Travel broadens the mind—so they say. But I had some difficulty thinking expansively on the plane home just after Easter. The season should have filled me with new thought that springeth green. But the lithe young fellow next me was thinking different territorial imperatives—his. So as his biceps shoved me off the armrests during the flight and his person shoved me out of way as soon as we landed, I found myself biting my tongue instead of smiling with reconciliatory goodwill.
When I bite my tongue I compensate the small gods of psychological necessity by breathing strenuously though my nose—it's a habit picked up from my Presbyterian father. But the lithe fellow couldn't hear my coded, suppressed fury because he was communing with his mobile the minute the wheels hit the tarmac. And as he disappeared up the aisle, thrusting a few more passengers into his wake, I was left with the bitter aftertaste of an opportunity lost. No human exchange—not even a mute smile—had come of our chance hour together.
The news I'd been reading (with difficulty, given the squash) in the Canberra Times provided on the plane was mostly of Alan Jones and the Australian Communications and Media Authority's findings on Jones' contributions to enlightenment during last year's Cronulla riots.
Acres of newsprint have already been devoted to the issue so I won't rehearse it here, except to say that Jones' reflexes on air were not unlike those of my aggressive travelling companion: assertive and territorial. A 'power of one' he may be, but Jones also makes a powerful appeal to the tribal in all of us.
When we retreat into the tribe we lose the chance to experience of the kindness of strangers.
After the miserable flight a kindly Punjabi taxi-driver took me home. We didn't have much language in common but it didn't matter. There was enough to exchange some road gossip—Punjabis are regular drivers in my neck of the woods, so we share a territory. Before Easter one Punjabi driver showed me where the speed cameras were on the Western Ring Road, so after Easter I reciprocated with first-hand experience of the streets and underpasses where police camera cars lurk. It turned out that we'd both been booked on the same downhill trap. Shared adversity is a great obliterator of difference.
My cabbie had a long spade beard and a black turban. The wary might