The First Step of a Thousand Miles (Part-2)

 

 Part II

The flight was still three hours away from departure, and I found myself lost in deep thoughts as I leaned back in my chair. Memories of home, the fleeting moments of life, and the uncertainty of when or how I would return consumed me. But I reminded myself to stay positive—everything would work out, I thought.

After a while, I got up from my seat and bought a coffee from a shop in the lounge to help me relax. Time moved on, and finally, the announcement was made for passengers to board the plane. I stepped onto the aircraft when my number was called.

Our simplicity back then was such that I didn’t even realize the flight to Tokyo had a stopover in Bangkok. We had two tickets: one from Karachi to Bangkok and another from Bangkok to Tokyo. I had assumed we’d have to disembark in Bangkok, as Salim had mentioned meeting Akbar there.

The flight took around four and a half hours, and we landed in Bangkok. Following Salim's instructions, I approached the immigration counter and handed over my passport. Not having a visa for Bangkok, the immigration officer questioned why I wanted to stay there when I had a direct ticket to Tokyo. I nervously claimed I wasn’t feeling well. After some back-and-forth and paying a visa fee, I was granted a one-month visa.

The first problem arose when I realized my luggage wasn’t taken off the plane—it had been sent directly to Tokyo. I was left with only a briefcase containing a leather jacket, gloves, and essential documents for entering Japan.

Clearing immigration, I exchanged some dollars for local currency to avoid potential issues and headed to the taxi stand. I gave the driver an address: "Sunny Kant, Mama Guest House." The conversation was in broken English, as neither of us spoke it fluently.

On the way, the driver showed me pictures of different clubs, trying to earn a commission by suggesting I visit them. I firmly declined, insisting he take me to the given address. Although I wore a mask of confidence, fear lingered inside me. Bangkok was a foreign city, and I was utterly alone.

After an hour’s drive, the taxi stopped. "This is Sunny Kant," the driver said. I paid the fare and stepped out with my briefcase.

Now came the challenge of finding Mama Guest House and meeting Akbar. Hunger gnawed at me, and the unfamiliar smell of street food in Bangkok made me uneasy. Nearby, I spotted a small eatery with an older man sporting a white beard. I asked him about halal food, and he assured me it was available. I ate some minced meat and bread, which eased my hunger but not my worries.

After eating, I asked the man about Akbar. He explained that "Mama Guest House" was a common name in the area, making it difficult to find the exact location. He also advised me to guard my passport and dollars carefully. His words reminded me of my sister, who had sewn a secret pocket into my undershirt. I tucked my passport and money into it, feeling a strange sense of security.

The man offered to send a young boy to help me search. Together, we went around looking for the right guest house. After many attempts, we found someone familiar—a man named Ashraf, who I had briefly met at the agency with Salim. Ashraf informed me that Akbar was staying in another room at the same guest house but wouldn’t return until late at night.

When Akbar finally arrived that night, he was intoxicated and unable to communicate. It wasn’t until the next morning, when he sobered up, that I explained Salim had sent me and I intended to go to Japan. Akbar asked to see my ticket, and after examining it, he said, “Your ticket to Tokyo has already been used. You’ll need a new one. Or you can return to Pakistan and use your remaining money to buy goods to sell back home to recover your loss.”

I firmly responded, “No. I’ve set out to go to Japan, and I won’t turn back.”

Akbar further warned that visa-free entry would end on January 1st, just two days later, and that all travelers from countries like India, Pakistan, and Bangladesh were being deported without exception. This news was alarming, but I resolved to continue my journey no matter what.

The next step was to visit the Thai Airways office at the airport to sort out my ticket. I explained to the staff that I couldn’t board the earlier flight due to illness. After checking their system, they provided me with a document stating that the next available flight to Tokyo was at 7 AM the following morning. Missing that flight would mean buying a new ticket.

I thanked Allah for this opportunity and returned to the hotel. By now, exhaustion and hunger were taking their toll, but I was determined to catch the morning flight. Akbar provided two addresses—one in Tokyo and another in Sagamihara—written in Urdu to avoid suspicion.

At 4 AM, I left for the airport. Weak from hunger, I felt nauseous during the taxi ride. The driver misunderstood, thinking I was hungover from a night of heavy drinking. He had no idea about the storm raging inside me.

At the airport, I obtained my boarding pass and boarded the plane. The six-hour direct flight to Tokyo offered little in terms of food, so I made do with biscuits and juice.

Finally, the flight landed at Narita Airport in Tokyo. Thoughts raced through my mind. Today was the last day for visa-free entry, and I’d heard rumors of mass deportations for travelers from my region. I silently prayed for things to go smoothly.

At immigration, there were two lines. One long queue comprised mostly South Asians, while a shorter one seemed reserved for Westerners. Unintentionally, I joined the shorter queue, missing the signs above. It wasn’t until I handed my passport to the officer that my heart began to race.

What did the immigration officer say? Was I allowed entry, or was I turned away? To find out what happened next, don’t miss Part III of this journey—a story of persistence, courage, and faith against all odds.