It is nearly a year since I last travelled, so I am not surprised that the protocol to enter the Lombok International Airport has changed.
Where previously, proof of a valid e-ticket was simply presented via handphone to security personnel at the entrance, travel documents, including proof of vaccination and negative covid test now need to be checked and stamped by a government official before being cleared to travel at the security checkpoint. And in one of the first visible signs that there will indeed be life after coronavirus, I am completely taken aback by the expansion of the airport check-in area and departure lounge. The place has doubled in size since I was here last and the check-in area especially, exudes an understated yet opulent style.
Equally surprising is the fact that my flight boards and takes off right on schedule.
The same level of opulence does not extend to the domestic arrival hall at Soekarno-Hatta Airport in Jakarta, which has been in need of an upgrade for years. It is a full 20 minute wait before the baggage carousel bursts into life and begins to relinquish the personal belongings of the assembled throng.
The taxi rank outside the domestic terminal in Jakarta is not as chaotic as the scene that once greeted passengers on arrival in Bali but it is equally as treacherous a place to try and negotiate safe and reasonably priced passage to your onward destination.
The treachery begins within the arrival hall, just beyond the customs checkpoint, with uniformed representatives of nameless travel companies ready to fleece the unwary traveller.
Expect to be charged a minimum four to five times the price of a normal cab fare here.
There is an official booking desk about 20 metres to the left of the main exit but it is not well signed and a barrage of touts are all actively working to ensure you never reach it. The last time I was here, I told all-comers I was going to the international terminal and was going to walk. Once I was no longer being harassed, I stopped for a cigarette so I could get my bearings. It was here that I saw a uniformed women coordinating activities between the taxi rank and the official desk.
I was told the minimum fare was 100,000 rupiah, or about ten Australian dollars and that would be the best price I would get for the short trip to the International Terminal.
Armed with that information, I allow myself to be led to the right of the main exit on this occasion, where a number of drivers are ready to whisk me away. I strenuously object when asked for 250,000 rupiah and tell them the price I paid just last month (last year, in fact). They laugh and tell me 250,000 is the minimum fare but quickly drop the price to 50,000 for the tout and 150,000 for the driver as I light up a cigarette and start to move away. I eventually agree to this, given that it is simpler to accept that the price probably has gone up since I was last here, than haggle anew with the next tout for a potentially miserly saving.
The transactional side taken care of, the driver turns out to be a delightful, chatty Sumatran who moved to Jakarta 30 years ago for work. I end up tipping him 50,000 rupiah for his service.
There are no queues at the Singapore Airlines check-in counter and the customer service officer quickly ticks off my entry documentation and issues boarding passes for the two remaining legs of my flight.
I am through the customs and immigration checkpoints a short time later and have an hour and a half to kill before my flight.
There is a café open just beyond the immigration area at departure gate number nine which has a smoking room nearby. This, conveniently, was my departure point last year but this evening I will be boarding from the far end of the terminal. I decide to walk to the departure area now and hopefully find somewhere to smoke and eat there.
It is a full, fifteen-minute walk to the departure gate where I am dismayed to find no cafes and no smoking area.
There is nothing more to be done than turn around and head straight back to departure gate nine.
There are no travelators operating on the return journey and my back is beginning to ache from the weight of my daypack. I find I can manage it easily enough from on top of my small, four-wheel suitcase and wonder why I didn’t make the switch sooner. It is a fact that I am a once-agile traveller, now steadily succumbing to the vagaries of age.
On reaching gate nine I make short work of a toasted ham and cheese sandwich and discover I am allowed to take my beer with me to the smoking room. After two small Bintang and at least as many cigarettes, I am all but ready to return once again, to the departure gate at the far end of the terminal.
The Singapore Airlines Jakarta to Changi flight is as luxurious as I remember it being last year, with free movies, plenty of legroom and complimentary red and white wine to go with dinner. The ticket price was only slightly less expensive than the $200 I paid to fly Singapore to Melbourne with budget carrier, Scoot, but worth every last cent.
