Even black, ominous stormclouds have silver lining
The heavy wave of nausea bearing down on my whole body as I trod across the tarmac at Tokua at 6am this morning can be blamed wholly on State of Origin. Fighting the odds of successfully connecting three consecutive flights in only one day on my way home just over a week ago, albeit very narrowly, on my return I decided to spend a couple of nights with the Leu’s in Bris Vegas and sensibly split the flights. Clearly the State of Origin was at the top of my list (considering I know SO much about rugby...) when booking my return flights and my scheduled 4pm arrival would’ve been ample time to don my new Maroons jersey, sink a few SP’s and get into the spare ribs all three items courtesy Jelta, my recently adopted Chinese/PNG brother from another mother.
But alas, the rugby Gods were against me but very kind in supporting all those Air Nuigini staff who so generously got to ‘knock off early’ to watch the game. What are the chances, hey? Hmph. So I was trucked off to the ‘Gale Hotel’ for a splendid night of one-speed freezing air con (because I hadn’t had enough of the cold in Perth), lumpy pillows and next-room neighbours who decided that because we had to be at the airport at 2am, why bother sleeping? And why bother letting anyone else sleep. Let’s get drunk and sing/shout/screech to the world how much we love the Maroons, I mean the Blues, I mean who won again? I think I’m still drunk... Yes, I believe you are. And if you value your life, please do not sit ANYWHERE within spewing distance from me on the aeroplane. And thanks for the offer of beer for breakfast. So very thoughtful of you.
Lucky the ‘Gale Hotel’ is RIGHT on the freeway and so close to the airport that we arrived rather hastily at 2:30am only to find that the airport was locked. Nope, not an Air Nuigini staff member in sight. Just brilliant. Welcome back to PNG, Liz!! Miss us? Hmm... Let me think about that one.
As is with everything in PNG, proactivity (the fact that Word has so typically not recognised this as a word, has only further compounded my sheer lack of patience or tolerance this afternoon – thanks Mr Gates...) only ever comes with an ominous deadline. So, with 100+ semi-conscious, semi-drunk, semi-delirious, semi-patient (I use ‘semi’ loosely as fully would apply to some of the criteria) passengers trying to get their luggage on the plane, I was surprised to note that we were only 10 minutes late to depart. Not that I actually cared. In learning to draw every piece of silver lining from a cloudy situation, I was overly grateful to be seated in the window seat right behind Business Class next to a bloke who didn’t smell of beer, snore, snort (a favourite PNG pastime), fall asleep on me, want to discuss politics, read an over-sized newspaper or bump elbows with me sharing the arm rest. Sheer bliss. And the drunks were at the back of the plane. I was asleep even before all the passengers were on board and only awoke when the wheels so beautifully touched down at Tokua.
With two litres of duty free alcohol clinking against my supplies of Tahini, Vitawheat and 1kg tin of Milo, I stumbled into the baggage claim area reminiscent of the Broome Airport shed-like structure with scarce security, and waited for Jelta to come rescue me. My bags weighed down also with novels I had enjoyed collecting (with special emphasis on Monday night with two of the most beautiful souls in the world) over my week at home, but now the not-so-enjoyment of lugging them around. And of course, once I had precariously balanced all my bags on my shoulders to make my way to the car park, the security guard appeared and wanted to check whether I deserved those two litres of alcohol. He had messed with the wrong white ‘meri’. He would’ve had to cage-fight me if he thought he’d just made a nice little alcoholic earner.
Attempting to be a square peg with too much luggage trying to fit through a ‘round’ hole of the airport doors, I again found myself savouring the silver lining and being pleasantly surprised to look up and discover that another security guard had sensed the desperation and exhaustion in my eyes and swung both doors open for me. Admittedly I did not recognise him but he certainly knew who I was and greeted me with ‘Welcome home Eli missus’. Sigh.
