The city by the ocean

The cramped airport buzzed with tourists from all over the world. A wave of chit chat and voices mixed with laughter echoed around me. The airport police smiling awkwardly as they faced incoming flows of passengers from the terminal gates. “Terminal One”, the letters a vivid bold with black paint hanged from the wall above. And behind the glass doors millions of big stickers populated the aluminum windows with a caption “Wings of Kilimanjaro”. 

The confusion seems orderly with families and isolated passengers rushing to the luggage claim area. I paced through the hallway towards the domestic sign. Long lines gathered at the international desk. I guess the high season started again with tourists flocking the city. What a horrible time to travel. The thought ran through my head with a melody of annoyance. I hate traveling, but I hate crowds even more. 

The exit doors slide open as I approach, making way to the other existing travelers. Immediately, a heavy punch of humid air hits the unsuspecting victims. The air smelled casually hot. An uncomfortable kind of hot, with a bitter salt and sour feeling that ravages its way into the nose. 

On the outside, the crowd attacks with signs and forceful solicitations. Families and vendors all flocking the rails beyond the doors. Each one crying their own call, shouting names I am unfamiliar with. As I get closer to the end of my path, pulling my single wheel Samsonite suitcase I meet more of these strangers. 

“Sir?? Do you want an Uber?” A man with heavy stocked eyes asked.

“Bodaboda hapa?” another man shouted.

“Taxi” the cries continued on the far end.

I shook my head while slightly raising my free hand to push through the uninvited solicitations. Carefully and calmly looked around for a familiar face once I have cleared through. Turning a glance to the right I hear a voice, and notice a slight raise of hand at the nearby kiosk. I see him clear as day. I found what I was looking for and my anxiety calms. A hand I have recognized since birth. A hand that was half raised but called out louder and more closely. A hand of a father. 

I glanced at my father with feelings of nostalgic embrace. He rushes over and grabs me by the shoulders. We embrace in cheerful excitement. A feeling of nostalgia overcomes me. I feel like a ten year old boy, with growing embarrassment as I embraced him too. Something starts welling in my eyes and I pushed it back . There shall be no tears today, I tell myself. 

“I see you rocking the beach shirt?” I pointed to the green collar shirt with coconut trees.

“Well what can I say…I’m enjoying life”. He said with a sheepish smile.

‘The place looks different, but the people look the same.” I added.

“Well, you look different” he retorted.

He raised both hands and pushed them, signaling my body with his eyes. He pushes me to the opposite direction . I smiled and hugged him one more time before walking back to the car.

He kept brushing his wire framed glasses up, every now and then during the drive home. I stared at the new buildings and scenery that had become familiar to his eyes but foreign to mine. The traffic keeps to the left, a phenomenon I had almost lost in memory. It somehow becomes amusing once you forget.

The beach-like breeze that came with the cracked window. The smell of the ocean beyond the buildings, creeping in and laying quietly over the city. It has been too long, too distant now and I find it hard to recall things. Places. Hangouts. My old domain. I lower the window to enjoy the evening breeze. The musty air floats in intensely, making my skin sticky. A feeling somehow new, yet not strange to me. I guess six years can be a lot for some things but not all.

“You want the long drive?” he asked.

I froze for a moment my mind unsure of what the question was, the floods of thoughts ravaging my mind. My eyes still fixed outside the window, the tree line on the side a tropical green. A view I had longed for, a view I had missed. A maze of small houses laid abundant with pedestrians in populous groups disappearing into streets. I kept taking in the newness and trying to clasp to the familiar.

“Sure” I responded.

“You hungry?” He continued.

An attempt I sensed to start a conversation. Digging deep into my thoughts after the long pause in my answer. A habit I had learned from him. 

“Always. But let’s get some tea first,” I replied.

“The usual place?” he asked.

I nodded. 

It’s been a while since we drove together the silence must be noticeable. I used to enjoy riding shotgun. He was always telling a story about something in the old days. It was one of the many moments I wished I could relive. 

He looked at me and smiled.

“I’m glad you came” he said. 

***

The streams of cars started to slow down, beaming with the brake red in the rear. The opposing flow was at a complete halt with millions of people in wait. The yellow commuter bus filled to capacity with travelers heading home as the evening sun falls down the horizon. Trucks and bikes alike all waiting for the traffic police to allow them to pass through the light

Not everything had changed, I mused.

The cars unmoved with traffic jams hinging high on the officer, the evening welcomed a new player into the hot dark asphalt of the road. The hawkers. They slowly rise from the side of the road, creeping into the traffic and hijacking drivers and passengers alike with a sense of guilt to buy what they offered. Nuts, snacks and water. Children toys. T-shirts and even undergarments.

One individual stood out more. His movements were random but he attracted the attention of many. He wore a red hat with a white T-shirt. His worn jeans looked slight dirty but not fatigued. He held a metal kettle attached to some heating coals. A tray of cups hung by the side. He is beckoned by the bus driver. He pours him a cup while he steps out to wait. 

It took me a few moments to realize what he was selling. He walked with ease, enticing customers with the sweet aroma of Arabica coffee brewing inside the kettle. The strong dark smell slowly drifted away in white smoke. And sweeping in the opposite street into the window and finally to the back of my nose. 

I took in the sight, a sign of mild chaos in traffic with each man trying to earn a plate of food before sundown. A struggle of some sort and slew of hawkers in their daily quest to close for the day. And then suddenly the cars started to move. Unlike it started, the hawkers moved quickly and swiftly. All the intruders dispersed the road, leaving only the mechanical beasts with tires to speedily slip away. I was stunned and somehow amazed at the efficiency. I turned my head to the front and the skyline of the city was painted in the gray orange of the dying day.

It was almost seven when we pulled in the parking. A row of cars filled the lot and more drivers were pouring into this tiny place. A hidden gem packed between heavy streets in the center of downtown. We walked and picked a spot on the far right. The atmosphere was smooth. A room full of minor chatter, friends laughing with friends. Husbands with wives, children and seniors alike. A gaze of easy life, a sense of serene and placid tincture was seeping the room.

The traditions unforgotten. Tea is a ceremony. Tea is a culture, an essential part of life. It cleanses the day. The meal must be shared with a cup of tea. In this small but lively cafe we ordered tea. They are many little places like this one, all spread and hard to find within the city. Everyone has their favorite place, and this one was ours. 

I was surprised it still existed, even more surprised how it looked the same. The old man seated at the counter. A glass counter filled with tasty treats. 

I leaned back into the chair. A slow smooth sound of splashes became louder. A car honked and another revved. A motorcycle passed and then the splashes came back. This was home. Each sound unique.

“Are you still thinking of her?” He asked.

“Sometimes……only sometimes.” I replied.

“She was the reason you left, right?” He continued.

“Partly.” I answered.

I paused, my face stiffening as I tried to answer. My thoughts mirrored the past. The pain still evident. I see her face again, only to remember the last time I saw her.

“There were just too many memories of her here. Too many places we had in common. I needed a break.” I continued.

He looked at me with his brown eyes, and dark thick eyebrows hiding behind his glasses. The waitress interrupted with a tray of tea and two hot Samosas.

“Well, we are glad you are back” he added.

I picked up the cup with a flush of excitement. And in that moment I somehow knew everything was going to be alright. 

I was certain I would be staying more than the weekend.