The plane overflies the airport and effects a kamikaze descent by spiralling down twice. Kudos to the younger members of the Brisbane Youth God-Botherers Club, inevitably clarinet players, for declaring this their 2nd flight ever (their first was to Vila) but not overreacting to the uprushing coconut trees. The screams of the locals worried me a little more however. These trees come up to what i guess initially is the fence line of the airport. When we land i see that there is no fence line, just a line where the trees end. The "International Airport" is what Knock would have been had Horan had his epiphany in the '50s, and Mayo had a tropical climate.
The cabin crew take my bag from the plane, walk it over to the terminal and hand it to me. I get fleeced by the taxi driver, although this is the first time on this trip, so i don't really care. They have the advantage of me because there is a fact sheet of taxi prices to common places just outside the door, but my destination isn't on it. Putting the seat-belt on is a reflex action, but the driver points and laughs, and then shouts to his buddies as we leave the airport and they all laugh too. He shakes his head and chuckles away to himself in what might be a sign that the kava bars open too early here. The first thing i notice as we drive into town to get petrol - the driver doesn't have enough to take me where i need to go, which softens my reaction to the fleecing somewhat more - is the spiders. Hanging in midair, webs spun together, there are hundreds of them. They weigh down the power lines and the tree branches. I get a flashback to an old Johnny Weissmuller Tarzan movie where giant spiders do something interesting like kidnap his son, or make a pass at Jane with a grammatically sound and well thought out line of conversation that immediately pits them them at odds with the hero.
On the road north there are crabs scuttling across the road. Often they freeze and raise their claws in challenge before dancing left and right and then haring back where they started the road cross. I can't figure out if the driver is lining them up as we go, but we account for more than i might ordinarily be karmically comfortable with. He doesn't seem to mind. He looks like Danny Glover with grey hair, but a couple of days later i realise that all old men in Santo look like Danny Glover with grey hair. And most of them drive taxis. And they all know each other. In a bizarre reflection of true West of Ireland traditions more than half a world away, they acknowledge each other based on nothing discernible. This truck gets two fingers and a head nod. These three taxis get a raised index finger. This other taxi gets a slow down and some mutually shouted abuse before some maniacal laughter. It almost feels like home, and i think i am going to like it.
And then there's the diving still to come...