Jafa39

I had to go to Fiji again, the last time was 10 years ago and it had been very hot and humid. This time was a month further into the winter (Lol! Most people would like a summer as pleasant as a Fiji winter).

So, I checked in online the night before, printed out my boarding passes (I was flying economy) and it said to go to bag drop in the morning.

I was flying Fiji Air and because I couldn’t use the Koru lounge I booked into the Emperor Lounge which is a disgusting concept …imagine, a lounge that you can just pay 39 bucks to use and not be affiliated to an airline, where being in there doesn’t mean you are rich and can afford 600 dollars a year just avoid the proles!!

But it was a better option than sitting at the gate with people who travel to the Pacific Islands merely to indulge and fornicate…shudder! Imagine sitting next to ordinary people for an hour!!!

I parked up in a different time zone to AKL (the car park is spreading like the Mongol Empire) and engaged a trusty Sherpa to guide me through the maze of parked cars. Some indicated that the vehicles belonged to …I can barely say it…tradesmen! Honestly, they will let anybody fly these days, one may have to buy a private jet…but then even that is frightfully common and I might get mistaken for a Rapper or some other brain-dead troglodyte…or, heaven forbid, a Kardashian!!!

Anyway, I picked my way past abandoned baggage trolleys and discarded wheelchairs (these are used to transport drunken Australians onto their Qantas flights back to the snake-infested hell-holes they call home…or worse still, Seedneee!!) and arrived at the arrivals hall, a place where nobody looks where they are going and overweight families walk seven abreast as they wander in a daze looking for junk food with the highest fat content.

I found the Fiji check-in line, a winding conga of people with a high percentage of that most dreaded of travelling companion…families!!! Ugghhh! Kids, wives and a shed-load of luggage.

On seeking the bag-drop counter I was perplexed to find it did not appear to be there and took refuge at the Service Desk where a rather attractive young Fijian woman informed me that there wasn’t one.

“What is the point of online check-in of there is no bag drop?” I enquired

“We don’t have one, you have to get in the queue”

I looked back at the long, long line of ordinary people and felt slightly sick.

“You mean in the economy queue?”

“Yes sir”

And with that she went off to adjust a wheelchair for someone who was pretending to be old and frail but in reality was just too selfish not to board first.

I gathered all my internal fortitude about me and joined the back of the queue, keeping a safe distance from the snot-nosed child and the surly teenager, nose buried in her device, standing in front of me and subtly backing away from the old Indian lady who hadn’t dyed her hair this week and was rocking greying roots.

I stood in the queue, shuffling inexorably towards the desks, abandoned, embarrassed and totally out of sorts…and then an idea hit me like an epiphany!!!

I am white and male, therefore I have privileges, or at least I am accused of such by people who assume things based on race or gender and these privileges allow me to be a pompous jerk and get away with all sorts of capers.

So, I ducked under the Tensa-barrier and joined the Premium Check-in queue, there were only 2 young white dudes in “Tap- out” hats (trust-fund babies no doubt) and a Fijian family who were already at the desk.

I watched in horror as the Fijian family produced plastic-wrapped bale after plastic-wrapped bale of God knows what…could have been clothes and blankets (nobody needs a blanket in Fiji) or kilos of weed but they had about eight of them and the desk dude looked flustered as the excess baggage fees started to equal the gross national product of Dusseldorf.

The desk girl to my left saw that premium white people were being kept waiting, halted the dribble of economy passengers and waved the two dudes in hats over to her desk and proceeded to make them remove their hats.

Idly watching them and occasionally glancing at the mounting pile of contraband that the Fijian family were producing from who knows where, I became aware of a voice to my right.

“Sir, sir!”

Being addressed by my correct title came as a shock and I looked over to see the attractive Fijian girl who had told me there was no bag drop, back behind her Service Desk.

“Sir, over here, bag drop”

W…T…F????

I sighed and relaxed, this is the Pacific Islands we are talking about…none of it has to make sense…. just stay calm and be white, everything will turn out OK Lol!

Bags were dropped and the Fijian family were still over-taxing the Desk Dude with plastic-wrapped bales.

I took my new boarding passes (bag drop didn’t mean just dropping my bags, new boarding passes were issued too) and headed upstairs to fill in the immigration paperwork and be glanced at suspiciously by people in thick blue jumpers and important hats.

