Bookgirl Downunder

I let my head rest limply against the aircraft window; wide awake but
exhausted towards the end of the long flight from LA to Sydney.
Outside, through the thick plexiglass porthole, the magnificent blue
of the clear sky merged seamlessly into the deep azure of the ocean
miles below. The jet engines that had been a constant but dim whine of
background noise throughout the night were now occasionally making
short bursts of thrusting noises. Passengers who had been sleeping
soundly were now being gently shaken awake in their seats as the light
buffeting of changes in atmosphere outside signaled the plane was
already making its descent. Mechanized, indeterminately pitched sounds
of levers moving the rudders preceded the soothing, electronic ping of
the bell announcing the illuminated flashing of the seatbelt sign. The
pilot’s voice, calm and clear and reassuring, bidding “good morning”
to all his passengers and then, after another gentle bump down in
altitude, he begins his “Welcome to Sydney” message. “The weather
forecast for today is for a fine, clear sunny day with the temperature
currently at twenty-six degrees Celsius. The local time is 7:20am.” I
glanced at my watch and fumbled with the small knob to begin the
adjustment to the time difference. I silently wished my own mental
adjustment to the time warp I felt I was in could be as effortless as
twirling the hands of my watch.

The plane coasted effortlessly through the air, dipping and tilting
slightly as it made itself ready for its approach into Sydney
International Airport. My ears refused to pop for a long while and
there was maybe fifteen minutes or more where felt in a strange kind
of auditory limbo. Below, the tiny white dots on the surface of the
ocean grew to a size large enough to be identified as boats. Fishing
boats, perhaps, lolling listlessly between the white caps of a gently
undulating ocean. The excitement of arriving gradually became
palpable.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to make out final descent into
Sydney. On behalf of all the flight crew and staff, I’d like to thank
you for flying with Qantas. I hope you enjoy your stay and look
forward to flying with you again.”

The accented sound of the pilot’s voice, the tenor so friendly and
welcoming, made it sound like he was talking directly to me. It gave
me a sudden urge to run up onto the flight deck and hug him. A moment
later, teams of flight attendants began swarming silently down the
aisles, politely waking those still slumbering to have them readjust
their seats into the upright position and checking to see all hand
luggage was properly stowed for the landing. A young woman smartly
dressed in her flight attendant cap and uniform appeared at my row and
smiled. She happily accepted the thermal blanket I’d been cacooned in,
folded it neatly and pushed it into one of the luggage compartments
overhead.

There was nothing to prepare me for the sheer beauty of the sight of
Sydney. It came into view suddenly after the plane banked heavily to
one side and turned low above the ocean. Its most famous landmarks –
the large, white sails of the Opera House and the arched frame of the
Harbor Bridge – took my breath away as did the sight of the city
itself. Much larger than I’d been expecting and so shiny and gleaming
beneath the glorious, clear blue sky. The plane continued to dip until
the sight of the airport terminal and towers loomed large; the thin
black stripe of the tarmac rapidly rising up beneath to meet the
plane. A large thud, screeching of tires, and then a sudden pull
forward of gravity as the reverse thrust of the engines quickly slowed
the plane to a cantering pace. I’d finally arrived!

I could feel my pulse racing lightly; the anxiety building as the
plane slowly taxied back down a carriageway beside the main runway.
Outside I could now see the bustling activity of ground crew; some
driving small buggies of luggage from one place to another while
others in white overalls, their ears covered with red protective
muffs, waved their arms to direct the juggernaut plane into its
parking place beside a pedestrian snorkel extending from the main
terminal building. Already many of the more impatient of passengers
were climbing from their seats to retrieve hand luggage from the
compartments overhead. I sat patiently, resisting the urge to join the
throng now preparing to rush the exits.

When I finally stepped out past the smiling flight attendant, I felt a
hot gust of wind creep through the seal between the plane’s open door
and the exit passageway. Already I could feel a difference in the air.
It was humid but it was fresh and unpolluted. Like that of LA on a
clear day but at the same time, nothing like it at all. I followed the
throng of people making their way towards the inside of the terminal.

