Flying standby from Auckland to Queenstown was a great option, considering that a regular flight cost $200, while standby cost $79. Gee, that’s brain surgery. So I went to the airport between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. and reported to the standby ticketing counter which was conspicuous around the corner from the baggage claims, behind the carousels, facing the opposite way of the traffic pattern. I was asked to sign a document which appeared to be a huge disclaimer of “if you don’t get on a flight at the time you want, that’s too bad.” I signed. Then the ticket agent asked if I wanted just a seat or a seat and a bag. Since I was going on the standard of the U.S. where you can still carry-on a carry-on size bag, I requested a seat.
I took my signed piece of paper to another counter where I would hopefully be issued a boarding pass.
“This says you requested just a seat.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Let’s weigh your bag.”
Well, okay. The woman looked just a little bit superior. I rolled my bag over and placed it on the scale where it was shown to weigh a mere 16 kg. The limit displayed on the sign above the scale allowed a weight of 23 kg. The agent directed me to yet another counter with another piece of paper.
“You’ll have to check the bag.”
“What?”
“You’ll have to check the bag. It’s over 7 kg.”
“But the sign says …”
“Yes. That’s for checked bags. You’ll have to check this.”
Off I rolled to the third counter, where I assumed I would just check the bag much like is done in the States with a gate-checked bag.
The woman pursed her lips. Why is it that women are so good at pursing their lips in disapproval?
“That will be $20.”
“What?” Quick on the uptake, I tell you.
“Twenty dollars.”
Fuzzy-headed and fever-sweaty, I handed over $20 and tried to explain that I didn’t understand this wasn’t considered a carry-on size.
“You were given this information, right?” She pushed the form I had signed a few minutes ago across the counter.
“Yes.”
“Did you read it?”
I gaped. “Well…No.”
“Don’t you read things before you sign them?”
“No.” Not always. I was just sick enough to where my editor was not employed.
“You don’t read things before you sign them? You should always read things before you sign them. Here’s your receipt.”
At the windows by the entrance, there was a ledge-type thing with vent units spaced intermittently which was the closest things to a chair that I could find, so I sat and read the thing. The document stated clearly that there was a charge of $79 or $89, depending upon whether a person wanted a seat or a seat and a bag fare. After reading it thoroughly – twice – I found the same woman, and stated that I shouldn’t have been charged $20; I should have been charged $10. No, she said. Yes, I said. Nowhere does it state that I am charged an additional $20. No, she said, it doesn’t have to because $20 is the charge for any checked bag. And in fact, they didn’t have to take the bag at all, considering that I didn’t claim it when I should have, which the airline might see as a suspicious action.
Although the policy of restraint of pen and tongue has been impressed upon me for years, and although arguing in public is a crass action that embarrasses the arguer, the arguee and those unfortunate enough to stand within earshot, I argued. About $10. While at the mercy of two women who could put me on a flight or not, take my baggage or not, arrest me or not. Something in my consciousness finally clicked. I stopped.
“I understand.” I said.
“We don’t have to take the bag. This is what the airline charges, if you had read –“
“I will fight no more forever.” I held up my hand in a sign of peace.
“The airline policy is that – “
“I. Understand.”
And walked away and tried not to burst into tears.
Well, those women were professional enough to get me a boarding pass and check my bag. And I shut my mouth and got on the flight. At least it was a beautiful day, and the view of Auckland as we took off was lovely. And although I got the center seat, the women on either side were quiet, and I dozed until we landed in Q-town.
Where it was just starting to rain.
But the shuttle driver was nice, and the same woman who had sat next to me on the plain got into the van and sat next to me again, chatting the entire time about what to do and not and where to eat and not and, oh, don’t know where the hostel is, she wouldn’t know anything about hostels, but have a great time, luv.
Queenstown was named for Queen Victoria and is situated on the shores of Lake Wakatipu, a natural glacial lake that stretches 80 km (50 miles) and is edged by the Remarkables range of mountains, site of many “Lord of the Rings” film shots (much of the entire country is, Peter Jackson being a Kiwi). The mountains surrounding the lake also played host to the early scenes in “X-Men,” where Hugh Jackman (yum) as Wolverine found Rogue hitch-hiking. A vintage steamship, the SS Earnshaw, takes regular cruises across the lake and up the rivers that feed and empty it.
The town was overrun with young backpackers, probably because it is the jumping off point for just about any extreme activity you might want to endanger your life doing, including bungee jumping and sky diving and the world’s largest swing (a different application of bungee cords) parasailing, speedboats up the river that specialize in full 360-degree spins, a zip line and, for those who prefer something more staid, a gondola ride up the mountain. In the surrounding bush (woods) there are numerous walking tracks (hiking trails) where those who enjoy having no running water or toilet facilities may bury their own poo to their hearts’ content.
The city is not just attractive to backpackers, though – it’s one of the premier destinations in the world, hosting about 1.2 million people every year. The Maori passed through the area first, collecting jade, what they call green stone. They also hunted a now-extinct bird called the moa (moh-ah), a large ostrich looking thing that couldn’t fly. The Maori simply set fire to the bush and nabbed the creatures as they ran out. No wonder they’re extinct now. After the Maori, William Rees was the first European there, and the pioneering settler. He leased land from the government to graze sheep, and stayed after the lease was up. Before roads were built, the lake played an important role in farming since the quickest way to get livestock to market was taking them across on a steamboat. Thomas Arthur and Harry Redfern found gold in the Shotover River not long after the town was settled, which set off a boom until the early 1900s, when the town went bust again, left with a population of about 200. Now about 8,000 people live there.
It is a lovely little town, and I probably would have had a better time there had I not been sick and sleeping with five other people, one of whom was a snorer of truly epic proportions (who would not wake even with poking and prodding – and yes, I got out of bed and tried) the same guy who came in at 2 a.m. and turned on the lights, then went out and slammed the door, in again and slammed the door, and out again, and in again. Not that I noticed.
After two nights there, I was off to embark on an overnight cruise on lovely Doubtful Sound.