My E-Passport got me past the first crush of humanity, a line of people all wondering if they had more than 100ml of toothpaste in their carry-on bags and swiftly up in front of one of the be-jumpered ones with their important hat.

No pleasantries were exchanged, just a suspicious look and a subtle wave of the hand to indicate the queue to the X-Ray machines. A nice mature Asian lady sorted us out into the random mazes of tensa-barriers that popped us out at the various X-Ray machines like ball bearings in a Pachinko machine.

Those grey plastic trays where one has to put whatever embarrassing objects are to be found in one’s pocket were in short supply at AKL on the 11th June 2017. This kept a surly wench in a light blue short-sleeved shirt and sensible shoes running to and fro to ensure we all got our turn at baring our souls in public without delay.

I passed through the machines without incident and (for once) without triggering the metal detector which was wielded by a very happy looking brown lady of unfathomable cultural heritage. This pleased us both and I then plunged into the smells and racket of the duty-free shops but soon exited stage right into the calm corridors that led to the Emperor Lounge.

Feeling slightly guilty and sullied I entered and was met and verified by a stunningly beautiful Asian girl who wished me all the good things as I entered the lounge and found a quiet seat as far from anybody who looked like they thought they were better than me as I could.



Food was had, a curious mix of Asian and European but the lounge was not bad at all, smallish but well-tended and with toilets that worked and were fragrant.

I sat and pondered my psyche, considered what events in my formative years may have created the utter disdain I have of my fellow travellers and yet made me gregarious as and always happy to talk to people that I didn’t find repellent on some psychic level…I may be an enigma or I may just be a bit of a dick, the jury will forever be out on that one I’m afraid.

The walk to gate 16 at AKL International…I didn’t even know there was a gate 16…was easily 10 mins so I wandered out back into the melee in good time as I might need to take pics or buy something on the way.

It really is a 10-minute walk if one dawdles and I did stop to take a couple of pics and I did buy something (a bottle of water) so it was nearer 15 mins by the time I arrived at the gate which is big, new, spacious and very nice thank you very much… There were three people there plus me, all of them jabbering away on their cellphones in a little-known dialect of Hindustani or whatever, to their rellies or maybe their bookies.

This caused me to seek a seat as far from them as possible (purely because of the racket, I am not racist, I despise everybody in equal measure) which resulted in me sitting by the furthest desk, tucked in a corner with me looking back at those incumbent and those arriving.

People turned up in dribs and drabs and one gentleman, dressed in the de rigeur blue blazer, cream slacks and cravat, with obligatory expensive straw hat of the terminal bore, headed straight towards me, unhesitating in his measured stride and unflinching in his direct approach.

I felt that maybe he was following the trail of my exquisite aftershave and was about to declare his undying lust, or, more likely, he was a diplomatic person of importance who had come to deposit a brown paper package in the bin beside me, tip his hat and whisper “The hay is dry by noon” and disappear subtly like a wraith while I retrieved compromising photos of a high-ranking Russian official from the bin.

At the last moment, he hesitated and took the seat at the end of the row as required by “Bloke Etiquette” and proceed to sneeze and read the paper. I looked at him in horror, if any of his man-flu germs looked like they were wafting in my direction I would have to take him out….and I don’t mean to a tea-dance…

A sturdy girl who was probably a Fireman looked at me as I walked over to the windows, I looked back at her and she buried her attention in her iPhone (so many people, so many reasons to kill) while I idly checked out the Thai 777 that was reversing out of gate 15 plus a brace of Emirates A380’s lumbering down the runway and took in the form of our Fiji Air A330-200.[/SIZE]



It seemed short and fat, like a Farmer’s wife but had massive wings and that cool Fiji Air paint job.

This would be my first trip on an A330 so I was looking forward to ticking that box and wondering what the entertainment and food would be like.

Over by the desks the check-in dude who had been processing the Fijian bales of whatever was standing the wrong side of the glass doors that separated the gate proper from the airbridge.

He gazed forlornly through the glass like a new puppy wondering if its master will ever come home. He was pressed against the glass, all droopy and lonely…awwww….poor wilted man…

He didn’t have to wait long, the gate staff arrived, permitted him ingress and started to make paper come out of a machine with noisy buzzing sounds and an urgent pulsing of data…this meant boarding was imminent.

There was an announcement that boarding would be by row number (I was in 45) and that the frail and those travelling with snot-nosed sprogs would get to board first followed by posh people who paid a lot for their ticket.

