Open Writing

We country hicks/cousins in New Zealand often cross the Ditch or Tasman to visit our up-market, high flying cousins in OZ. At least the Australians like to think we are a step behind them, in our sensible shoes and well cut clothing which are “made to last,” rather than their “boutique type” stuff. We may be a bit slower but that is because we like to weigh up the facts before we make decisions, and get value for money. We are not as Americanised as the Australians. we are more English in our outlook, at least those from South Island are.

Anyway, once a year, we make our pilgrimage across the Ditch, not to “shop till we drop,” as the adverts for cheap flights say, but to head for warmer climes in the winter, as birds do, and to catch up with our daughter and grandchildren.

So here we are at Dunedin airport. We have stood in a long check-in queue, had our baggage weighed and invariably labelled heavy, and been asked all the usual stupid questions such as, “What did your aunt Mary die of? Do you belong to Al Q’aeda? And, have you packed your own cases?” All that out of the way, departure tax paid and duty free whisky bought, forms filled in etc, we take refuge in the cafeteria and wait for the call to the departure lounge.

“All those on flight 730 Freedom Air to Sydney please pass through security and proceed to the departure lounge.” It’s the sort of sound you used to hear in British railway stations and, had you not been expecting it, would probably not have realised it was your boarding call.

You put your passport and departure forms down in front of the uniformed official. He looks at a photo which bears no resemblance to you and busily taps his computer. Perhaps the computer has a better picture. Next comes the x-ray machine. All your private possessions in your handbag are on view to all. You see your bag put on one side. Help. I forgot to put my manicure set in the big case and they think I am going to attack the captain with a nail file and a pair of scissors.

We walk through the x-ray gate and as usual my husband's back implant sets off all the alarms. He is detained until he produces his doctor’s note and shows his scars to prove he isn’t carrying a bomb. Meanwhile I empty my bag onto a table, my manicure set is taken from me, medicines are checked to ensure they have been prescribed and not meant for the drug trade and finally, when they are satisfied that we are not about to highjack the plane, we are allowed to enter the departure lounge.

There you sit and sit, watching planes take off and land, until eventually your boarding call comes. “All those in rows J to X may now board.” We are in D so we sit still for a bit longer. At last, our baggage stored in the overhead locker, we sink into seats which allow your knees to jam against the one in front of you. Oh the joys of charter flights, but, as I remember, the long haul ones to Britain are not much better.

“Stewards please ensure all doors are closed and secured,” says a disembodied voice from the cockpit. Sorry, it is called “the flight deck” now-a-days. “Fasten all seat belts.” You are already belted up. “Stow all hand luggage not in the overhead compartments under the seat in front of you.” You should be so lucky, you can only just get your feet under it. “The cabin crew will now go through the safety procedures in case of an emergency, please listen carefully and read the card in the pocket in front of you.” You have heard it all a thousand times before but dutifully do as you are told. Should you perchance come down in the “drink,” do you think for one moment that you will remember to stick your head between your knees, even if there was room for it, and how on earth will you get your life jacket from under your seat, let alone fight for your oxygen mask “Don’t panic, don’t panic,” as Corporal Jones would say. In my opinion, you are up there and, if the Good Lord intends, you will land safely at the other end, otherwise there is going to be a big splash and you will get wet.

All this time you have been taxiing out to the runway and waiting for your turn to take off, then it is “up, up and away.” You bank over Dunedin harbour and head out over the Tairei plain with its toy farms far below. “Never knew they had a swimming pool.” You follow the river out to the dam at Cromwell and then you start to rise over the snow clad Alps, as you approach Queenstown. What a magnificent country. All the Australians will be heading this way for the snow and skiing, while we of more mature years and skiing head for the sun.

The land ends and ahead is three hours of Tasman Sea. You fiddle with the stuff in the pocket in front of you. Oh great, a book. You flick through, find the nine differences in the pictures in the children’s section, do the dot to dot, complete the word finder and wonder at the simplicity of the adult’s crossword. You know you should have brought a book but it was only something else to carry. “Oh goody, here comes the drinks trolley.” Being a charter flight nothing is free except water. You have had the sense to pack a couple of sandwiches with your favourite filling and a pottle of yoghourt, that plus a small bottle of chardonnay, one and a half glasses, and a cardboard cup of indifferent coffee, will see you right until Sydney. It passes the time but the only trouble is you are trapped by your tray table and you need the loo. There is no escape until the stewardess arrives to remove the debris.

Hoorah! But everyone has the same idea. You can either stand in a line blocking the aisle or you can wait until the green light indicates that the loos are free. Which ever way you can always guarantee that, when your turn comes, you hit turbulence and you have to hang onto everything in sight while the “return to seat” light comes on at an impossible time for you.

“We will be approaching Sydney airport in fifteen minutes, make sure your seat is in the upright position, fasten safety belts and stow away tray tables, thank you for flying with us.” You bank over Sydney. There is the harbour below you, sparkling blue, the opera house like a great sailing ship, the bridge, more affectionately known as “the coat hanger,” and of course the skyscrapers and Centre Point tower.

Excitement mounts, but you have a few things to go through yet. You land and taxi up to the gate but before they open the doors you are sprayed to make sure any bugs travelling with you are killed. Then, once again, it is off through customs. “Anything to declare,” x-rays, bags opened if they have seen anything on the screens, and this means big bags not hand luggage, and all food, including your uneaten Mars bar which says “made in Australia” on the wrapper, dumped, while the “sniffer dogs” wander round you and your possessions.

Finally they let you out, like the opening of prison doors, and the warm air of Australia hits you. A taxi whisks you off, through traffic, worse than London at rush hour, usually driven by someone from the Lebanon or Greece, who doesn’t speak English and, with a sigh of relief, you reach your hotel. A good night's sleep and tomorrow Port Stephens, our home for the winter. Welcome to Australia and our friendly rivals the Australians.

(But just one serious sentence. The precautions against terrorism taken by Customs, in this day and age, are more than justified as are those which try to prevent the introduction of unwanted flora and fauna, which could play havoc with the country’s economy, so the extra wait in the queues should not be grudged.)