again spared us the pain of seeing kind European people suffering from fear and injury.

            Another time was when my school friends and I were planning to travel from LA to Vegas for Fourth of July weekend.  At first, a group of friends and I planned to chip in to rent a car and for the gas to drive to Vegas and back, but we began to change plans and looked for cheap flights instead. 

            “You promised me that you would travel with me to Vegas,” our male classmate insisted.
           
            “But I don’t want to travel unescorted if my other friend [(a female)] is not there,” I said, being the uptight coed that I was.

            Finally, my male classmate convinced my friend to travel with us instead of by air as she had wanted. The journey was not as long and painful as we believed since we traveled by night with a bunch of Californians also seeking the same relief from the city.  We all piled into the burger joint at the rest stop and chatted.  Then, as the city lights of Vegas came into view, we sped into our destination. 

            “See, it was more fun and better to travel this way,” my male driver-companion insisted.

            “Thanks,” I said, groggy from sleepiness and my hips sore from sitting.  My classmate in the back was carsick but safe. 

            We later learned that on the day that we would have caught the flight back from Vegas to LA there was a shooting at the airport in Vegas. The long, boring, and tiring car ride we took had spared us the chaos at the airport and its inevitable delays.   There were many other journeys I took that was by stroke of luck a way to avoid being involved in terrorist incidents or being witness to tragedy.

            Our baggage was another tale.  Lugging our worldly belonging, some necessary and others not, our travels were often hindered by the weight of what we believed we needed to take with us.  Like paranoid individuals or even bagladies who feel a need to carry everything in case there is nothing, my mum and I traveled the world, clutching our suitcases with us, gaining bruises and bumps, sore backs and tired muscles, cranky moods, and humorless expressions as we took with us the large, rectangular masses like hermit crabs carrying our shells or homes with us wherever we went.

            When there was no chivalrous man available, I was often my mother’s porter, barely bigger than the cosmetic case, which to my seven-year-old to nine-year-old body was proportionately as large as a suitcase would be to an adult.  I lugged it, feeling my arm twist from its weight. The case had no long, comfortable straps or other handholds.  With no choice, I carried it by its solid, hard plastic handle that crushed my fingers into the shape of its rounded but uncomfortable shape. 

            “Mum, I want to have someone else carry it,” I would moan once in a while as I followed my mother who had her own small suitcase in one hand and my sister in the other hand. 

            She would glance back at me unsympathetically and say in an impatient voice, “Look, Darling, I have my hands full. Do not complain about small things.  It is just a short walk.”

            To a small child with short legs, it was never a short walk.  I also discovered in later years that the mystery of the dead-weight cosmetic bag was that my mother stored her camera equipment in it to protect it from breakage.  Made of solid metal and with heavy glass lenses, my mother’s camera resembled a terrorist’s bomb, heavy and cumbersome.  Now, as an adult, I develop strange backpains as I carry my own camera equipment in my backpack on my travels, moaning and complaining of its weight.

            It was one of the parts I dreaded most about traveling in the old days, even with the luxury of empty flights, larger seats, many amenities, hot meals, and wonderful service, carrying around the baggage that all travelers must carry as they bring with them a compact semblance of house and home.

            Since my mother was an airline employee, and often our flights were on stand-by, we had to lug our suitcases with us.  In the early days, father traveled with us or we had assistance because my sister and I were very young, but as the years passed and I grew into adulthood, carrying suitcases, often including my own, became part of traveling the world with my family.  Traveling thousands of miles from Hawaii, it was necessary to carry clothing for all seasons, food items, medical supplies, sundries, and other goods that were not readily available in foreign lands.  Often, the compact kitchen included linens, flatware, bowls and plates, and a hotpot.  Food included dried and preserved food, instant noodles and soup, teas, hot cocoa, and bottled water.

            Yet, it was the norm in those days to carry oversized suitcases, but as fuel costs soared, passengers increased, and storage space decreased, we were forced to pare down our necessities, and eventually, along with innovations in suitcases, lightweight materials that were durable and those with wheels came along.  Cosmetic cases were the first items to disappear as women opted for comfortable and stylish shoulder bags.

            On a recent trip to New York City, I learned that the most hated part of travel was the luggage.  There were signs posted that warned of the dangers of leaving unattended luggage:  “Do not leave luggage unattended or it will be immediately destroyed.  Do not leave your luggage with someone or allow someone to leave luggage with you.”  What if a lone traveler needed to break out of the line for a minute to go to the loo or needed to run a short errand and did not want to lose his or her place in the endlessly long line?  Once on a trip to Japan at the airport, the women at the restroom took turns watching one another’s suitcase as they used the small stalls.  Was this no longer possible?

            Even on the trains and subways, police were available to harass any person carrying a suitcase.  But did no one travel by train to the city anymore?  What if one came from New Jersey or even from upstate New York as a tourist to NYC?  The worst part of my travel with luggage occurred at the port.  Wishing to see the Statue of Liberty and having no time to check into my hotel that day, I boarded the tourist bus and rode down to Battery Park.  I was reassured by the ticket agents that it was alright to take my small suitcase on the paid ferry.

            Once at the port, however, two frowning officials chased me away.  “You cannot go on the ferry with that suitcase,” a scary-looking uniformed lady said to me, resembling a Soviet official denying entry to a high-security area.

            I blinked twice and felt my heart sink.  “But I came all the way from Hawaii to see the Statue of Liberty. I saw it last nearly thirty-five years ago.  Your agent told me it was ok.  My suitcase is small,” I said, my voice trembling.
           