The frail appeared to mean anyone who is Indian and over 60 and the wheelchair was rolled in (with an old lady in it) almost as an afterthought as I stood by the gate just making a mental note of who I might eat first if we had to make a forced landing on a deserted island…(too skinny, too young, too hot, just boring enough to not matter if you lived or died…) but I was spotted by the brown smiley lady at the gate who waved me through well before “Jaded Mid-Life Crisis White Dudes in Economy Who Sit at the Back” were supposed to be called and I slipped through the net like a Ninja, satisfied and privileged.

The A330 seemed like a nice place to be but the seats were not as wide, nor did they have as much legroom as an Air NZ 777 and I cursed the French more than usual for a Sunday lunchtime.



Still, it was a work gig, I didn’t have to pay for my seat and I was heading to Fiji which is only a 2.5 hour hop, skip and jump away so I was reasonably content. I plugged my headphones in and listened to the album “My Head is an Animal” by “Of Monsters and Men” while those around me got their collective shite together.

The Pilot came on the PA and told us how we would have a fast flight due to tail winds and that we would be taking off very soon but he was mistaken, some bizarre process involving paperwork and a brazen chap who must have sprinted up the air bridge he was so late to board delayed us nearly 20 mins.

When we did push back a Singapore Air 777 ducked in front of us and we sat behind them for a while as a bevy of domestic aircraft landed followed by a private jet. Then we were in a position to wait for the 777 to head off and soon it was our turn.

The A330 romped down the runway in the afternoon sunshine and took to the air at a very steep angle which was a bit of a lark but as we gained height the plane levelled off and slowed down to continue a northward track at a very sedate speed, quiet, smooth and unhurried, just like the rest of Fiji and that is not a bad thing at all.



I enjoyed watching the west coast drift by and could see the hill that hides my house from prying eyes in the east and got a huge buzz out of that while Of Monsters and Men sang about unrequited love between a sea monster and an Elk in a canoe (trust me, I don’t make this stuff up) …

We were over Whangarei in only 15 mins, a fact that would impress my nephew, Merlin, who makes the round trip once a week and it takes him nearly 2 hours each way.

As we tracked north the east coast of NZ slid away from us and pretty soon it was just a smudge on the horizon… I had a pain in my neck from gawping out of the window and had to take a couple of Nuromol.

My seat neighbour was a rotund Indian guy who wore a coat like it was the Arctic and never said a word to me, he was watching a film in which a lot of people got hurt and things exploded…could be any film made in the last 5 years really. I turned my attention back to the music content on the IFE and was considering listening to some Red Hot Chili Peppers when lunch was served.

Lunch on an aircraft is always a wonderful experience even if it is a forgettable chicken dish with those dreadful squeaky green beans that cause so much domestic strife at home.

However, it was food and that was a good thing, especially the coconut flavoured chocolate biscuit that I had never experienced before.



I then had to go and inspect the toilets because they are important places to me and these were odd, or the one I went to was, it was very spacious for an airline toilet, possibly because it had a fold out change table in there.

Scarlet Harlot and Mr Harlot know how hard it is for me to resist touching things I shouldn’t and I decided that I needed to see what lived in the cupboard under the sink…and here it is!! A fire extinguisher and used paper towels, a great place to chuck a match if one has ADD, Opposition-Defiance Disorder or is generally just a bad person of ill intent.



Moving back to my seat I caught another glimpse of my neighbour’s IFE screen and things were still exploding, folk still getting’ hurt…it is a sick, sad world…I miss the Waltons…

I had the airshow on with chill-out lounge music playing and spent the rest of the flight in a coma until we started our descent into Nadi…this woke me up! I was excited to be returning and hoped the smiley Bula guys were still serenading passengers in the arrivals hall.

I craned my neck to watch the coral reefs appear, then scrub, then farmland and scattered houses and then a village…the runway appeared like an anomaly, 3 centuries away from its immediate surroundings but the lifeline for Fiji’s tourist industry.



Nadi Airport and its runway started life as a refuelling point for Yankee Bombers in WW2 on their way to make things explode and people get hurt in Japan.

Fiji, despite its occasional military coup, is one of the most progressive of the Pacific Islands, it has made good use of the runway over the years and I think it might be the military presence in Govt House that keeps the place so safe…I don’t think President Bananarama would take too kindly to tourists being ripped off and rightly so.

