Another piece of Poultry...

The Great Departure Procedures and Applications For Translocation To Another Planet Waiting Room is swarming with aliens of all sorts. Shapes and skins of differing textures and colours, some smelling strongly of animal products, species that differ in all ways from me but one, crowd The Waiting Room. The babble of voices speaking assorted tongues surrounds me, a cacophony of sound that hurts my auditory senses and I wonder what has brought them all here.I am returning to the planet of my forefathers so that I might in some small insignificant way complete the great cosmic circle and I am here at this hallowed place to get permission to cross the galaxy.

My choice to leave the home planet for galaxies new is both thrilling and terrifying. I am sure I will embrace it and everything it has to offer passionately… or I’ll give up and return beaten and cowed. The decision to go is not made easily and I foresee difficult times ahead. It’s not possible to simply wake up one morning and decide, “Hmm, today I think I’ll migrate across the solar system and try out life on another planet.”

No, it is a decision that requires planning and preparation and not a little courage. Despite the difficulties that are sure to ensue, I believe it is possible to survive in that distant place. Many have and I have feasted on their tales of splendour about the fields of green grass and the rivers of flowing honey that have crossed the stratosphere to enthral and excite those of us with a spirit for adventure…or those of us that need to run away from something. Of all the things I fear as I set about putting into place my departure that which I fear most is this, that not all the natives are friendly.

Despite the careful preparations, I’m nervous. I’ve done all the legwork. I’ve religiously saved my hard earned wages, sold my homestead, transportation, animals and regrettably my mother-in-law to raise the required millions that I need to make my application. And fortified with the juice of the Naar Tjie, I finally take that all important step and head off to wait in the queue for hours and hours from the dim dawn light till the Seventh Sun turns the little hard metal seats in The Great Departure Procedures and Applications For Translocation To Another Planet Waiting Room into something closely resembling a griddle pan for my numb posterior.

I arrive what I think is very early, only to find a raggle taggle line of cross looking prospective travellers already waiting. They are strewn across the dusty floor in various states of consciousness, some are reading, some are staring vacantly into space dreaming of the new life to come, some are attached to small pods blasting a mixture of beats, rhythms and harmony into their auditory canals. All have an anxious crease between their eyebrows or in the case of the Great Lummox of Boschbergenstein, triplet of unibrows.

Although the doors do not open for at least another four rotations of the Sixth Moon, the queue continues to grow and each arrival has heard the horror stories of being turned away to return only when the next solstice occurs, because the quota for the day had already been let inside and even though there are only two individuals in the line ahead of me, I remember with churning stomachs, that my friend’s relative’s great aunt’s cousin’s brother’s niece’s boyfriend had already been waiting for four and a quarter hours when the doors had firmly closed in his face and he had been advised to try again the next time the moon cast its shadow on the Halls of Montezuma.

Interplanetary travel is no joking matter and one needs fortitude, resolve and a large bladder.But since I arrived in good time, I am ushered though the glass doors, given a number and instructed to join the row of musical chair playing applicants. One by one, the numbers are called, the anxious looking seekers of freedom move up a chair so the next one who has been propped up against the wall can finally get a seat, and the wait continues. Every now and then a Being bursts into tears and rushes from the room pursued by a sweating partner, and I wonder what went wrong, what piece of the intricate puzzle was in the wrong place, if the Most Secret of all Police have somehow inserted their tentacles into the dream.

Scenes like this do not engender much confidence in me, so I hastily leaf through my documents to make sure I have not missed something. Finally my number is called and I present myself at the gleaming window, hand in my carefully collected documents and supporting evidence, my hopes and dreams neatly packaged on official stationary, and then move along to the cashier to pay for the Interplanetary Wayfarer Document, which might just be refused (and I will not be refunded my money).

Greasy stains from sweaty palms can be seen clearly on the counters in front of me. That nervous churning feeling of butterflies flying out of formation won’t really go away till I actually have the blood coloured Interplanetary Wayfarer Document safely secured in my Green Mamba Cross Galaxy Nomad Permit.

This of course all relies upon my having fulfilled every requirement, exactly and precisely the way the great interplanetary bureaucratic machine requires of me. If every “Ŧ” is not crossed correctly, if every “Ĩ” squiggled is not perfect, if every line is not completed painstakingly and accurately, if I do not have all the necessary permits and treasury statements showing that the requisite amount of treasure has been in my account for some months and is not just a vast amount transferred hastily from a rich uncle in the furniture business to try and fool “them” into thinking that I can indeed afford to live on their planet and which will be just as hastily be transferred back into his account the minute I have boarded the spacecraft, I will be refused Entry. If I cannot show the offer of employment from someone on the New Planet and confirmation of quarters for when I arrive with accompanying letters of proof from prospective providers of said quarters (this includes proof of ownership, recent electro-dynamic induction and distribution bills, letter from a landlord granting permission for incumbent Space Travellers and/or relatives/friends to lodge/squat there till such time as gainful employment is secured) I will be sent away with my tails between my leg.

Finally, bladder bursting (because you are not allowed to leave the hallowed Great Departure Procedures and Applications For Translocation To Another Planet Room once you have graciously been ushered inside) I emerge triumphant, waving the precious document with jubilation.

As soon as my belongings are safely secured in my handkerchief and the handkerchief is safely secured to the end of my golf club, when the parties, the justifications for leaving, the heated debates with those that think I am just one more piece of poultry in the catastrophic inter-galactic chicken run, the insistences that I am doing the right thing and the tearful farewells at the space station are over, I finally board the spacecraft.

Seeing the last glimpse of barren brown planet slowly becoming smaller and smaller below, I feel a mixture of relief that it’s finally happening and aching soul wrenching sadness at leaving everything and everyone familiar behind, a feeling I will certainly continue to experience time after time. And there’s always the small voice at the back of my mind that insists vehemently… “if it doesn’t work out I can always go back”- isn't that why space craft were invented?