Q is for Qantas.

So I was on an atoll for a few days. Nice place, poverty all around, pigs running wild, children running free. There’s palm trees and sea everywhere. The sky is huge and blue, beautiful clouds. The people are friendly and unassuming in their gangsta rapper t-shirts. The roads are dirt and bumpy. The car suspension is bumpy and dirty. One “western” guy I went to visit, his “local” girlfriend comes out of the bedroom in her purple negligee, and tousled black hair. She’s just dirty.

Hotel was fine, what you’d expect in a place like that- the room door doesn’t quite fit it’s frame, mosquito mesh on the windows has a hole, mosquito blood on the walls, malaria in the air. On the wall an oil painting of a clipper boat at sea, sunset, clouds, palm tree on left, gaudy frame. The room’s ceiling fan ( Saigon, shit, still only in Saigon…) has four speeds, Off, Whine, Rattling, Dangerous. The hotel restaurant is empty, empty of guests, empty of waiters. The menu is full, if only they had the ingredients. I sit at my table, alone, and look around- a lagoon nearby and water everywhere, I’m in the middle of the Pacific. I order the lobster, seems a safe bet. The lobster comes, it’s old, it’s tough, it’s been frozen, it’s inedible.

So I’m there. Job goes well. Meet a friend by accident and rejoice in our fortune. I watch a man’s house get destroyed by the waves, but the pictures are good. I mull over the dilemma, help him or shoot it ? Like I said, the pictures are good. With my colleague we call in on the island’s President, it’s daytime, office hours, but he’s gone fishing.

I’m on the water’s edge a lot, shooting, looking to shoot. There’s garbage all around, thrown out by the locals, brought back in on the tide. Paradise covered in Pampers. Fantastic beaches covered in rusted Fanta cans. I walk over it all, to shoot. The seaweed smells and fleas bite my ankles, my feet, inside my trousers. It’s disgusting, living in paradise.

Back at the hotel I upload pics and send them with the slowest modem in the world. I grow old waiting. Whilst I wait more mosquitos enter my room and hide, waiting.

Final morning I’m up and out, got a plane to catch. Paradise is nice, but I’d rather be home. Four flights later I’m in Brisbane, I’m exhausted. I’m sure the client can afford the Intercontinental and I check in, guilt free. My legs itch, for the first time in my life I have travel sickness, and I need to send 90 images. The Intercontinental is perfect, I take a twin room, twin double beds, one for me, one for my cameras. I order a roast beef sandwich and bottle of beer from room service. It seems like Paradise.

Next morning I’m up and out, one more step closer to home, I can’t wait. Up to the airport bright and early. Still exhausted but with a cunning plan. I’ll get to the airport early, book in early for my Tokyo bound flight on Qantas, and get a good seat, lots of leg room, then sleep all the way home. I get to the desk, I’m dumbfounded, I should have known. Years of travelling should have prepared me for this moment. I stand, not quite believing it, looking around, not sure what to do. I check my watch, look at the board, check my watch. I’m early for the flight, about 3 hours early. I’m at the right Qantas desk. And I look around, dropping my bags on the floor. There Are 2 Million Japanese Tourists In The Queue In Front Of Me.

I stand beside the fake tan back-combed hair Shibuya boys’n'gals, the boys in their flip flops and shorts, the girls in their small terry towelling dresses on their size six frames. Surf boards everywhere. Cheesy tourist souvenirs in every bag. And I’m last in the queue. My legs itch.

Slowly I get to the front, the hours have dissappeared, the Shibuya kids have the best seats. And if they don’t then the 2.3million old people on the plane have taken them, so they can sit and suck the almonds out of their teeth in comfort. And then there she is, before me, Miss Qantas, in red and white and smiles. Big smiles. Gold coast smiles. “Good morning, may I see your ticket please ?”.

“Are there any aisle seats left, ones near the bulkhead?” I ask tentatively.  Tip tip tip tap tap tap, glance at the passport, tip tip tap, glance at the ticket, tip tap tap, passport back up on the counter top. She looks up, her smile wide, her teeth white and radiant. “Thank you Mr. Sutton-Hibbert. You have a nice seat today Sir. You’ve been chosen to be upgraded to First class.” I look around at the remaining queue, old people, Shibuya kids, 8 hours ahead of me on a plane with these people. Hell. I look back at Miss Qantas, “First class?”. “First class”. I smile, she smiles. I say thank you.