Taxiing to the gate I was thrilled to see it was the promised 28C with 89% Humidity. The sun was shining, the air felt torpid and a sense of calm came over everybody on the aircraft. We knew we had to depart but apart from one Pommie family with a clutch of food-smeared offspring, nobody was stressing.

“James, put that back, no James, James…NO!”

James had no concept of ownership and as far as he was concerned the biscuit-encrusted head phones were his, like a dog says “If I chewed it, it’s mine!”

Only James couldn’t speak, not in a way that would allow an intellectual dialogue on the morals of stealing headphones from an aircraft…I made a mental note to check my next set for teeth marks and fossilised biscuit residue.

We deplaned and the heat caressed me, zephyrs of warm air cooled the sweat on my back and neck and an all pervading and familiar smell hit me…bonfires!

I was wondering what was wrong with my vision and had been intending to clean my glasses but it turns out that the paddocks just upwind of the runway were on fire. Whether intentionally or as a result of a carelessly discarded Fanta bottle we will never now but nobody paid it any attention…I think in Wellington it may have caused the runway to be shut and flights diverted to Blenheim and the news would be full of stories about how global warming actually meant that Wellington got warm enough for something to catch fire.

It did slightly concern me but as none of the airport staff took any notice I ignored it too.

Perhaps if my shoes started to melt I might make a subtle “ahem” as in “Sorry chaps, don’t mean to be a nuisance but one appears to be incandescent. If that’s OK with you?”

The Bula Boys were at Immigration, with their guitars, singing and playing to keep everybody chilled and happy. This is very Fiji, a recording would suffice but the big-hearted Fijians would rather welcome you in person, that is their way and I love it.

The immigration staff in Fiji also wear important hats and blue jumpers, they took their time stamping passports and pressing a secret button to alert the authorities to miscreants and subversives (these are rounded up and sent to Tahiti to be snubbed by the French).

I took my time people-watching and deciding who I would press the button for…nice lady with smiley eyes and sensual shoes…no…Industrious looking Indian man who probably knows a lot about computers…nah…cocksure white guy with a ponytail and a medallion…hell yes!!! I looked at myself reflected in a window…slightly overweight white guy who looks at everybody like he is CIA or an undercover cop…oh dear, the button might just get pressed for me unless I learn to smile and lose the resting cop face.

I know not for whom the button presses but it wasn’t me, I got a kick out of saying I was a Director who was attending a conference. The dark brown lady smiled and I noted her smooth and dusky skin, the contrast between that and her red lipstick, the flash of her white teeth and the feeling I get when I see a woman in uniform.

Nadi airport is in the midst of a makeover and is shaping up very nicely, certain parts of the building perform different functions now and the baggage claim is way bigger.

I threaded my way through the assembled passengers and noted how the baggage carousels were not a scrum of people desperate to grab their bag as soon as it appeared through the plastic fronds that separate prying eyes from sturdy blokes who like dropping bags with gusto from a great height onto the conveyor belt. No, it was all very Fiji, we gave each other room and were polite.

Next I ran the gauntlet of duty free shops, pausing only to buy a bottle of Rum and a family sized bag of Maltesers….I had my nutritional priorities in order on this trip.

Then it was out into the real world, a world of balmy heat, dusky maidens and the smell of bonfires.

I got a bit lost and confused though and couldn’t find the Domestic Terminal because the airport had changed and it was dark last time I was here.

I found it in a grubby shed next to the shiny new International Departure hall and dropped my bag off with bottle of Rum firmly ensconced as I had a three hour wait for my flight to Suva and didn’t fancy deportation, drunk and ranting, a squalid half-dressed vagrant with an attitude, another white dude who couldn’t hold his booze.

No, instead I went to the grubby café in the grubby terminal and ordered a Lamb Samosa and Fries…the brown, grease-stained lace curtain that vainly tried to keep the flies off the food set me on edge but I sat down in an aluminium chair and started to eat…the fries were old and stale and no amount of tomato ketchup could make them appealing…I eyed the Samosa and, assuming it was in a similar state to the fries decided that I would not eat here, instead choosing to go back into the International Terminal and try my hand at something a bit fresher.

I struck gold! There had been a run on fish and chips and the smiley brown ladies apologised that I would have to wait while they cooked some more and I was all good with that.

