September 17, 2007
-
The Solomon Airlines flight I was taking was to leave from the very last gate at the far wing of the airport, and when I arrived there was no one else there. I watched the other passengers trickle in, the distinction between those leaving and those returning home painfully obvious. First there were some older, jovial Australians, who could not have screamed “expat” any louder if they had had their much younger wives with them. Then a tall dark haired Australian who had an air of being intellectually curious about the world. He sat next to a tall islander with jeans and a strong chin and began telling him about his recent trip to Israel. Sitting near me was a big hipped Solomons woman with a wild fro, a long skirt, and a t-shirt. With her was a small girl who was half white and looked so much like Roycie I could hardly stand it. She was around 6, still with her baby teeth, and her large brown curls hid a fresh cut on her forehead. Everyone cooed at her; no one could help it.
When it was finally time for our flight we gathered at the gate and an large woman with a gray bun made a comment about my backpack being “rather large hand luggage” as she ran my ticket through the machine. I walked through the door and was surprised to find myself standing in the Australian sunshine, and then chastised myself for being so. The plane was in front of me, a smallish aircraft that said “our airline” on it in a island-y script. We walked single file to the aircraft and I put on my sunglasses, feeling that my tension must be visible. Why was I walking on a runway? I had watched “Liar Liar” enough times to know that that wasn’t allowed. Had I packed everything I needed to pack? How old was this chintzy airplane anyway? The dimpled tin steps wobbled a little as I climbed into the aircraft, but the relative calm of the other passengers, who looked as though they regularly made this trek soothed me a bit. I set to work on jamming my pack into the overhead compartments, and then was finally able to relax as the little aircraft pulled itself into the air.
Cloud cities over an unfamiliar ocean; cotton, feathers, pillows and vanilla ice cream passed soundlessly below me as I ate my lunch: a salad with pieces of ham on it and a dinner roll. In front of me the little girl sat on her mother’s lap, fogging her breath on the window and pressing her tiny finger into it. I smiled at her. She smiled back but then hid her face.
First I saw sandbars and reefs lurking under the water, turning it green. Then I saw land, real land. Thick and covered with green forest. The ocean broke white on the thin strip of beach, and radiating out from it were dirt roads lined with houses. Honiara, the capitol city. We swooped down near it, inched towards it, and then we were on the ground. Outside the window, the landscape looked just like central California; green hills dotted with trees under a soft blue sky. I smiled. To have arrived. To have arrived with no more than 20 people in a tiny Solomon Airlines plane the morning after I was supposed to have been there. It was something new. The seatbelt light chimed and we clambered off the plane.
