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| Aerial view of Darwin, NT |
Stepping off the plane, a wave of intensely humid heat slapped me. It felt like being in a sauna with your clothes on.
Here we go!!
I queued up through passport control alongside some weathered-looking Aussies, some scruffy, dreadlocked backpacker types (one had a pointy, waxed moustache) and other tired and jaded-looking travellers. Then through we went into immigration.
By the way, while I'm on the subject of stereotyping people, I decided to look up the origin of the name 'Pom'. Well, that opened a can of worms! There are endless theories, as you can see at the following site:
The Guardian, Notes & Queries, Pommie Definition
And I even found a Pommie joke on there too! I quote:
'What is the difference between a shopping trolley and a pommie? They can both hold the same amount of food and booze, but only the shopping trolley has a mind of its own.'
However, after much browsing, and supported by the Oxford English Dictionary, it appears that the most popular origin derives from the word pomegranate, which is a bit strange considering the fruit is not of Australian origin and was apparently not especially well known here until a few years ago. One theory relates it to rhyming slang for 'immigrant' and the other to the colour of our skin when we've been stupid enough to stay out in the sun too long! Which kind of makes sense, as us Brits are often given names to this effect! The Spanish call us prawns (not quite as flattering as pomegranate) and the South Africans allegedly call us 'rooinek', meaning red necks! I also came across a picture of a Pommie convict uniform too, which was quite interesting:
Western Australian Museum convict uniform
Meanwhile, back at the airport and falling asleep on my feet after two days of travelling, I vaguely listened to a long conversation about an item of luggage completely infested with ants. The officer asked his boss what he should do if he couldn't get rid of them all (a bit of a tall order to hunt out every single crawling ant from among the baggage, I thought!) and he was told to isolate the item of baggage and just make sure he got them all!Then it was my turn:
'Any food, plants, snacks in your cases?
'No, nothing' I replied with a smile as big as I could muster at 5 o´clock in the morning and after four flights.
'Not even any packs of biscuits off the plane?'
'Nope.'
'Surely you must be really hungry then, if you've got nothing to eat at all?'
'I'm fine, the company paid for a meal for me on the plane'.
He waved me through. One step nearer to a shower and a bed!
I made my way outside where a wave of even hotter air slapped me even harder and this time it felt like there were 10 hairdryers all pointed at me and blasting me at once. I queued up at a taxi rank behind a tall man with a long straggly ponytail and to my amazement he was wearing long black jeans, a white shirt AND A BLACK VELOUR JACKET! I stared at him from behind, looking for the sweat patches and wondering how he didn't have the urge to suddenly strip all off in the intense heat. Maybe the fact that he was propping up a double bass in a huge black case had something to do with it (I'm guessing it was a double bass as it reminded me of a coffin). And maybe endless nights playing in hot, sweaty jazz clubs had made him immune to the heat.The taxi took ages to come and when it finally did, the driver, who was well past retirement age and who spoke in monosyllabic grunts, took forever to get to the motel.
I got out, dragged my cases into reception (the foyer is left open at night) and went to open the safe with the code I'd been given.
It didn't work.
I tried again.
It didn't work.
I started getting nervous now, the heat was intense and the sweat dripping. I tried once more.
It didn't work, just bleeped at me each time with an orange flashing light.
I tried a few more times then started swearing. I noticed on my way in that there was a sign saying 'Smile, you are on camera'. I only hope they didn't have sound as well.
After what seemed like an age of further failed attempts and failed phonecalls from my mobile (I had run out of credit as 'El Culo Inquieto', alias my husband, to be referred to henceforth as 'CI', had been ringing me during my journey and of course I paid the international part of each call) I ventured outside into the tropical dark with my cases and looked for a phonebox.
Success! I found one. Success! I had Aussie change. Success! The manager answered and said he would meet me at reception. What a helpful man!
Finally I dumped my luggage on my hotel room floor, had a lovely COLD shower, found the air-conditioning switch and crashed into bed.
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| Darwin Waterfront Sunset |
