FLYING INTO NEW YORK

As will be seen, this piece was written well before the awful events of 9/11 - and also before we had experienced a number of other airports that were memorable, from the foetid stinking one at Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea to the 'new best' of Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, and many in between. But this still summarises our views pretty well. 

As we flew down Long Island on perfect summer's day, with the white sands stretching for miles, I could not help thinking about our travels over the past ten or twelve years. I tried to cast my mind back to what I might have thought about the future when I was a boy in Rhodesia - did I have any plans to travel far and wide, any idea that I might? I think not. I am sure that, when I read the Eloise books, I never imagined for a moment that I would be staying at the Plaza Hotel in New York, revelling in the sumptuousness of its rich rococo.

To me there is always more of thrill flying into New York than into any other city. Maybe it is the concept landing in what is the embodiment of America. The drive out of JFK is always a shock - the appalling roads and crowds of cars, but as you bump along, bumper to bumper, suddenly there are the glimpses of the Manhattan skyline and then there it is in an enormous panorama - from the twin World Trade Towers to the glorious Chrysler Tower. You are here - in America - in New York. The hooting, impatient traffic, predominantly yellow in colour pours down the avenues between those glorious, soaring monuments to mammon.

The approaches to other cities have their own charm and this is what was occupying my mind as we bumped into the landing approach. Having established New York as the premier - what ranking did the others have. And why?

I guess Cape Town would be my next favourite. No doubt coloured by my feelings for the city: my happy childhood there: the glorious memories of our early married life: the joy of the birth of our child. But even discounting these, there is a majestic grandeur in any of the approaches. The best is that from the west, sweeping in towards Table Mountain, down past Devils Peak to turn over the arc of False Bay. At night, although one misses the view of the mountain, there is a spectacular effect which occurs as the aircraft clears the Hottentots Holland mountains to the north of the city. The lights of the city and the Cape Flats, the plain between the two ranges of mountains, come into view so suddenly that it seems as if they have been turned on instantaneously for the benefit of the viewers.

London is another big thrill. In over the Channel, with the white cliffs stretching to the south, drawing a straight line along the meandering course of the Thames. The tidy patchwork of fields in the Home Counties start to erode into the peri urban sprawl of the city. The docks and factories come into view, surrounded by their mean neighbourhoods. Houses cluster tighter and tighter, although beyond them green countryside can still be seen, from this height. Over the Palace, Wimbledon, the West End - on a clear day they stand out plainly. Then down to Heathrow and the bustle of the terminals before crouching uncomfortably low into the uniqueness of a British cab.

In complete contrast, but running amongst the leaders is the approach to Kariba. Again, moulded perhaps more by the expectations and memories of the place than the sheer spectacle, there is something about the first glimpse of the Lake that makes my heart beat faster. The brown, desiccated countryside suddenly acquires a green fringe, the setting for the bright blueness of the water. Dotted here and there are the islands: Bed, Spurwing, Fothergill, Rhino, Zebra, all with their memories. And as the aircraft descends, individual boats come into focus. Kapenta rigs, done fishing now that the sun is up, with their black nets furled like lateen sails: cruisers with their fishing boats in tow heading from one tie up point to another: speedboats bouncing along, spreading their wakes like peacock tails: early morning game spotting tours setting off in their reed covered rafts. The touchdown at Kariba airport, with the propellers thrust into reverse - looking out the window to see if the herd of impala is still at the end of the runway, or if the elephant standing under the msasa tree has decided to move on. The doors of the aircraft open and the steamy heat of the Zimbabwe Valley hits you like a warm shower. There is a unique smell in the air - an African bush smell, mixing with the avgas - and you can hardly wait to get out on the water and into the fish.

And not to forget Zurich. The route from Africa comes in over Greece and up the Adriatic. The mountains emerge from the gloom of night as dawn breaks - a dawn which is protracted by the westerly flight path. In winter, the sight of the snow on the peaks is still a delight to me, brought up in a land where snow was something you read about in books. The lumpy land over which we fly gradually becomes steeper and higher as we cross the Italian Alps. There is more and more white now, with only the blackness of the steep crags, where the snow cannot stay standing out in sharp contrast. Silvered lakes glint and gleam. The aircraft lowers itself down into the valley, over Lake Lucerne, then a glimpse of Zurich and its own lake before we touch down, spot on time. Even on the airbridge there is a crispness in the air. The terminal has a clinical beauty to it. Everything works. There are no queues. The luggage is arriving on the carousel as you get to the baggage reclaim area. The clean cabs are lined up, their exhausts smoking gently in the chilly morning air. But why not take the train into town. Quick, reliable, spotless it rocks along through the suburbs giving a glimpse into a wakening city. The Bahnhoff is a busy bustle and the smell of coffee and fresh croissants is a lasting memory.

So many other memories jostle forward, once you start - Sweden with green in all its shades everywhere, apart from the dark lakes which abound in such profusion: Sydney from the north with the harbor below and the bridge and Opera House in silhouette: Auckland and Christchurch with their verdant green fields and happy memories of trips to that lovely land: Singapore, with the best airport in the world: the excitement of Orlando: Rio and the glimpse of Corcovada: Hong Kong, dodging in between the buildings, so close you can almost see what is on the television. But probably best of all is the home landing at Melbourne after a long trip away, especially if Anthea is with me singing "I still call Australia home'!


 I STILL CALL AUSTRALIA HOME - Peter Allen

I been to cities that never close down
From New York to Rio and Old London Town
But no matter how far or how wide I roam
I still call Australia home

I'm always travelling
I love being free
And so I keep leaving the sun and the sea
But my heart lies waiting over the foam
I still call Australia home

All the sons and daughters
Spinning around the world
Away from their family and friends
But as the world gets older and colder
Its good to know where your journey ends

Someday we'll all be together once more
When all of the ships come back to the shore
I realise something I've always known
I still call Australia home

But no matter how far or wide I roam
I still call Australia
I still call Australia
I still call Australia home

But no matter how far or wide I roam
I still call Australia
I still call Australia
I still call Australia home