Apologies for not writing sooner & for not saying more. More will follow in the not too distant future.
I've JUST managed to get a "working" Internet connection here & then it's completely sporadic. Anarchy rules ;-)
What a bloody day! Leaving NZ proved to be the easy part. Arriving in Ashtraylia, not quite so simple. Clearing customs I hit snag after snag ~ which intrigued me as I was supposedly in-transit. First they “stole” my whisky (Ardbeg) claiming that international flight regulations no longer allowed me to carry duty free booze through to my final destination ~ “It’s over 100mls, mate,” they whined in their inimitable way, “Duty Free in NZ should never have sold it to you, for transit.”
Then they discovered scissors & tweezers in my VSA Emergency Medical Kit. “How’d you get these through mate?” My answer was that it went through the scan in Wellington, no questions asked. “Those bastards are coming over here today to learn how it’s done. Jim, did you get that on video?” Jim did indeed get that on video. My hand luggage was then thoroughly searched.
As was I after triggering their metal detectors with the packet of chewing gum I had inadvertently left in my pocket. Curiously it did NOT pick up the NZ10c that I also left in my pocket ~ I like to think that I got one over them. “Mate, just stand still & let us give you a quick pat down.” After which I was escorted to a small & dirty room, where I was scanned for explosives. I’m bloody glad that I got the metal taken out of my ankle a couple of months ago, otherwise I’m sure they would have been digging a little deeper!
Having repacked my bag, sans anything bright & shiney that the fucking magpies hadn’t nicked, I wandered in a daze through Brisbane Airport. I was suddenly & quite irrationally struck by a hideous thought, I did not have my wallet. The last time I remembered seeing it was as it went through the scan at customs. I stopped where I was & dropped to the floor & unpacked my bags. Nothing! It was not there! Beads of sweat, inspired by terror, coursed down my face & back. I unpacked my bags again. Still nothing. As I repacked & attempted to formulate a plan regarding what I was going to say to Oz Customs (images of them swigging from my whiskey & playing poker with my money raced through my head), I discovered my wallet. In my pocket, exactly where I had left it. The sweat of embarrassment & humiliation stained my armpits.
I was then was paged & instructed to report to a tiny & almost completely hidden desk. This proved to be a mere formality ~ checking me through to Port Moresby. It would have gone a lot smoother if I had NOT mislaid my baggage receipt ~ actually I didn’t mislay it. Immigration in NZ had chastised me for sticking it to my passport (I hadn’t done that either, Air New Zealand was responsible for that little faux pas) & I has put the sticky little barcoded label into my laptop bag with all my other documentation & it had stuck itself (being adhesive) to the inside of a pocket.
I’m fully expecting things to slide further down the track of madness when I enter Port Moresby. In the meantime I have to hang around Brisbane departure lounge for a further 4 hours.
Port Moresby 5pm local time. I stepped off the plane into a wall of heat & wet air. I was physically checked in mid-stride. “Surely this is due to the proximity of large & hot jet engines?” I thought to myself. As I wound further in & down into the airport terminal I discovered this was not the case. It got worse.
I stood in a queue for immigration, the wrong queue. I joined the correct queue, much farther down the line than I would have had I not gotten lost in the maze of tape & bollards. It seemed to got hotter. Sweat was trickling down my back. Sometime later I cleared immigration. The man at the desk did not smile.
I stood around looking at the baggage carousel. It went around, my bag did not appear. I moved to another spot, closer to the beginning, my bag did not appear. I obtained a trolley & put my other bags on it, my bag did not appear. With some not inconsiderable difficulty I manoeuvred my trolley closer still to the beginning, my bag did not appear. It seemed to get hotter. The sweat of fear, embarrassment & anxiety trickled down my back & face. I took my hat off & mopped my brow. It made no difference. My bag appeared. I collected it & stowed it on the trolley. I placed my other bags on the trolley. I discovered that the reason I originally had trouble manoeuvring my trolley was because it had a cunning brake on it that required some thought & coordination.
