Living In A Constant State Of Poorly Suppressed Panic

We made it back to Wewak, Papua New Guinea for our second term with Samaritan Aviation. Although it was successful (we're here after all) we decided we'd rather wait awhile to make the trip again.

First, the Inspection Authorization

But first, let's go back a few months. Our organization wanted me to get my Inspection Authorization (commonly called an "IA") which, long story short, gives me the power to sign more paperwork. I wasn't sure if I liked that power and so I procrastinated, just to see if my mood would change. By the time it had, the calendar had snuck up behind me and was breathing down my neck. Luckily there was an ace up my sleeve; Baker's School of Aeronautics in Tennessee. They prep mechanics for specific FAA exams, just like the one I needed to take. They ask for a week of your time and in exchange they guarantee that you'll pass your test. I got my paperwork in order and called Bakers to schedule. I took the only time slot that was available, which of course was the exact week we had planned to visit family. I did some quick Googling and found that I could still do all this if I did some fancy logistical footwork.

We drove to the cabin in northern Pennsylvania on Good Friday, since the kids didn't have school. On Sunday Janice packed the kids up in the van and drove them to my parents (two hours south) while I hitched a ride back towards Ohio with some relatives who dropped me off at the Canton airport. I flew to Tennessee, passed my test on Thursday afternoon, then flew to Philadelphia that evening to spend some time with my parents before we all drove back to Ohio on Sunday. Whew! I got the final signature required for my IA a week before we flew out of the States.

Visas

During this time I was working on building an impressively long email chain with the PNG visa authorities. I was telling them we were leaving soon and needed those visas. They were telling me not to worry and, while I was at it, could I send in just one more document? Despite their assurances, we were worrying because last time we went to PNG we found ourselves waiting on visas so long that we had to reschedule our airplane tickets. Of course, this was because the mailman delivered them to the wrong house. I found them in miraculous fashion by walking up and down the streets of our neighborhood until I spotted them in a random mailbox. I preferred to not rely on miracles this time.

But it seemed to be happening all over again and it caused us to live in a constant state of poorly suppressed panic.

We kept preparing to leave anyway. Actually, Janice kept preparing to leave. Anytime I started stuffing items into a suitcase, Janice would appear out of thin air to tell me I was doing it wrong and that I should instead hold the baby and let her do it.

The only time I wasn't holding the baby was when I was at the dentist.

I had gone to the dentist right after we came back from our first term in PNG. Apparently I had some plaque buildup. "May I suggest getting a cleaning more often?" the hygienist asked as she wrestled what seemed like a pneumatic jackhammer into my mouth.

I explained that to go to a dentist where I was living in PNG I either had to hire a witch doctor or take a migraine-inducing flight to the capital. She finished up and insisted on scheduling me for another cleaning in six months.

"You can schedule it," I said, "But we won't be here. We'll be back in PNG by then."

Fast forward six months, several delays, and no visas later and there I was sitting in the dentist's chair for my scheduled cleaning. I heard my phone ding. Normally I'd ignore it since I'm a polite person, but I was living in a state of poorly suppressed panic so I rudely dug it out of my pocket, even though my mouth was filled with hands. I looked at it the best I could and let out a startled gargle! Janice had sent me a photo of the kids holding our passports! Hot dog! We were actually leaving!

Our Route

We were going to fly with Alaska Airlines from Cleveland to Seattle, then with Philippine Airlines from Seattle to Manila, then again from Manila to Port Moresby, the capital of Papua New Guinea. Then from Port Moresby we'd fly with AirNiugini to Wewak, our final destination.

Cleveland

We towed an enclosed trailer with twelve suitcases to the Cleveland airport. We said goodby to the house we had called "home" for the last six months as we pulled away from the curb, amazed we were actually leaving.

We made it to Cleveland and unloaded the trailer onto a trolley. It took two people to push it into the Alaska Air ticketing area where the agents tried to politely avoid us. Eventually they couldn't anymore and one brave man stepped out to help us tag our bags.

"How many bags do you have?" He asked.

"Twelve," I said. He sighed. I did too.

He started reluctantly tapping a keyboard and a little printer behind the counter began spitting out luggage tags. Soon our pile of luggage looked like a tree with toilet paper hanging from its branches. We grabbed the stubs and were off on the adventure.

Seattle

We landed in Seattle and found an empty corner where we set up something resembling a homeless encampment. Our kids ate peanuts and complained about life, probably like homeless people do.

Soon I heard our names called over the loudspeaker. I wandered over to the gate and announced myself. They said they needed to verify our passports, probably to make sure we weren't kidnapping children or something. I called all my children over and they came, grumbling and mumbling and acting like I had kidnapped them.

Then the agent reviewed our bag tags and informed me that I had ten bags. I said, no, we had twelve! He said no, we had ten, but we did have two duplicate tags. I said that there must be some bags with duplicate tags. He said that's not possible. And during this time his coworkers managed to load everyone on the plane except us, which caused considerable panic to all parties involved. So the bag tags were forgotten until the next airport.