Bags in hand and bags under the eyes, Jelta whisked me away and dropped me to my dusty but very long-awaited home. Not having to twist my arm to greatly, Jelta then offered bacon and egg muffins with him and his (and now my adopted) cousin (or cuzzy-bro) Navu. The silver lining was heaped on my breakfast plate.
Lesson 15: A simple one. Don’t book flights within 6 hours of State of Origin. Not negotiable.
But alas, the rugby Gods were against me but very kind in supporting all those Air Nuigini staff who so generously got to ‘knock off early’ to watch the game. What are the chances, hey? Hmph. So I was trucked off to the ‘Gale Hotel’ for a splendid night of one-speed freezing air con (because I hadn’t had enough of the cold in Perth), lumpy pillows and next-room neighbours who decided that because we had to be at the airport at 2am, why bother sleeping? And why bother letting anyone else sleep. Let’s get drunk and sing/shout/screech to the world how much we love the Maroons, I mean the Blues, I mean who won again? I think I’m still drunk... Yes, I believe you are. And if you value your life, please do not sit ANYWHERE within spewing distance from me on the aeroplane. And thanks for the offer of beer for breakfast. So very thoughtful of you.
Lucky the ‘Gale Hotel’ is RIGHT on the freeway and so close to the airport that we arrived rather hastily at 2:30am only to find that the airport was locked. Nope, not an Air Nuigini staff member in sight. Just brilliant. Welcome back to PNG, Liz!! Miss us? Hmm... Let me think about that one.
As is with everything in PNG, proactivity (the fact that Word has so typically not recognised this as a word, has only further compounded my sheer lack of patience or tolerance this afternoon – thanks Mr Gates...) only ever comes with an ominous deadline. So, with 100+ semi-conscious, semi-drunk, semi-delirious, semi-patient (I use ‘semi’ loosely as fully would apply to some of the criteria) passengers trying to get their luggage on the plane, I was surprised to note that we were only 10 minutes late to depart. Not that I actually cared. In learning to draw every piece of silver lining from a cloudy situation, I was overly grateful to be seated in the window seat right behind Business Class next to a bloke who didn’t smell of beer, snore, snort (a favourite PNG pastime), fall asleep on me, want to discuss politics, read an over-sized newspaper or bump elbows with me sharing the arm rest. Sheer bliss. And the drunks were at the back of the plane. I was asleep even before all the passengers were on board and only awoke when the wheels so beautifully touched down at Tokua.
With two litres of duty free alcohol clinking against my supplies of Tahini, Vitawheat and 1kg tin of Milo, I stumbled into the baggage claim area reminiscent of the Broome Airport shed-like structure with scarce security, and waited for Jelta to come rescue me. My bags weighed down also with novels I had enjoyed collecting (with special emphasis on Monday night with two of the most beautiful souls in the world) over my week at home, but now the not-so-enjoyment of lugging them around. And of course, once I had precariously balanced all my bags on my shoulders to make my way to the car park, the security guard appeared and wanted to check whether I deserved those two litres of alcohol. He had messed with the wrong white ‘meri’. He would’ve had to cage-fight me if he thought he’d just made a nice little alcoholic earner.
Attempting to be a square peg with too much luggage trying to fit through a ‘round’ hole of the airport doors, I again found myself savouring the silver lining and being pleasantly surprised to look up and discover that another security guard had sensed the desperation and exhaustion in my eyes and swung both doors open for me. Admittedly I did not recognise him but he certainly knew who I was and greeted me with ‘Welcome home Eli missus’. Sigh.
Bags in hand and bags under the eyes, Jelta whisked me away and dropped me to my dusty but very long-awaited home. Not having to twist my arm to greatly, Jelta then offered bacon and egg muffins with him and his (and now my adopted) cousin (or cuzzy-bro) Navu. The silver lining was heaped on my breakfast plate.
Lesson 15: A simple one. Don’t book flights within 6 hours of State of Origin. Not negotiable.
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