            “No. You can come back tomorrow,” the woman said insistently.

            “But I am leaving NYC tomorrow. I need to go somewhere else.  This was just a daytrip,” I said almost sobbing.

            Seeing my deep disappointment, the official was kinder.  “You can see it on the free ferry going to Staten Island,” she said pointing at the other port.

            I shook my head. “I am too tired. I came on the train, and I just want to go back to my hotel.”

            After a day of riding the bus and touring the city, I was too exhausted to try again.  The heavy crowds, the slow traffic, and the inconvenience of being in a big city had taken its toll. I hung my head and headed to my hotel.  Check-in time was just a half-hour away.

            Ever since the surge of terrorism in Europe, especially in France, the airport in Paris no longer has a baggage holding area.  It is a great inconvenience for travelers who come from afar and wish to use the trains.  The trains often only allow space for small carry-on suitcases to fit on the overhead racks.  Those with large suitcases often have problems bringing them on and off the trains and carrying them up the long flights of stairs. There are no escalators or elevators.  And yet my mum and I managed to travel the train routes of Europe, often with the help of chivalrous men and kindly strangers, helpful conductors and porters who tried their best to make our travels better.

            Seeing movies and photographs of immigrants to America, lugging their heavy trunks off the ships, I knew how each of them felt, exhausted from the long journey, hungry, tired, muscles aching, and weighed down my the burden of the ever present luggage.  Wishing to discard it because of its weight and embarrassed by the blatant advertisement that the bearer is a tourist or newcomer, the traveler cannot simply be rid of it.  Its lifeline, its survival kit, and semblance of home away from home exist in that tattered and battered trunk, or in that hateful suitcase full of travel stickers or scratches from the baggage machine.  In each trunk or suitcase, no matter how shabby, how mundane, or how simple, is a survival kit for the owner. 

            In my own, I often have my essentials that are a microcosm of my own bathroom.  Bits and pieces of my medicine cabinet reside in a compact plastic case; soaps and shampoos and other hair products are sealed in a zipper bag.  Another part of my suitcase carries my makeup.  And the rest is my clothing that varies with season, but I always have everything from light clothing for warmer weather to heavier ones for colder weather.  Shoes, house slippers complete my wardrobe.

            Many times, gifts from friends dot my wardrobe and personal items. I bring them along for luck and also to remind myself to be more optimistic when times are bad. And, morbidly, I hold on to them, feeling that I will have something to cling to when there is a life or death situation.  In my own purse, I hold a few valued photographs of my loved ones to glance at when I feel homesick, lonely, or discouraged. And also just as morbidly, they will be the only connection to my loved ones when my plane goes down or it is hijacked or destroyed.  I also carry a rosary at all times for protection.

            I am certain that even the forlorn immigrants of old, who journeyed perilously to America, also clung onto their mementoes.  Religious persons fervently prayed and held their rosaries and charms.  Homesick folk held keepsakes of their families or portraits as well.  And their clothing, perhaps donated, lovingly made, or handed down by family and friends served as a lasting connections of those they loved.  I wonder if they felt more optimistic and encouraged when they had these belongings.

            I suppose that is why we are so disoriented and discouraged when the airlines lose our luggage.  In the hundreds of flights my family and I took in the past, we have only lost our luggage four times.  Three of those times, it was misplaced or taken to the wrong destinations or sometimes arrived ahead of us.  Only once, a piece was lost in luggage limbo, floating about namelessly in space, or perhaps, ejected out of the cargo into the clouds as we traveled high in the sky.

            When our luggage was once misplaced, we felt thirsty for some reason as if we had been dumped into a desert.  I sweated more and felt unclean in my remaining clothing and unwashed as I slept in my underwear instead of in my clean jimmies and changed into my used clothing that smelled badly of the airplane, including stale perfume and smoke.  Even as we showered and refreshed ourselves, we could not shake off the feeling that permeated our whole being.

            Like homeless bag ladies, we clung together and walked about aimlessly around the hotel area as we anticipated the next flight out.  Our flight had been cancelled, and it was possible that our luggage had left ahead of us, only to greet us at our destination.  This was to be the case, much to our delight. 

            What began as a pleasant trip had turned into a less than pleasant trip, and yet, we regrouped and created our little piece of home again, putting up our souvenirs from the hotel gift shop, placing out the free amenities from the plane and from the hotel, restocking our empty cosmetic case.  And, finally, we folded our new clothing so that it felt as though it had come with us from the beginning of our journey.  We restocked our small pantry, adding bottled water, dried fruits and nuts, chips, and other snacks.  And soon, laughter returned as we felt anchored by our cumbersome new dufflebag that threatened to burden us as its predecessor once did.

            What we learned from losing our luggage was the idea that we should not cling to our worldly belongings too much.  Memories, ties, names, and ideas that we carry with us have no weight and do not become burdens when we travel.  However, our luggage, something that might not be as valuable to others because they often consist of slightly used or some new clothing and goods that are useful to us but perhaps not to others, allow us to bring a semblance of our own civilization.  The medicines we use, the products we use to enhance our appearance, and the clothing and shoes we have to protect ourselves from the elements allow us to survive and to travel about comfortably so that the concerns of feeling ill, discomfort, pain, cold or heat, and problems with adjusting to a new place are buffered by the goods carried in our suitcases.  Just as valuable as our survival instincts, our bravery, and our optimism are our luggage that we are destined to drag with us, and in the future, with comfort, with wheels, or by remote control, following its owner like a faithful dog.

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