Two things strike me as I reach the transit terminal at Changi International Airport. Firstly, gone are the socially-distanced queues, document checkers and designated holding areas of twelve months prior. It’s as if the authorities here have decided if you’re not venturing out into the city-state they don’t want to know about you. Pandemic or no, it’s an exceedingly un-Singapore like response.
The second thing that strikes me is there are people everywhere. Few westerners, mostly Asian but it is as if some invisible force in the universe is already in play, pushing us all towards a post-pandemic future, regardless of whether we are ready for it or not.
I have arrived in terminal two just on midnight and it is evident I am free to make my own way to terminal three to await my departing flight.
The terminal shuttle is nearby and operating, which it wasn’t last year, so I make the short trip to T3. I have an eight hour layover and am planning, as I did last year, to book into the one of the transit hotels for a few hours sleep before my flight. This time though, I didn’t book ahead and am disappointed to discover that tonight, the hotel is already fully booked. There is another hotel – back where I started in terminal two and it is suggested that I might try there. I’d really like a cigarette but I need to get this sorted so head straight back to the shuttle.
The hotel in terminal two is also fully booked but I’m told there is a premium lounge available nearby which charges an hourly rate that includes meals, shower facilities and club chairs, hopefully comfortable enough to get a couple of hours sleep. The hourly rate is reasonable but there is no smoking area so I determine to return to terminal three and see if I can find a comfortable area close to a smoking room.
The smoking area is a long walk from the shuttle drop off point and with all the to-ing and fro-ing, my lower back is now quite sore. I am expecting to find an outdoor area but when I eventually arrive, it is a small, poorly-ventilated room with a dozen or so fellow nicotine-tragics, all indulging their craving. A coronavirus spreader point if ever there was one.
It is only now that I remember there is an open-air smoker’s terrace back in terminal two and that is where I will clearly need to base myself pre-flight. So back to terminal two it is, hoisting my suitcase and daypack up the stairs to the designated rooftop area where I am able to enjoy a cigarette in the warm night air, watching a steady stream of international flights touch down and take off from a nearby tarmac.
The executive lounge is conveniently located nearby so I book a 6 hour stint and prepare to settle in for the night. The club chairs are comfortable enough, though getting to sleep is going to be a challenge. I can sit up with my travel pillow behind my back and get some welcome relief but to sleep I need to stretch out and use the pillow on the back of the chair which will leave my aching lumbar region unsupported. I decide that now will be a good time to take a shower and once done, I wrap my old clothes up in a small bag which I am then able to fashion into some form of back support. I nod off once or twice in the ensuing hours but it’s not what you would call restful sleep.
Around 5am I leave my belongings in the executive lounge and wander over to the smoker’s area. The international arrivals and departures have continued throughout the night. I strike up a conversation with a South African man about my age who complains about the heat. He’s on his way to Perth, Australia, to recommence a relationship with a woman he met just prior to the pandemic. We all have a coronavirus tale to tell and his has come to the point of a new beginning. A hopeful flicker of light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I can only wish him all the best.
Back in the executive lounge, I order a plate of chicken and rice and make myself a cup of tea. I’m feeling tired and restless but it’s only a couple of hours now until my flight. At 6am there is a mass exodus from the lounge area and I am able to stretch myself out in a newly vacated booth seat. I fall straight to sleep but am thankfully, woken around 7am by cleaners. I collect my things and start to make my way back to terminal 3. I stop off in Duty Free to pick up a litre bottle of Ron Zacapa’s excellent 23 year old Guatemalan Rum, which I discovered many years ago and which is still about $30 a bottle cheaper at Changi than anywhere else I have found it.
As I wait to board, the health app on my phone tells me I have walked an impressive 10 kilometres between Jakarta and Changi Airports. That’s more exercise than I’ve done in a while.
A few days before departure, I was offered a chance to bid on a premium seat for the Scoot Airlines flight from Singapore to Melbourne. I bid the minimum amount of $200 Australian dollars and it will be no surprise to learn they took my money. It turns out to be a very good decision. The leather seats are soft and comfortable and come with a fold out leg rest. As soon as we are airborne I set the recliner as far back as it will go and don’t wake until we are an hour out of Melbourne.
Now that’s the only way to fly.