I entered the queue for customs (nothing to declare). It seemed to get hotter. I left a trail of bodily fluids behind me as I slowly progressed up the queue towards a stern looking man dressed in green paramilitary fatigues. He had large shiny black boots on. I winked at him with an air of false bravado, though it may really have been sweat in my eye. He beamed at me with large white teeth & waved me through. My bags promptly fell off the trolley.
I was assured that I would be met at the airport by a man (presumably) holding a sign for the “Weigh Inn”. He was neither immediately apparent, nor visible upon closer scrutiny of the bevy of “greeters. The sweat of panic trickled into my eyes. “Remain calm,” I said to myself. “Try not to look like a victim.” Outside the terminal the temperature climbed by a number of degrees. I walked up & down the line of shuttles & taxis looking for the one that was supposed to be waiting for me ~ it was not there. Casually I rolled a smoke & cadged a light. I reasoned to myself that now would be a good time to change the SIM card in my phone, I managed this task with trembling hands. My phone did not work; “Network error, connection unavailable”. I was now shaking like a palsied old woman. I felt like a complete train wreck; I hadn’t slept since 3:30 that morning in New Zealand & then only fitfully; I had eaten nothing but airline food all day (Breakfast = a ham & cheese “melt” & coffee (7:30am, Air New Zealand); Lunch = a soggy piece of fish & mashed potato in white sauce & a glass of vinegar (3:30pm, Air Niugini)), my feet were swimming in the excess sweat that had not soaked into my clothing but run down my legs & pooled in my shoes (they now squeaked when I walked). I retreated to the relative cool of the terminal building. In doing so, may bags fell of the trolley again & my jacket got caught under a wheel.
“You look like a victim!” said the large & friendly Australian couple, who were there to pick up a worker for their business. Images of “Wolf Creek” flashed through my head.
“I believe I might be heading down that road. It’s been a very long day,” I replied. Bear in mind that I had effectively “lost” 2 hours; it may have been 5:30pm local time, but in my mind it was 7:30pm in Wellington & I wanted my dinner.
I have foolishly forgotten the names of the kind souls who delivered me to the Weigh Inn, I would have liked to remember them but my mind refused to hang on to useful information. All I recall is that they imported guitars & musical instruments. Shame on me.
I checked in, blessing the air conditioned foyer. I loitered for as long as was reasonably polite, I had nothing to say I just stood there basking in the cool air. Eventually a security guard offered to help me with my bags; I took this as a sign that it was time to go to my room. Two flights of narrow, concrete stairs up & I began to feel the temperature rise again. Down a corridor, turn a corner & I was suddenly confronted with another wall of heat & humidity. My room lay at the end of a narrow walkway, that crossed a roof & the hotel’s secure carpark.
Upon entering my room I discovered that I had an air conditioning unit in. Elation! It wasn’t going & I couldn’t turn it on. Deflation! I settled for a shower ~ a cold shower, under a trickle of water. After my brain had cooled, I towelled off & wandered naked around my room. I couldn’t bear the thought of getting back into clothes. I closed the curtains. I re-examined the air-con & discovered that I had to use my door key to activate. Elation!. I turned it down to an icey 25 degrees & kicked it in the guts. My thoughts then turned to food & liquid. There was a menu & it didn’t look half bad; standard fair but promising. I re-clad myself, opting not to wear my long-sleeved Icebreaker top, but choosing the simple black t-shirt I had on underneath it (it WAS 4 degrees in Wellington when I left).
I took a deep breath & prepared to leave the room. Just before I stepped out I remembered that my key was lodged in the air-con unit & that there’d be no getting back in without looking like a complete cheese-head. I rectified this situation, reluctantly turning off the coolness. I crossed the threshold & was immediately drenched again. Oh well, it must be the same for everybody.
The bar was something out of a bygone age; small, noisy & smoke-filled. It was temporary home to perhaps a dozen fat old men (mostly ex-pat Aussies), about half a dozen not quite so old or fat men & maybe 10 Papuan girls of varying age & attractiveness. It appeared that at least 1 of the old diggers had either died or fallen asleep at the bar.
