Flight to Auckland

Background: Piet & Cindy are taking the kids to New Zealand to visit Cindy's parents. It's their first flight as a family. This forms the chapter 'Flight' in the book DLC33.

Let’s not get into tearful farewells (gone for a week!), the joys of dragging children through airport security, a long trek back to the last bathroom (after reaching the gate), & realising that there are so many families on the flight that taking your own child is not necessarily an advantage in boarding order. Worse than that, because we are four in the middle, they’ve split us up to trek down the aisles, & I get the one who is terribly excited about being on a plane, because there are things to touch at every half-step. Kicking him might be seen & reported as child abuse, rather than the gentle encouragement we usually label it.

“If you could just keep moving, Sir?”

A polite suggestion lost on my son. Would they notice if I left him in the overhead locker … in another part of the plane? He’d be happy, I promise, as long as he gets to rip through someone’s carry-on for entertainment.

Headphones. TV. Cartoons. Not even the good Japanese ones. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Cindy’s all for it, but my eagerness is something new to her. We’re blowing the screen-time budget in the flight - & borrowing from the rest of the week, because I won’t be able to watch the news without an interpreter or a cone of silence so that no-one notices I’m laughing. Actually, knowing my luck, I’ll fall madly in love with some unsuspecting newsreader, on the basis that a Kiwi accent is, by definition, sexy. That may not be considered a fair defence if Cindy suspects I’ve got a sudden interest in current events (like who’s lost a sheep).

Cattle class. No champagne. Not even sparkling white wine. At least there’s the small chance of a knife that can cut, if you vigorously saw at your steamed carrot like a boy scout trying to make fire. The worst part is that Cindy & I are on the outside. You don’t want to put the kids on the aisles - one will fall asleep & end up sliding into the path of a drinks trolley, & the other will intentionally stick his leg out to see if he can trip a … flight attendant. Don’t give him any ideas. In the middle, she will fall on him, & he will constantly push back, & that keeps them both awake & amused. We all win. Trust in Allah, but tie your camel. Evie will sleep anywhere. Téo can, as well, & chooses not to.

It’s a shame we can’t see out all that well, although being up in all that Tasman white cloud is a whole new experience worth trying to explain.

“Why’s it white?”

“We’re in the clouds.”

Evie’s eyes have found a whole new level of open.

“Really?”

“We’re that high.”

“No way!” from the other student.

“Trust me, we’re so high that it’s cold outside & hard to breathe.”

“Why is it hard to breathe?”

Oops. There’s the edge of my knowledge. Turning to Cindy doesn’t help, because she’s suddenly decided that she’s asleep. We’re terrible parents.

“We’ll have to ask the Captain when he passes.”

“Will he?”

“Maybe. Just keep your eyes open.”

Cindy half-opened one eye to check how serious I was about stringing him along. It’s harmless. There are no outright lies involved here, we’ll just unfortunately have missed the Captain, or else the trip is so short that he’s not passing through … going to wherever it is at the back of the plane that needs his attention. It happens in every movie, I’m sure. I’m also pretty sure it never happens in life.

Food. It’s a Kiwi airline, so there’s every chance it’s fshnchps. Well … fsh, anyway. Yes? Please? Make me select it.

“The chuckn or the lem?”

She’s lovely. I’m married, but I want to have your lem.

“Hill have the checkin - we ull wool.”

How different is that! It could be a North v South accent, from the glare Cindy got … or is that just breaking protocol by ordering from the wrong aisle? I got an eyebrow raise from each of them.

“What she said - I don’t speak Kiwi,” I explained.

I got a pat on the shoulder! I also got another raised eyebrow from Cindy - it’s the same one, but I can tell it was down in between, resting, waiting for its moment.

Honestly, I’m not staring at her … actually, I don’t even know what she looks like. She’s dressed like a flight attendant. She has hair … & it’s dark. It’s definitely a ‘she’. She’s wearing lipstick. Red, I’m sure. Aside from that, she’s just a body with an accent. 

Actually, she’ll be in her late 20s, not too tall, & anorexic, because that’s the ideal in the hiring criteria for international flights in this part of the world. Let’s face it, if you have to compete with svelte polite eager Thai girls (& boys differentiable only by a tie), you just have to up your game. It’s a cut-throat business. I’ve just discovered that being a passenger with wife & kids is not good for my health, either.

“How’s your chicken?”

“I was looking forward to the lamb.”

“Of course you were.”

Where’s your accent, woman? Am I in trouble?

Should I be looking at the man with the gayest moustache since Freddy graced Wembley? I’ll bet he’s got a cute accent, too. I can tell. It’s luxuriant. I wonder if he uses product? It definitely gets trimmed weekly & combed morning & night. It’s that shade of matte black that I’ve been told is not truly black, but it’s near enough. You could pan for gold with a moustache like that. If he speaks another language, like English, it’s no wonder they hired him.

Oops. I’ve caught his eye.

“Tay? Coofie?”

Téo has looked up, thinking he’d been recognised from his wanted posters.

“Coffee, Ta.”

“No wuckas.”

He switched to Strine! Truly multi-lingual.

Airlines are amazing with the service they provide these days. Except for the coffee. It’s still the worst muck on the planet. Adding milk & sugar … makes it not coffee. Maybe that’s what ‘coofie’ is.

“So, whose ears popped as we took off?”