Filling in the yawning chasm between ordering and delivery (it was probably only seven minutes or so) with a spicy donut ball and a bottle of water I took stock of my position.

I was here, food was coming and I had yet to bump into my Australian colleague who was coming in on a later flight and was going to be flying to Suva with me and that was a good place to be.

The fish and chips was gorgeous and perfectly cooked but was a Fijian portion so I was defeated by the third piece of fish…I am a lightweight…

Mostly tourists don’t go to Suva because it isn’t one of the well-groomed resorts. Cruise ships come to Suva and disgorge suntanned people who buy ‘Suvanirs’ (Lol) and then are ushered back on the ship before they can spend too much money on food and drink on shore.

Suva is the capital of Fiji and, like Wellington in NZ, if it wasn’t the capital people wouldn’t go there much because Nadi has a drier climate and is smarter, flasher, shinier and has better beaches. Nadi is Fiji’s Auckland and like Auckland probably doesn’t represent the “real” Fiji, that Fiji lies in the interior where life dances to a different drum altogether.

This trip would be exciting because on my return from Suva I would do it in the daylight and see the interior for the first time but for tonight it would be another 20-minute flight through a dark, tropical night filled with mystery and imagined things 9,000 feet below us.

Having eaten my fill and adjusted to the time on the wall clock, which just had a heap of numbers painted at the bottom of the dial like they had slid there in the heat and the words “Who Cares?” painted on the face, I headed down to the domestic terminal to look for Mr Oily Pants.

I could see the back of his head as I passed my carry-on through the tiny X-ray machine and triggered the wand with my cufflinks. It was very warm as the tropical night enfolded us like a drug.

The tiny departure lounge was pretty full as I stole up behind the Australian, tapped him on the shoulder and proclaimed “Mr Oily Pants I presume?”

He stood and we chatted amiably for a bit but this was cut short by the announcement that FJ21 was ready to board and would rows 1-5 please get their collective shite together.



Mr Oily Pants was in row 12 so I bade him adieu and strode purposefully out into the night, across the tarmac to the waiting ATR72/600 (high wings, propellers and 60 seats).

“Bula, Bula” the FA’s and assorted ground staff greeted us all tirelessly as we boarded.

Inside, the aircraft was immaculate (same outside too) with fawn leather seats, the aircon was going full blast but the night was still like warm treacle.



Settling into 5F I noticed with some dismay that if I was looking out the window at the same time a propeller blade broke it would most likely take my head off…I seem to recall reading somewhere that these aircraft are reinforced at this part of the fuselage but I couldn’t see any iron bars or steel mesh in the plastic window so resolved not to look out of the window too much.

The seat beside me was empty which was nice, my people must have got that telegram through to the airline in good time.

I spent the time waiting for take-off watching the young Asian couple next to me as they played with their new Samsung phones with the frameless front and wrap-around glass.

Free bottled of water and warm refreshing face towels were handed out, each made a huge difference to our collective comfort and with a quick run through the safety procedures “In the event of the pilot having too much Kava and slamming us into the side of a steep valley you are pretty much screwed, so buckle up and have a safe flight…” we fired up the engines and turned onto the runway.

With that curious bump and sway that the ATR has on the take-off roll we were soon clawing skywards, me cautiously avoiding eye-contact with the propeller only inches from my face and everybody else just enjoying life.



I took a couple of wingshots and had a (very) short snooze.

No sooner were we at cruising altitude than we were on the descent, landing lights searching the gloom for anything that might cause us to explode or get hurt and me, face against the window behind the prop, a crick in my neck and staring earthwards like an excited child as more and more lights appeared.

Looking at people’s houses from above, pondering what the people driving down the road are doing or thinking and generally having a blast is why I like flying, or why I like landing.

Even in the dark I could see Suva had changed, more cars, more street lights, no fires in the streets at intersections and no Army checkpoints.

A final banking turn and we were on the ground; nobody was in a hurry to get off because even in Fiji it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive.

Eventually it was time to wander out into the night and stand by the tiny baggage carousel. Mr Oily Pants to grab his three huge bags full of training material and me a more modest case full of tropical shirts and comfy undies.





We loaded up the trolley, with only a facebook pic to go on we walked through the short alleyway, past hopeful taxi drivers to find Ms T, our contact from the Government.

