The Eagle Has Flown

Bustling around the room in his new black T-shirt and jeans, gathering clothes, piling belongings on his bed, Z looks — well, I can only say grown-up.

His shoulders have broadened, lately. He’s grown about an inch over the last couple of days.

And as he packs for his trip to Oz to see his dad, I’m struck by a pang of future loss.

From birth onwards, the hardest and (arguably) most important part of parenting is letting go, allowing your child their independence, allowing them to manage their own risks, and so on.

It’s something we do also as we travel, whether it’s a solo trip to the shop in Bangkok, disappearing off into the wilds with a new friend on a remote island, or making his own arrangements after school in Ubud…

All the same I realise, watching him, that in six years — maybe seven, maybe eight — he’ll be doing this all on his own, for a trip on his own.

Away with friends. Away solo?

Who knows?

But flying free, anywise.

“You know, Mum?” he remarks, proudly. “This will be the FOURTH time I’ve flown unaccompanied minor. And Pacific Blue has Fox, which means Family Guy!”

S has a vigorous schedule of bloke stuff lined up for when Z hits Brisbane. Laser Tag. Gokarting. A theme park or two. A visit to Melbourne to see the cousins…

And Z is duly excited. Primarily about seeing his dad for the first time in three months, but also about the attendant delights.

Me? I’m a bit more ambivalent.

By rights, I should be jumping for joy at the prospect of personal space, the freedom to explore Bali as a solo adult. Either that, of course, or missing my spawn desperately. (Ahem.)

In practice, I’m heading into a maelstrom of work and organisation. I need to offload our motorbike, which hasn’t responded well to our adventures in the Ijen.

Also? Hit a bunch of deadlines.

Plus I need to sort out our travel timetable. Not an onerous task, in the grand scheme of things, but a little more difficult than it sounds.

Variables include:

• I need to sort out a 60-day Chinese visa (best embassy/consulate to be researched)

• the online friends who have offered to host us in Singapore appear to be having (understandable) second thoughts

• H, who lived with us from before Z was born until we left the UK in January last year, has yet to come through with dates to meet up with us in Laos

• the folk who have offered me a blogger press trip to Korea are now saying I can’t bring Z

I, also, need to say farewell to Bali.

We’ve had a good time these last few days, even though Z’s Bali mates are off the island, travelling for the school holidays.

Z’s done a Balinese painting class. We’ve gorged on carpaccio at Tutmak, splurged on English language books at Periplus. And we’ve had a personal tour of Bali Safari Marine Park, a child’s paradise of white tigers, African animals and rollercoasters.

But I’m not ready to leave. Ubud feels, well, homely. The island does, too. We know the roads, the places, the people.

While Z wants to finish with Asia this year and explore Europe next, if it were up to me, I’d be based in Asia for at least a couple more years…

Plus, I miss our little house in the rice fields.

Now, Z hasn’t got his packing *quite* right, of course. He has so little stuff at the moment that I haven’t got him to make a list.

“I think you’re missing some stuff,” I say.

“What?” he says, defensively. “I’ve packed shirts, T-shirts, socks, pants, jeans, shorts and trainers. Plus laptop, cable, books and my painting for Old Man N.”

“You’re going to Australia,” I say. “What do kids wear in Australia?”

“Oh yeah,” he says. “My hat.”

“What else?” I say.

“What?” he says, irritated.

“What might you need if you go swimming?” I say.

“Oh yeah,” he says, rummaging for his swimmers and his rash top.

“Any toiletries?” I say.

“Nah,” he says. “I’ll use one of dad’s toothbrushes. He’s got loads.”

Before we head out to Cafe des Artistes for a farewell dinner of smoked salmon, steak frites and salad, I make a quick work schedule.

It is not convincing. As far as I can tell, I have seven full days worth of work to do, and five days within which to do it.

Not to mention the little matter of selling the bike and changing the resulting gadzillions of rupiah into Singapore dollars.

Oh, and researching the bars I am supposed to review before Z gets into Singapore to meet me.

“You know, Mum,” says Z. “Laser tag is most excellent fun. I think I need to improve my skills a little, though. I died quite quickly the last time.”

I am absolutely certain that Z will like Singapore. It has, amongst other things, a skyline.

With an irony of which I am all too conscious, spending time with primitive peoples, while undoubtedly educational and mind-expanding, has affirmed his fondness for what he defines as “infrastructure and civilisation”.

Me?

I’m sort of meh.

The world’s longest-lasting dictatorship (though the son’s grip may prove less tight than the father’s) Singapore has never been on my bucket list.

I’m expecting it to be expensive, sterile, restricted and dull.

Plus, as we wiggle and zoom our way through the choked traffic of Denpasar, en route to the airport, I realise I’m going to miss our little bike with its skull and crossbones stickers.

Our journey to the airport goes rather more smoothly than our last attempt, not least because I have arranged Z’s eVisitor permit to Australia this time.

His unaccompanied minor escort is a chick, not a guy, which means that I am not allowed airside to see him off.

“I’m going to miss Bali,” I say. “Can you believe this is your last time at this airport?”

“No, Mum,” he says, pragmatically. “I’m sure we’ll be back.”

“Well,” I say. “Love you lots, darling, and I’ll see you in Singapore.”

“Love you too, Mum,” he says.

A quick hug, and he’s away, his little backpack on his back, his Bali Safari Marine Park giftbag in his hand, a stash of emergency US dollars and rupiah in his pocket, and one eye firmly on a 7-hour marathon of Family Guy.

I loiter in Starbucks until he’s airborne, then text S in Brisbane: “The eagle has flown.”