Old school ... as in ways of doing things

There is a lot to be said for an early-morning, mid-week flight from Sydney to a less-than-popular, currently unfashionable overseas destination. No queue at check-in. No queue at security. No queue at Border Control. Although there was a slightly raised eyebrow -- and at least a minor pause -- from the passport check guy. But that's sort of understandable ...

Here's passport Dougie.

Here's the old fucker that was caught fleeing the country yesterday.

Australian Border Control gave me a handwritten note to be given to the friendly people of our Pacific Ocean destination. It says:

Dear Friendly People of New Caledonia,

We checked all our photo IDs. We have no idea who this ZZ Top reject might be. We are reasonably sure he's harmless. Please keep him as a gift from a grateful Australia.

We don't want him back.

Boarding the plane was quick and painless, although we dispensed with the clever hoist contraption known as The Eagle Lift (invented by QANTAS). Instead, three burley guys (who had fitted me into the Eagle Lift's sling) used an aisle chair and muscle power to lift me over the armrest (which cannot be adjusted because ... you know ... it's only the 21st Century ... and 105-year-old QANTAS hasn't had time to get round to it yet). Onto my seat.

Three and a half hours later we landed in French-speaking Nouvelle Calédonie.

It would have been two and a half hours later except there was a baggage delay which, if I'm honest, I don't understand. Two passengers were 'no shows'. But their checked-in baggage did 'show'. Their bags were, in fact, already stored in the hold.

How can that happen? We checked-in our bags. We were in the airport. If you're bags are checked-in and on the plane, where are you?

Of course, the orphaned bags were right at the back of hold which meant every other bag had to be unloaded, the offending items could then be removed, and all the other bags put back on the plane. I'll let you into a secret. There is NOT a lot to do in a Boeing 737-800 full of people with only one place to go: New Caledonia. So, as you'd expect, we sucked it up.

When we landed at New Caledonia, I was astonished to learn that the airport -- small for an international airport (think Wagga Wagga or maybe Armidale) -- had its own Eagle Lift. Not once in twenty-five years have I landed in Not-Australia to be told we'd be using the All-Australian Eagle Lift.

It was (almost) a first.

About fifteen minutes after every other passenger had left the plane, the planes-on-the-ground logistics guy (whose name I forget) came on to the only plane in the whole airport (ours) to tell us that after consultations with the airport manager (his wife Sylvie) who also came onto the only plane on the ground (still ours) to tell us that we wouldn't be using the Eagle Lift, after all.

She had called les pompiers.

Now -- I don't like to boast -- but I'm on a 397-day unbroken streak with Duolingo. French, as it happens. I know un pompier when I see one. In fact, there were four.

And they have two fire engines.

For reasons that were never explained to us we dispensed with the QANTAS designed hoist. Les pompiers were called in. They all seemed really nice guys but I couldn't help thinking that they were thinking (I'm pretty sure) ... we became pompiers to fight fires and save lives, not haul old Scottish guys out of their Business Class seats.

Me? I just wanted to practice my French. But they all speak better English than I do.

As they placed me back in my wheelchair on the airbridge, I thought ... I love this small island already. (almost