Chickens Over Asia

In the summer of 1973, I was transferred from Bank of America’s Jakarta Branch to the Singapore Branch after our two-month home leave. Our return trip to Singapore was leisurely. We were staying with Brian and Mary Conway, friends from our Jakarta days. Brian had been posted to the Osaka Branch the year before. Brian and Mary were showing us around the city, and we stopped at a noodle stand for lunch. Japanese restaurants and food stalls were known for their cleanliness.

Soon after lunch, Mary and Emily, my wife, wanted to return home — at once. From our Jakarta days, we knew food poisoning’s symptoms. The afflicted digestive tracts would soon empty, one way or another. The clearance process was demeaning, noisy, and exhausting.

Why Brian and I were unfazed, we’ll never know. Brian went to work in the morning while I prepared scrambled eggs for Mary and Emily. Afterwards, they slept while I took long walks with the Conways’ dog; during the afternoon, I prepared light meals of scrambled eggs, broth and soup. Emily recuperated with ice cream that was difficult to find in Japan. The ice cream I did find was awful, but it stayed down.

Emily was prone to sickness on long trips, but that recovery took longer than usual. She was somewhat wobbly on our flight from Osaka to Manila where she subsisted on a strict ice cream regime. After three days in Manila and more lousy ice cream, we prepared for our flight to Hong Kong. Emily was recovering.

Checking our luggage to Hong Kong, we lined up behind a group of about a dozen Chinese returning to Hong Kong. The group’s leader spoke broken English; I assumed that the others spoke the Cantonese dialect that prevailed in Hong Kong. The leader was pushing a large round package over five feet in diameter, wrapped in plastic sheeting, and tied together with rope.

The man at the Philippine Airlines counter asked, “Are you checking that?” The leader nodded yes and lifted the plastic ball onto the scale. The counterman asked, “What’s in there?”

“Chickens,” the leader replied.

“Dead?”

“Roasted. Taste good. Want one?”

The counterman asked, “How many chickens?”

“Fifty-seven. Manila chickens are good.”

“I must see one of those chickens before I okay this.”

The leader pulled out a cardboard container with a roasted chicken. The counterman then okayed the plastic ball. Accompanied by swearing in Chinese, Tagalog and some English, the two men retied the ball that was then sent down the luggage conveyer. The leader and his friends boarded, and we followed them.

The leader’s friends sat near us. A Chinese woman sat next to me on the aisle seat; two of her male friends sat across from her and started smoking. That was unnerving as we were sitting above the plane’s fuel tanks. A Filipina stewardess ran toward the smokers and asked them in English to put out their cigarettes. “No speak English,” one of the smokers said.

The stewardess asked if anyone spoke Chinese and English. The leader raised his hand. After speaking with the stewardess, he spoke to the smokers in Chinese; they extinguished their cigarettes. As the plane was taking off, they put their seats back, unfastened their seatbelts, and relit their cigarettes.

Back in the 1970s, international flying was relatively comfortable: the seats were more spacious; passengers were not charged for the food that was hot and served on china with cutlery; pillows and blankets were not rented; beverages and cigarettes were gratis. However, flying was new to many Asians. Most international flight crews spoke English and their native languages; many passengers didn’t speak English — which brought about the confusion around us.

As the plane approached cruising height, the Chinese raced to the toilets. European toilets contained free products that fascinated the new travelers. Kotex pads were often mistaken for masks worn in air-polluted Asian cities like Manila where stepping outside was comparable to smoking forty cigarettes.

A light brunch was served: fruit compote, scrambled eggs, toast with jam, and sausages with coffee or tea. The Chinese lady next to me studied her food and reached for an airsickness bag. Emily looked at me with burgeoning alarm.

The Chinese lady poured her tray into the airsickness bag and turned to her friends. After a burst of Chinese, her friends started passing up their airsickness bags and serving trays that she emptied into to three bags that she placed into a straw bag. Emily had lost her appetite and asked me to pass her untouched tray to the Chinese lady who, I thought, thanked me in Chinese. After that, the two-and-a-half hour flight to Hong Kong was uneventful; but most people were smoking. The inside of the plane was cloudier than outside. As the plane was taxiing to its gate, the Chinese group fastened their Kotex pads to their faces and lined up by the exit door. The flight crew had given up trying to enforce in-flight regulations.

The Hong Kong police were in charge of passport and customs control. They were wearing starched and ironed khaki shorts and shirts, knee socks, polished shoes, peaked hats, and Sam Browne belts. Speaking English and Chinese, they were polite but brisk. The lady who sat next to me went through passport control without a hitch and then on to customs.

She placed the three full airsickness bags in front of the customs officer who looked puzzled. After a brief Chinese conversation, the lady opened a bag and stood back. The customs officer looked into the bags, covered his mouth, and turned away. Emily asked, “What just happened?”

“A gag reflex. I’m pretty sure he won’t stick his hand into those bags to check for contraband.”

The customs officer composed himself and waved the woman through; we approached him and were waved through. Outside, the leader had gathered four taxis to take his group home. The leader leaned out, waved at me and said, “Chickens tonight.” We waved back.

Emily said, “I wonder what they’re going to do with those bags?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” I replied.

“And I’m feeling better; let’s go to Jimmy’s Kitchen this evening for cold martinis and rare roast beef. Let’s forget about those airsickness bags.”

“I’ll do my best this evening,” I said. “But I’ll never forget those bags.”