I purchased a beer & a box of matches, then sidled over to a leaner that was occupied by a trio of ex-pats: Jim, Pete & Max (quite literally the good, the bad & the ugly). Jim opined that it was OK if I borrowed the end of the table as long as I didn’t try to steal it. We all laughed politely, but heartily at the wit of this comment, though in Pete’s case it was a combination of polite & scary. All in all they weren’t bad blokes; Pete was the owner of a roading company, Jim & Max were 2 of his foremen. We chewed the fat about the pros & cons of mining, forestry, sustainability & exploitation.
The Papuan girls milled about trying to attract my attention by flashing me “shy” smiles, that lit up the bar with their incandescence. In truth, some of them (the majority) were utterly beautiful. I was the new kid in town & they were quite determined that I was going pay attention to them & buy many rounds of drinks. I was quite determined I was not going to succumb to their charms, either singularly or collectively.
“Hello. You are new here. Are you staying upstairs tonight?”
“Yes I am, but I am leaving soon”
“Oh, that is a shame. You can stay with me.”
“Thank you but no, I have a plane to catch very early in the morning.”
“Oh, that is a shame.”
“Yes it is”
Perhaps one of the most ridiculous, yet sexually charged, conversations I’ve ever had & I had it, almost verbatim, more times than I care to remember. I wondered to myself if this is what is expected of middle-aged white men. Was I letting the side down? Jim didn’t seem to mind but there was definitely a cooling in attitude of Pete & Max. In fact they left very soon afterwards.
At what seemed like the giddy hour of 9:30pm I realised that I probably had drunk enough beer & that I wasn’t going to order any food, so much to the disappointment of Jim & the girls I left the bar & weaved my way back through the sauna of the world to my room. I set my alarm for 3:30am & promptly fell asleep.
I awoke sometime later & looked at my clock; 23:12 it read. I swore viciously & leapt out of bed, absolutely convinced that I’d slept through both my alarm & missed my plane. I do not, to this day, know where the logic that powered that thought came from. After running around naked & swearing for 5 minutes the truth dawned on me & I rather shamefacedly climbed back into bed for 4.5 more hours.
“Final” check-in was at 4:30am. I awoke bright, but not so fresh. After another cold shower, I dressed & dragged my carcass down to reception. There I discovered that the bill was about K50 more than I was quoted in Wellington. I quibbled. They insisted. The sleepy security guard, who until that point had been flashing big toothy smiles, came to stand beside me. I acquiesced.
The reason I say “Final” is that it’s not true. The airport doesn’t open until 4:30am. I milled around outside with the other plonkers who had been caught in this trap. When it did finally open, I headed for a counter that said Buka. The computers were down, we would have to be checked in manually. I handed over my ticket.
“You are not on this plane.”
“Are you sure? My ticket says that I am.”
“Where is your ticket?”
“I gave it to you.”
“Oh sorry.”
A short pause as the check-in people (both of them) checked the manifest.
“You are Thomas Michael?”
“I am Michael Thomas.”
“We have a booking for Thomas Michael.”
“I am Thomas Michael!”
“OK”
I was learning. Slowly.
I waited in the departure lounge of Port Moresby airport. A mosquito took a more than passing interest in me. I swatted it. I wondered if I’d caught malaria or Denghi fever from it. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I mopped my brow. It made no difference. I bought a fanta from the canteen, even though it had not yet opened. I think I paid more for it than should reasonably be expected. It was pineapple flavour. I hate pineapple.
I returned to my seat. Another mosquito arrived. I swatted it. I read my book. My flight was delayed. At 6am it was called. I walked to where they had parked the plane; approximately 300m from the terminal. Sweat coursed down my face & ran into my eyes. My clothes stuck to me in a most uncomfortable manner. My underpants got quite intimate with me. I adjusted my stride to accommodate them.
I boarded my flight & left the chaos that is Port Moresby behind me. Maybe Buka & Bougainville would be better….
