The caravanserai (Malaysia)

Some years back, I hitchhiked from Yinchuan, in China’s Ningxia province, to the border of Inner Mongolia. The borderland was wilderness, and crumbling ruins of a wall (part of the series of walls that make up the Great Wall). There were no tourists there, hardly any traffic, and the land was all mine to wander.

I thought about all the people in the ancient days who had traveled through here along the Silk Routes. There must have been a caravanserai where the caravans going in different directions rested for the night. I wish I could go back in time to listen to the stories told by all those Persians, Koreans, Chinese, Sogadians and half a dozen other nationalities that no longer exist.

These days, the nearest I can get to that experience is the huddle spaces that I find at airports —around power plugs and outside lounges that have easily guessable Wi-Fi passwords. Like this morning at Kuala Lumpur’s budget terminal.

In such places, strangers share chargers, Wi-Fi passwords, and tips about each other’s destinations. Momentarily, like those intrepid people in a caravanserai, we become friends irrespective of our nationalities.  More so when our phones are entirely out of power, and there is nothing much to do.  Sometimes there is a little awkwardness, if we discover that we are from countries that are in conflict, but this is immediately blamed on the selfish politicians and the banter continues.