Flying With Tigers & Butterflies
Long Haul Stopover Survival with Animal Assistance
An anxious boa constrictor squeezes my arm as wheels touch down. Will post-flight bruises be visible this time? Grimace defeated and a quick glance at my notoriously nervous partner tells me her long-haul fitness is as lacking as my own.
Three years since our last intercontinental adventure and the realisation of just how bloody far Australia is from anywhere is cutting deep. I can feel the balance of the pros and cons of my travel scales tipping in the wrong direction.
We’d done our best to fill the void of the first eightish-hour leg from Brisbane to Singapore but the notion of the thirteen or so remaining to London seems an impossibility. I like a good film as much as anyone but not four in a row. A second leg supermodel style in-flight tantrum appears a distinct possibility.
Disembarked, the artificial environs of the terminal jolt the system into some semblance of grounded but alternate reality. Stopovers always feel like a brief excursion into a clinically crafted purgatory en route to somewhere better.
I look around and contemplate why almost every seat within view is occupied. Surely there’s enough sitting time on the plane? It’s time to stretch the atrophied legs and chalk up a few steps.
We wander aimlessly and I people-watch, playing pick the nationality. Thongs (flip-flops) give my fellow Australians away. Comfort annihilates any consideration of style on the long haul.
I double-take when I spot the illuminated sign ahead. It’s only in my periphery but my mind deems it worthy of centre stage. At an airport terminal? Really?
My partner struggles to keep up as I deviate in the direction indicated. I know she’ll be bemused by the diversion but I’m a man on a terminal mission. Regretting not having packed my net in carry-on, I approach the oasis.
A fist of humidity punches me squarely in the face as I pass first through the glass door then jingle and jangle my way through the chained internal entrance. I remove my jacket as my partner enters.
We look at each other both knowing that what surrounds us doesn’t belong here. It’s an alien biome within the curated carpet, concrete and air-conditioning of Changi Airport.
The green of the surrounding tropical garden envelops and treats the eyes but it’s the smell that captivates. Despite its thickness, the air is fresh and clean and nourishing - the antithesis of inflight.
Attracted by the rising layers of canopy, my eyes move first to the classical domed glass ceiling. I’m not sure of the architectural style but to me it’s pure Willy Wonka’s glass elevator stuff.
Guided by the trickling, my gaze then feasts upon a grotto-encased waterfall cascading into a small pool. The sound and overall effect is like a New-Agers playlist - less the whale songs.
Absorbed in this unlikely haven, I follow the path and spot movement amongst the vivid flowering plants. The main event emerges and I’m immediately transfixed by its fragile beauty. Others follow. They’re not easy to spot but that just makes each discovery and its accompanying natural anti-anxiety fix even more invigorating.
The path leads to a sense of renewal and relaxation but also to the beginning. Or maybe the beginning of the end? We arrive at the crowded chrysalis cage and it induces a new sense of wonder.
Do the butterflies perceive the cocoon as a warm and safe embrace or is it just a trap? An interwoven protective refuge or constricting and conspiring creation?
The notion that I’m emerging from my own Covid-induced cocoon begins to take shape and my travel scales are righted. The transformative possibilities of travel reassert - how a journey can illuminate forgotten corridors of the mind and create alternate passageways that inevitably converge toward deeper understandings.
“Pretty cool hey?”
My partner smiles and nods as we depart. A remedy is required for the humidity-induced dryness of my mouth and we ascend the moving steel stairs to the food court.
There is only one solution for such a thirst and the first, self-medicated sip elevates the relaxation. Thank you, Tiger.
My muscles unclench. The dwindling flame of weariness is replaced by anticipation and the scales are now overwhelmingly positive.
The last drop is as satisfying as the first and we levitate our way back to our departure gate knowing that inflight meltdowns are now off the table. My only worry is the potential damage the boa constrictor might inflict on our next take-off and landing.
Thanks for reading and be sure to follow me if you’d like to read more. Plenty of stories forthcoming from my recent European sojourn.
Also, check out some of my other ramblings (thetripologist.com) or contact me via tony@thetripologist.com