Manila

The flight to Manila took thirteen and half hours but it aged us by several years. Sleeping in an aluminum tube is as comfortable as it sounds. As we got off our plane in Manila, we asked an airport employee if we had to recheck our baggage.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"Papua New Guinea," I said.

"Oh yes," he said and showed us a laminated, worn picture of a desk with a sign that said Australian Customs. We weren't going to Australia, but very close to it. I assumed that they used the same desk for various countries in the same region. "You need to take your bags through customs at this counter three hours before boarding,” he said. He was very specific and confident, which gave me confidence. "Take a picture of this photo so you can refer to it later," he said. So I did.

With that squared away, we had twenty hours to waste until our next flight. We found a hotel in Manila, slept like dead people, and then returned to the airport with time to spare.

I found my way to the Australia Customs desk on the picture, where they were utterly clueless about my bags.

"You're going to Papua New Guinea, not Australia," they told me.

"Stupid me, I should have known," I said, "Where do I go for PNG bags?"

"We don't know. Check at your gate, sir."

Our flight wasn't assigned a gate yet so I talked to every employee I could find and was given or denied access to every part of the airport, and was confidently given answers, and then told those answers were definitely wrong multiple times. Finally all I could do was sit down.

Twenty minutes before we were to board we finally got assigned to a gate. Then I heard my name over the loudspeaker. I went up to the counter.

"Sir," they said, "You need to recheck your bags."

"Stupid me," I said, "I should have known. Where are they?"

"Follow me," said a prim, impeccably dressed lady. We'll call her Ms. Priss. She looked as if she just had tea with the queen. She walked slowly with her hands folded in front of her and her heels click-clacking behind her. We backtracked through the entire airport, each step causing my mental clock to recalculate the dwindling amount of time that remained before boarding.

Ms. Priss breezed me through immigrations, where, instead of going through the pesky business of stamping my passport, they just kept it in a drawer and waved me through.

"Uh..." I said, which is my typical response in a moment of crisis. Ms. Priss was already click-clacking her way through security so I dashed after her. She carried with her my hopes and dreams of making it on this flight.

We finally reached a room that was stacked full of luggage. People appeared and disappeared in the pile, leaving tunneled paths that resembled an ant farm. A guy behind the counter told me I had ten pieces of luggage. I said no, we had twelve.

"Fine," the guy said, "File a report later. Can I see your passport please?"

"No, immigration kept it," I said.

"We need it for this document." He said.

"Stupid me, I should have known," I said. I handed him my Ohio driver's license instead. He shrugged. Good enough. "Sign here."

By this time my mental clock was just blinking, "0:00" and I was trying not to panic. They began printing bag tags but had trouble with the printer. They thumped it, restarted it, thumped it again. By this time Ms. Priss started getting nervous. She even bent over slightly to help load a bag on a trolley. Once the circus was all packed up, they rolled the trolleys full of our luggage out of a door and onto the tarmac. I could see the parked planes and smell the burnt jet fuel. It looked like my bags would make it on the plane, but would I?

"Follow me," said Ms. Priss. She didn't have to ask twice. Ms. Priss began running through the airport. Her clacking high heels picked up their pace until they sounded like machine guns. About every twenty paces the clacking stopped briefly so she could re-arrange her outfit. We scooted past security, through doors marked "Authorized Personnel Only", up several flights of steps, and back through immigration where I was reunited with my passport. We reached the final straightaway where a long corridor lied between us and the gate. It was lined with benches full of travelers who had nothing else to do but watch people walk past. It was more than Ms. Priss could handle. She turned back to me and said in proper Queen's English, "Sir, are you able to run?"

"Yes I can," I said, and I left her far behind as I sprinted down the corridor, leaving behind only an outline of dust particles suspended briefly in the air. I blasted into the gate to find my family cheering me on.

"Go daddy! Go!"

We made it!

Port Moresby

We had made it miraculously through every leg so I was optimistic that our good fortune would continue. But it was not to be. Just like the first time we tried flying into Wewak, we found that one try was not enough.

We collected ten bags, our children, and our own feet and drug them all to a hotel. The hotel was beautiful and was actually a highlight of the trip. I just had to calm down enough to enjoy it.

By the time we made it to Wewak, I had collected and rechecked twelve bags four times and been issued six boarding passes three times, not that I was counting.

Still, we're thankful that this time we knew our way around so it was far less stressful than the first time. And we're thankful for all the people who prayed us through the trip, and for those who have signed up as new financial supporters and those who increased their support. I haven't yet had time to sit down and write out Thank You cards, but expect them soon. Thank you for being with us!

Oh yea, the two missing bags showed up in Wewak only two days after our own arrival, which we consider a miracle. Here we are, relying on miracles again.

Until next time,

Josh