Yesterday I went to the airport in the capital of Fiji for my flight to Tuvalu. I’m carrying a backpack, a dry-bag with food in it, my camera bag, and, in my left hand, an oval zucchini cake that I baked. This airport is an open-air, cement structure without anything impractical. Coming around the bend, four security guards with hibiscus-printed shirts said their X-ray machine was broken and they would be checking my luggage by hand.
"Sure," I smile, and put my stuff onto the wooden table. “Nice hibiscus!” I point to the ones on my sarong. "This bag has books, clothes, shampoo, and soap."
The woman says she likes my sarong, doesn't even unzip my bag, and puts the "Security Checked" sticker on the zipper instead. She opens the dry bag and sees a mango on top of a mosquito net, and doesn't mention the food quarantine for international flights—she just puts the "Security Checked" sticker on the stop-light green bag and has me roll it back up. Then I tell her I have cameras in my carry-on bag, and she has me put my Chapstick into the checked baggage. Oh yeah, no liquids or gels.
While I'm waiting in line to check-in (I have no ticket, no printed online confirmation) I chat with a Tuvaluan lady about how much luggage everyone has since they're flying home for the holidays. She warns me about the $10 per kilogram extra-luggage fee.
"WHAT? That's got to be one of the worst fees in the world! What's the luggage allowance?" I ask.
"20 kilograms."
Great, there's no way I am going to get through here without paying an extra 50 bucks ... and this is already one of the most expensive flights in the Pacific. She helps me strategize about repacking, but I can't move anything around—my U.S. carry-on sized backpack is stuffed, my dry bag is stuffed, and that's all I'm bringing.
When I get to the check-in counter, a half-Indian looking man with a shiny mullet (shiny because it is healthy, not greasy) asks me if I have a ticket.
"No, I booked over the phone but they didn't send a confirmation e-mail because I was on an island with no computers. My last name is Barnwell."
They checked the printed list on a computer reminiscent of the Apple IIGS I first played “Oregon Trail” on, looked at my passport, and handed me a boarding pass for seat 12A. Then I Iifted my bags onto a non-digital scale (I don't even know what you should call it rather than "old-fashioned"). The man with the mullet says, "You are three kilograms over, can you take something out and carry it on the plane?"
I unzip the top of my backpack, and an EMS toiletry bag is on top. "Why don't you just take that?" he suggests.
Umm, this is full of liquids and gels, is he serious?! I take it out of the bag, and he says, "Perfect! You just saved $30. Go ahead to your gate."
"Okay, thanks a lot." I really don't know whether I'm going to be able to get through security with three kilograms worth of liquids and gels, but I sort of want to try ... so I walk over to the woman sitting at a wooden desk beneath the International Departures sign in chipping black paint. She has a scrap piece of paper and a blue Bic pen, and she makes a hash mark like she's keeping track of rounds of Hangman she's won. I was a diagonal line, marking the 20th person on the plane.
I get to a working X-ray machine with more people in hibiscus-printed shirts. I smile and act like nothing is wrong. I put my zucchini cake in a plastic bin, then my camera bag, and my toiletry bag in their own plastic bins, and send them through the conveyor. The woman pauses on the toiletries, then looks at me. "They're in a plastic bag, right?" She smiles, and I take the cue. "Yes," I smile back.
Obviously there's no plastic bag, and I remember there are nail clippers and tweezers (pointy metal objects) in there, too! How many security rules am I breaking?! She hands me my cake, and I go sit in the waiting area, cracking up inside so my lungs tighten.
I look out the window at the airplane, and an Australian man who looks like Santa Claus comes over and asks me if I like small planes. "Well, they make me a little nervous when there's turbulence.”
“It’s a good, but old, plane. 1955.”
“What?! 1955 sounds ancient!” I respond.
“Don’t worry, there are new engines.” He laughs. I wish he hadn’t told me how old the plane is ... “Well, I will be happy if I have a window seat. I like being able to look out the window and see the islands or the ocean the whole time.“
“What’s your seat number?”
“12A.”
“Ohh, you have the best seat on the left side for taking pictures.” I’m so lucky!
The pilot is standing at the bottom of the boarding stairs, and confirms that the plane is from 1955. “But,” he says, “I wouldn’t be piloting it if it wasn’t a great plane.” He pats the hull twice. When I get onto the plane, I’m hit with a wave of body odor so I breathe out of my mouth. There’s no air circulation and no air conditioning, and I have to walk to the last seat in the back of the plane. Those are the seats you cannot lean back. Maybe I’m not so lucky. But things are looking up because the flight attendant puts my cake in the first aid compartment so it won’t get smooshed, and the Tuvaluan man across from me reiterates that I have the best seat for photography.
Once the flight is airborne, the air conditioning is blasting so high I have permanent goose bumps. Unfortunately, the people in the front seat got the two first-come, first-served blankets. I tried to curl up in fetal position to keep warm and the man across the aisle asked me if I was okay. Then, finally, he told me to look out the window and get my camera ready. Japanese tourists ignored the seat-belt signs and tried to fit their lenses alongside my face. My seat does have the best view of the atolls because the wing is not in the way. Seeing an entire country (10 square miles total!) out of my little airplane window makes my heart skip a beat.
* * *
For the sake of brevity, my cake was not quarantined, baggage claim consisted of standing wherever I could fit and grabbing my bags once they were unloaded from a pick-up truck. Seeing as Tuvalu is the second smallest independent nation in the world (second to Vatican City), I knew it wouldn’t be a problem that I had no address, only a name for my host family. I was offered a ride to my host family’s house by the man who sat in front of me on the plane, who happens to be their next-door neighbor.
I am sharing an 8-foot by 8-foot room with a pair of sisters, 16 and 18 years old, who like Beyonce and Eminem. They seem relaxed even though they say they’re nervous to hear next week on the radio whether they are going to be sponsored by Australian AusAID for university education. I can’t imagine hearing that kind of news over the radio when the whole country might hear before you if you’re not tuned in at the right moment. But the lack of personal and physical privacy is normal here. It is going to be challenging for me to not have any privacy for the first time since I left the States.
When I stand in the main road, trying not to get hit by motorbikes, I can see the ocean on either side. This is a bit unnerving as the rain alone makes the sandy driveways flooded, and I know storm waves will come up and over the entire place if any come our way. Tomorrow I am testing my sea legs on my most remote adventure yet—I am joining Captain J and the locals going to outer atoll, Niulakita, population 35. Yes, 35. I’ll try to confirm that. ;0)
Check out the map below.
All my best wishes for HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
