"Kopi," Randy says to the flight attendant, then reconsiders, remembering that he is in steerage this time, and getting to a toilet might not be so easy. It’s just a little Malaysian Air 757. The flight attendant sees the indecision on his face and wavers. Her face is framed in a gaudy, vaguely Islamic scarf that is the most tokenistic nod to sexual modesty he has ever seen. "Kopi nyahkafeina ," Randy says, and she beams and pours from the orange carafe. It is not that she doesn’t speak English, just that Randy is starting to feel comfortable with the local pidgin. He realizes that this is the first step in a long process that will eventually turn him into one of these cheerful, burly, sunburned expats who infest the airport bars and Shangri-La hotels of the Rim.