It’s the part of travel I hate most. That apprehensive, nervous moment
feeling that my luggage might still be sitting on the tarmac back in
LA. I stood along with everybody else watching the empty carousel
wending its way out of the bowels of the building, circling the floor
in front and disappearing into another portal to repeat its snaking
circle once more. After ten or so minutes the first trickle of
suitcases began appearing. Suitcases, some old and some new; some
plain, travel-weary and worn; some expensive Louis Vuitton and Cartier
and then odd things like sporting equipment bundled together with
thick plastic tape and address tags. People scrambled to reunite
themselves with their luggage before dragging it off towards customs
and immigration.

I’m not sure why, since I’ve never done anything wrong in my life, but
the formalities of passing through an international border always make
me uneasy. At the pit of my stomach is the lingering fear that
somebody might have tampered with my luggage or that I might be
detained for some inexplicable reason. However, I reminded myself that
this was Australia – a world far removed from the international
troubles of elsewhere. I watched silently as the immigration officer
flipped through my passport and glanced up briefly at me to confirm
the picture he saw was that of me. I smiled faintly, wanting to
enthusiastically start telling him – anybody – how excited I was to be
in the country. But I remained calm, thanking him politely when he
returned my passport and then slipping away to pass the final
inspection: customs.

Again, my heart thumped nervously as I stood waiting to be called by
one of the officers in the line of processing benches. Eventually I
took my place, lifting my suitcase and placing it down for the
unsmiling officer to open and inspect.

“Anything to declare?” he asked.

I shook my head honestly. Solemnly. “No.”

He made a cursory inspection of the side pockets and under my neatly
packed clothes and then closed the lid. It wasn’t until then he smiled
and said “Welcome to Sydney. Enjoy your stay.”

I was starting to feel desperately thirsty; my throat and mouth dried
by breathing the hours of humidified, recycled air inside the plane. I
felt a craving for a glass of water but knew I needed to first make
contact with the person I’d been told would meet me. I stood on tip
toe, trying to sea out over the sea of bobbing heads in the foyer
area. Eventually I caught sight of the sign I was looking for: Iron
Trek. An arrow beneath it pointed towards the exit and I pushed the
trolley with my suitcase in the direction indicated.

Another gush of hot, humid air suddenly hit me when the automatic
doors opened. It was a stifling heat that threatened to knock me down
on the spot. I squinted in the harsh sunlight and caught sight of a
lone figure – a man, perhaps in his early to mid-thirties, dressed in
black fatigues and boots, smiling at me. He stood beside a large
monster-like RV behind which was attached a small enclosed carriage.

I smiled politely then looked up and down the concourse, trying to see
the group of people I was expecting to be waiting.

“You must be Adrianna,” a voice behind startled me. It was the man in
the black fatigues.

“Yes?” I looked at him. It didn’t register at first that he might have
been part of my group. His dark hair was cropped short and a goatee
beard added to the slightly sinister, though not unfriendly look of
him. He certainly didn’t look like the person I was expecting. It was
then I noticed the logo screen printed on his shirt: Iron Trek. He was
obviously my guide despite his looks. Not that I’d really had any
preconceived notions about what he’d look like. I’m not sure. Perhaps
I was just expecting somebody dressed more formally, but then I
reminded myself I was in Australia. Steve Irwin country, where
formalities are the exception rather than the rule.

“Let me take your stuff in the car now. The rest of the group are not
arriving through Sydney…we’ll pick ’em up on the way in a few days
but we must hurry as I’d like to get out of the city before morning
peak hour traffic.”

I smiled at him as he spoke. The voice didn’t quite fit the leathery,
tanned skin face speaking the words. There was an accent I detected,
but not one I was expecting – the one I’d grown to love listening to
on Discovery Channel. It was still Australian but there was something
more exotic even than that. A hint of European, perhaps French.

“Thank you,” I said, acknowledging him taking my luggage to stow it in
the vehicle.

He moved with a fluid but casual grace as he opened a door and ushered
me up the high step to climb into the weird looking vehicle. A moment
later he was skipping around the monolithic crash protectors at the
front and climbing into the driver’s seat. I felt strange sitting in
the place I expected the steering wheel to be, but again reminded
myself. I’m in Australia now – everything will be new and excitingly
different!