Gone, Again

Short Version:
We leave.

Long Version:
Despite having had months to prepare for departure, we were - inevitably - scrambling to get ourselves ready to go when it came to the final few days. The time spent rejigging Bangkok travel arrangements in light of the flooding could have been used otherwise, and a whole bunch of hitherto-undisclosed* tasks requiring completion pre-departure manifested themselves. These included, but were not limited to:
- a late-night beer delivery to an unsuspecting octogenarian
- a likewise late-night and unheralded skateboard delivery to a 5-year-old girl
- posting various odds and ends to various peoples across NZ
- painting a house
- eating food, with people

Eventually, though, we found ourselves at Auckland International Airport, being told by the check-in lady that, contrary to all information the all-knowing interwebs provided, we needed visas galore, and that we needed umpteen passport photos for each of them. After some initial, not-allowed-on-plane noises, she relented and we were away, through passport control and into the clutches of the security guy, who went so far as to tell me "You know I'm going to stop you and search you - you're a suspicious-looking bearded guy."

He found nothing of interest.

Neither did we, once through security, with all shops closed bar the duty-free places, and not much exciting exploring on offer. A wee nap in the ovoid chairs instead saw us, if not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, then at least slightly less scratchy by the time we made our way to the departure gate lounge, where we waited, in the company of a noisy horde of Thai students on the cusp of adolescence, for our plane to board. Which it did, an hour or so after our scheduled departure time. Adding insult to non-injury was the fact that, as borderline unaccompanied minors, the horde were invited to board first, along with the very elderly and the moneyed.

Once aboard this last-ever Royal Brunei Airlines flight ex-Auckland, we were treated to an Islamic blessing upon the plane and passengers, which reinforced the suggestion that an Islamic airline might be a good choice for explosion-free travel. Later, the alcohol-free drinks trolley reinforced the flipside of that benefit.

And then sleep occurred, at 38,000ft. Apparently I slept through a meal, which is unheard of. I was awake in time to watch the sun finally catch us, somewhere over Indonesian islands, and in time to take possession of a delicious airline breakfast, much of which I ended up wearing. Not through catastrophic events mind you, but by a slow, clumsy accretionist process; here a little bit of scrambled egg (huevos revueltos!), there the juicy, pulpy detritus of the fruit bowl. Added to the mandarin, black-pepper sauce, and korma acquired over the course of the previous evening's activities, and it was a classy classy beardy tattooed man who hit tarmac in the Kingdom of Brunei, ready for some... wait, what happens in Brunei?









* = May actually have been disclosed and well-explained to unlistening ears