We arrived last night. The aircraft pulls up to the dimly lit terminal. I am welcomed by a heavy coat of humidity mixed with the stiff resistance of a trade wind. Shivan sees me and we exchange a subtle nod as we make our way up the jetway.
We walk down a long hallway exposed to the wind and heat of the outside which leads to a hot empty room with a line for immigration processing. The walls are painted in a bright yet dull yellow. My ears are fill with a mixture of sounds coming from tongues that are familiar yet I do not understand. The line slowly wind around till I can walk to the customs agent. I hand him my passport and immigration card as we give a routine yet empty glance. He says nothing as he stamps several things in percussive succession. Finally he hands back my passport with half of the immigration card and casually says “give this back when you leave.”
We leave the hot, stuffy confines to the outside which greets us again with a strong breeze, yet no relief from the heat. Walking along the passenger pickup area a man approaches us with a single broken word in English, “taxi?” Shivan and I share a glance before reluctantly getting in. The driver slides the door shut with a brisk slam. In the quiet I remark to Shivan, “this is how we die.”