“Bula Mr Oily Pants and Mr Jafa, welcome to Suva”

Her smile lit up the night and we both fell in love with her as we entered the air-conditioned luxury of the Hyundai SUV with its sky-blue govt number plates.

Feeling like ambassadors or diplomats we were chauffeured through the dark streets to go and further tighten the colonial stranglehold on the machinations of govt in this tropical paradise.

Arriving at the Peninsula Hotel on the corner of McGregor Road and Pender Street I was pleased to note the hotel was in the midst of a makeover and the Executive Suites had improved quite a bit. No more bare wires poking through the airbrick beside the shower and generally a bit smarter than 10 years ago.



Over by the pool (which was outside my door) an older dude than me, who was rocking a loud tropical shirt and a grey pony tail, was joking and laughing with a local prostitute he had brought back for the night.



I think he was an amateur, they were at the giggly stage of things, her all forced and raucous laughter, massive boobs jiggling about under a white vest. He was all hunched and nervous, doing small-talk and occasionally making exaggerated gestures as an excuse to touch her.

This went on for some time and he just wasn’t getting to the liminal point at which the transaction he was paying for would take place….the giggling was loud, it was like having a couple of teenage virgins outside the window.

I was thinking about going out there and giving him some instruction…

“Mate, she knows what you want, you know what you want, I know what you want…so will you please stop fannying around, grab her by the hand, take her to your room and get bloody jiggy with it…do I have to draw pictures?”

But I was wearing only undies and sweat, I figured he would get round to it eventually but that meter was ticking, if he didn’t sort it soon the share price of the Fiji sex trade was gonna surge!

20 mins later it was silent outside, I opened the door the check that he hadn’t just fallen asleep and left her sitting there like a spare thing, sighed with relief and went to bed…tomorrow I had to observe a training course and that would require an early night.[/SIZE]

adrouault

A very unique trip report, for sure!

EuropeanPete

Maybe the mods could add a [casual racism] tag to the thread title to warn people who don't want to read something that could be written by that embarrassing uncle no longer invited along to family events?

dickerso

Brilliant.

frobozzelectric

sounds a lot like my kiwi friend.

adrouault

Definitely a good idea!

rosensfole

I wish I hadn't read this.

kevincrumbs

Please tell me this was a poor attempt at satire.

Jafa39

Casual racism?? Maybe I was a bit harsh on the white people but the rest of you need to understand that mentioning that somebody is brown or Indian is not racism, either casual or intended...the racism is in your own heads whereby you get triggered by the mental image of a Brown person smiling....you get a lot of that in Fiji...and Indians....lot's and lot's of brown people...how else do want me to describe them?....read this sentence and tell me if you find it acceptable.
"The person at the counter told me that they would have to cook a fresh batch" ...doesn't really give you the flavour of Fiji now does it? Fiji is full of smiley brown people and Indians, I'm sorry if that fact offends some of you....best you stay away from the Pacific Islands then as most people have a colour, a gender and a smile, that is why I love Fiji...god help you all!

And yes, ALL the people who boarded under the "Needing assistance" call were Indian and over 60yrs of age...fancy that, facts that hurt...I just tell you what I see and that is what I saw...I did not say it was a bad thing now did I? If they had all been lithe young white preppie Chicks or people with Downs Syndrome in fluorescent leg braces I would have described it with similar attention to detail. Some self-reflection amongst the more sensitive and PC members of this site is needed...and possibly a bit more time in the real world Lol!

Jafa39

No it isn't, it is how I see the world...in colour and with all it's flaws and inadequacies...I also am deeply offended when people accuse me of white privilege...they don't know me or the struggles I have faced in life.

Funny though, I can write a TR that rips into white people and nobody says a word, they lap it up and tell me how funny my TR's are but the moment I mention people of colour you all get hurt and upset...holy cow what has this world come to when we have to pretend that brown people are above reproach but white people are all the spawn of Satan?...jeepers!!!

ironmanjt

In to see how this....casually plays out... certainly one of the most...unique TRs here in a long time.

ironmanjt

Please explain?

steveo

you need to come to the USA and review Southwest or Spirit Airlines!

adrouault

Start out on Southwest, then Spirit, followed by Frontier.
And for the end, have him ride Greyhound. This would be incredible!

Yoshi212

Followed by a NYC-Atlantic City on the Fung Wah bus aka "China bus". The triggers in that story would be popping like crazy.