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oekarno-Hatta International Airport, 6 a.m., Monday.

I entered the check-in counter and found almost an empty hall.

'€œWhere is everybody?'€ I wondered. I felt uneasy. I grabbed my ticket from my bag and read it carefully. I had made a mistake '€” a stupid one. SQ951E departed at 6:15 a.m. from Jakarta.

I ran to the Singapore Airlines (SQ) check-in counter.

'€œSorry, pak, you are late. We just finished boarding,'€ said the lady after checking my ticket.

'€œPlease, let me in!'€ I begged. The airline, however, is a perfect reflection of Singaporean culture: There'€™s no mercy for mistakes.

I asked about the next flight. '€œAll flights to Singapore are full today,'€ she replied after checking her computer.

'€œUnfortunately, all flights from Singapore to Manila are also fully-booked up to Wednesday evening. If you wish, I can put you on Thursday'€™s flight.'€ No way, my workshop would end on Thursday.

After cursing myself for a few minutes, I went to the nearest prayer room. That'€™s the only solution. I would try my luck with God. I started to pray.

Ninety minutes later, I heard my name was called from the loudspeaker. I got up from the prayer mat and rushed into the counter.

'€œSir, you are lucky. You got a seat. We can check you in for the next flight. But, we can'€™t guarantee your seat for the connecting flight to Manila.'€

I received my boarding pass with joy. I never imagined that a prayer from an ordinary man like me would be granted as easily as someone can prepare some Indomie.

Changi International Airport, mid-day.

'€œYou are on the waiting list, No. 17, sir,'€ said the gentleman at the SQ counter.

Realizing that people in Singapore were very disciplined, I knew that everyone would likely be on time, with little chance for no-shows.

Now what?

I rushed into the small silent prayer room in this huge airport, repeating what I did in Jakarta! Mantras and prayers were spelled out, slowly, passionately, for almost an hour.

'€œYou are lucky. There are groups of passengers who didn'€™t show up. Now, please hurry to the gate,'€ the same official told me when I reported to his desk.

I was the last person to get on the plane. I never felt so good.

I slept a few hours before a stewardess woke me and gave me an immigration card to be filled out. I grabbed my pen, wrote my name, passport number and address in the Philippines. I tried to remember my flight number, but failed. So I opened my backpack to find my boarding pass.

I couldn'€™t find my passport.

I was terrified. '€œThis is absurd. IMPOSSIBLE!!'€

Ninoy Aquino International Airport, late afternoon.

When I exited the flight, I saw a young man holding a card with my name.

He greeted me as I approached.

'€œSir, you dropped your passport at Changi. But you were lucky, someone found it. SQ'€™s evening flight will bring it. For the time being, please stay around as you can'€™t pass immigration.'€

I felt so relieved. Then, I looked around. There were no shops or even a chair, only a closed door with the immigration office signboard.

Getting bored after 30 minutes, I saw someone walk out of the office going to the restroom. He asked me why I was alone. I told him my story.

The official '€” I forgot his name '€” brought me into his office. '€œWe are having a little party today, we just got an award for our service. You are welcome to join. And after all, your name is Hari. It means king in Tagalog. We have to serve you!'€ He laughed as he introduced me to his colleagues, offering me a cold soda and peanuts.

Luck '€” or maybe prayer '€” was my middle name that day.

'€” Hari Kusdaryanto