The kids looked at each other, but only Cindy had her hand up. It surprises me, because I was sure that kids are more susceptible. I just have to yawn or swallow a bit, but I saw Cindy do a fish impression - complete with eye-popping - to try to get back to her comfort zone.

Bubble-gum for Mum.

Suddenly, two other hands are up, along with the corners of Cindy’s mouth. Yes, I forgot to bring this up after the excitement of getting Téo tied into his seat without argument. He wanted to help put things in the overhead, because he can reach by standing on the armrest. Great.

Bubble-gum for all my friends.

It’s also something to take their minds off the fact that we’re dropping out of the sky in a tube of metal, with the intention of turning the engines off before we hit the barrier at the end of the runway, where the crows line up at mealtimes. Have you ever noticed the predominance of crows at the end of airport runways? There has to be a reason. I’d feel far more secure if it was, say, swans (white, of course) - or even pigeons! - to prove that it’s perfectly safe to be hanging around there & nothing ever disturbs their peace in the wetlands that real-estate agents would never have used the word ‘swamp’ to describe.

Though the sun was on my face, I knew the winter wind was biting,

and I could see all of my feathered friends rise up with little trying.

As I watched them sail away, I knew that life could be exciting -

I remember the day when I started writing lyrics for flying.

I could look out over the valley, still my heart would stand in aching;

though they said the view was good, I know the writer's words were lying.

There's a dream up in the sky, and I've no time to spend on waking -

there will always be the night for writing lyrics for flying.

With my head up in the clouds, I hardly know where I am walking;

I can see the world's great richness, but I know that it is dying.

I'll just listen to the birds, ignoring anyone who's talking,

because they're the inspiration for all these lyrics for flying.

I've known the sea song for a long time and listened to each bird,

and for every native spirit of the bush, I know its crying.

There is magic in their music, and so little of it's heard,

and that's why I'm always writing down these lyrics for flying.

Now, any time I look to the sky, I know the song they're singing,

though the chorus is cacophony for all the leads there vying.

There's a harmony in sympathy with everybody winging,

but the one who stands and listens, writing lyrics for flying.

Auckland! We are plummeting towards Auckland. We have left the clouds behind to find that it’s not so easy to escape cloudiness, as such. It’s just Auckland, or New Zealand. The land of the long white cloudy coffee. The land of the ancestors of my family, even if they don’t have citizenship or passports to prove it, & only one of them has been there, & then only once (covering the first half of her life). The land of rugby dominance & netball threats. The place that Bondi calls ‘home’ when it’s feeling wistful towards the end of the morning standing as a bouncer outside every strip-club, with a painted on smile & a good-natured left hook that could knock you into the next suburb. That’s not talking from experience, I’m just extrapolating. I’m sure that Bondi rings his mum every Sunday & says his prayers before bedtime, too. I also don’t mean the whole population of Bondi, because I’m fully aware that there are a fair few Irish backpackers in the mix. They’re behind the bar, usually, skimming drinks & credit cards. They’re rebellious & don’t ring home for months at a time, just in case immigration is tracing their calls & works out that they didn’t actually have an English grandmother, it’s just that they left via Manchester after that little misunderstanding with the local constabulary, so they followed the traditional route of those trying to escape a lifetime in prison & took the option of transportation to the colonies.

This is silly. At least we’re touching down now. The kids have their eyes open wide as we skid along. Cindy’s are closed.

“Chew.”

“Thanks.”

We got all of our bags!

It really shouldn’t be a problem to go from Sydney to Auckland with bags, but I always feel relief when I see the little Irish & Italian ribbons fluttering in the air currents caused by having a baggage claim area in air conditioning, & the bottom of the bag shute being effectively outside.

We joined a line that said “Australian & New Zealand passports” & hoped that was merely a grammatical oversight & we weren’t all required to be dual citizens. Cindy was in front, pushing her reluctant charge. Mine needed pushing because his head kept swivelling around to take it all in - the sheer size of the place, I suspect. Let’s face it, airports are big & complicated & fun for a kid. I’m just glad that his legs hadn’t worked out that his arm is only holding the bag, & it isn’t a leash attached to me.

We got to the front & Cindy gave them her best smile, under the circumstances, which said “I have children, please be nice to me”, & she got back one of those truly cheery NZ faces of someone who loves their job, even if it is just looking down at a passport, stamping it, & handing it back with a smile.

“Good to be home, eh?”

Then he actually looked at the passports. Four. All of them with an Australian coat of arms. No silver fern. No crown. No Maori translation of what to do next.

“Ooh. Long time away, eh?”

That sums it up.

“You could say that, eh?” a lot more thickly than she usually talks.

By thickly, I mean by making her vowels more sparse, so that the consonants clamber over each other to fill in the gaps. I’m letting her do all the talking, because I definitely don’t know the lingo.

Stamp. Pause. Stamp. Stamp. Pause. Pause. Stamp. I’m definitely the least likely Kiwi - the wrong kind of swarthy - but Cindy’s vouched for me, so I must be alright to be let in. I’m Australian, it’s not like I’d want to overstay my welcome.

We are tourists. I understand that there was a … negotiation I missed, whereby we won’t be going anywhere near Hamilton or Huntly for a day or two. That means that we’re heading into Auckland in a rented car with a GPS. I really hope that’s the case. I tried to argue that Cindy knows better what side of the sheep to drive on, & I got one of those don’t-argue looks that suggests with extreme prejudice that I’m driving.