Picture this: you and your buddies, all set for a leisurely flight to Kathmandu, where snow peaked mountains await. Excitement filled the air literally, until the air's filled with something else entirely.
As the seatbelt sign dimmed, we settled in.
But fate had other plans, in the form of a fellow traveler whose digestive system seemed intent on redefining the meaning of turbulence.
As the first waft hit, we exchanged wide-eyed glances of disbelief. Was this a test of our friendship? A survival challenge at 30,000 feet? More importantly, are human beings capable of such intensity?
At first, it was subtle—a faint whiff here, a suspicious glance there. But as the minutes ticked by, the cabin air became increasingly dense with the unmistakable scent of trouble. We exchanged nervous glances, attempting to pinpoint the source of the olfactory onslaught. Waving frantically, we dubbed ourselves the Fart-Fighting Squad and dove into action. My black hoodie came to the rescue. We grabbed a corner each of the hoodie and folded the fabric over three suffering noses, fashioning ourselves as the intrepid Gasping Gang, the defenders of our nasal integrity.
In between we also adopted the "breathe through your mouth" technique, which, while effective in filtering out the odiferous onslaught, left us tasting airplane air.
All this while, the culprit remained anonymous.
There were three seated directly in front of us. One was our buddy, the youngest in our group. He was crying being the first recipient of the waft. The other two; an elderly lady who seemed to be completely unaffected by all this and working on her script on a play in Russian. Her younger compatriot who had a blackout eye mask and seemed asleep. He was suspect number one in our list. Or was it the old lady who seemed busy writing who may have had two outputs; one creative and the other for remission?
As the flight hovered above Kathmandu skies, the Pilot announced that the landing strip was hidden behind a thick cloud cover and we had to circle the skies until it cleared. We looked at each other and winced. Guess what; it took another 90 minutes of circling and more of chemical warfare until the skies cleared.
But in the end, we emerged, traumatized but united by a shared ordeal and with a newfound appreciation for air circulation. The flatulent fiasco became the stuff of legend among our group, forever immortalized in our travel anecdotes as the day we conquered the skies — and the smell.
So, to all future passengers: buckle up, breathe easy, and may the winds be ever in your favor. And remember, in the battle against flatulence, solidarity is your best weapon. Or a thick black hoodie.
Footnote: I had paid extra for that particular seat 🥹
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