Xmas travels part I...Getting there

Like all my holidays since I was about 16, my trip to the West began with a flurry of frantic last-minute packing and a nearly-missed flight, accompanied (and probably caused) by the inevitable departure hangover of stomach churning proportions. This being the Solomon Islands, however, the obstacles were so unexpected and pernicious that even an old hand at such antics like me began to feel just a wee bit stressed by it all.

Firstly, and totally unexpectedly, Honiara awoke on the Saturday morning of our flight to a total fuel cut. Every taxi firm and friend we phoned said their cars had no fuel to get us to the airport, all exhausted the night before, no doubt, ferrying pissheads such as me and my pals between Top Ten, Flamingos, Paradise and the various other Honiara nightclubs. This started as amusing, but rapidly became less so as the hour of our flight approached. As a last resort we managed to commandeer a diplomatic car from Foreign Affairs (despite concerted efforts this is a trick I’ve not yet pulled off in London) where Fiona works and we were whisked to the airport in air-conditioned luxury. The plan was to drop off one of her colleagues then quickly to return to town to collect her stuff before heading back to the airport.

This plan though was nearly undone when we found on the first trip to the airport that our flight time had been changed to an hour earlier and was leaving in 45 minutes. An hour EARLIER! As Fiona raced back home to collect her stuff I tried to explain to deaf ears the absurd impossibility of a flight leaving earlier than scheduled. The various smiling responses undermined my efforts and suggested they were not so convinced it was beyond the realm of possibility. The six other people I met at the airport were also far from reassuring: the flight they’d booked had been due to leave 5 days earlier but each day since they’d been told to wait all day and here they were still waiting and, incredibly, still grinning and smiling while they explained to me how frustrating it was that they might not get home for Christmas. I pictured myself, wrinkled and grey-haired, waiting many years from now like a tropical Tom Hanks for my holiday in the West to begin. In the nick of time, or so it seemed, Fiona leapt out of a cab and we checked in. As we walked out to the tiny aircraft, naïve old me loitering for a snap, it suddenly became clear there wouldn’t be enough seats on the plane. Second to last I just made it, while the poor girl behind me was abruptly turned around to face an unknown fate.

Once aboard the tiny plane (see picture), however, our hangovers were instantly forgotten at the excitement of being aboard. We were welcomed by Indian Dave the pilot, who then clambered past us all before shouting the emergency instructions a couple of inches from my face, spraying those in the front row with a little complimentary airline spittle. He squeezed into the cockpit bum first, took his seat practically on my lap, and then 1 minute later, doing about 22mph and accompanied by desperate cries from me of “Not Yet Mate” (fortunately drowned out by the din of the engine) we lifted up and were away. The flight was only a little over an hour but completely compelling as we flew over remote islands, azure lagoons (see photo) and tiny lines of sandy reefs visible just below the water’s surface, like secret ocean footpaths. We also flew over the widespread tracts of deforested land, now green as everywhere else, but crushed flat as if a giant with misshapen feet had been trampling here and there. And then, before I’d had a chance to yield to the strong urge to reach out and flick a switch or two, the runway was abruptly beneath us and the altimeter I’d been observing so keenly hit zero. Along with our fellow passengers, mainly Malaysian and Indonesian loggers who smelt of tobacco and old wellies, we were bundled out and stepped into the warm air of Munda on New Georgia Island.