If Suzuki Swifts Could Fly

Words by Jamie Livingstone (he/him)

Before I begin, let me offer a quick disclaimer: I’m deeply grateful to live a life that allows me to travel. This is not a lament about privilege…however…when you find yourself aboard the Suzuki Swifts of the air, it’s not unlikely to be left with a few battle scars, plus the moral obligation to warn others of the horrors that lie in the skies above them. To put this ominous disclaimer into context, around three weeks ago, I boarded a 12-hour Jetstar flight, unaware of the terror I would soon endure. I tell you, reader, it was bloody harrowing. 

Where do I even begin? Let's start with what happened roughly 1 hour into my flight. I was staring into the abyss, already questioning plenty of life choices, when I was interrupted by an ununiformed, unidentified figure, standing above me, glaring with unnerving intensity.

I assumed he was lost or possibly in distress, so I began with a simple ‘You right mate?’. No reply. What followed was an excruciatingly slow reach into his front pocket (fearing the worst, I assumed he was summoning a glock) and he produced a mince and cheese pie, thrusting it into my lap. I stared at the meal as if it were a ticking bomb, waiting for it to explode. The mysterious man continued on his way, and that's when I awoke to the realisation that this gentleman was, apparently, a crew member. Jetstar, it seems, doesn’t require uniforms as they soar across the globe. Either that, or it was a mufti day for the staff. 

Moments after this slightly unnerving encounter, my eye was attracted to the cockpit door, which was wide open. Not slightly ajar, completely fucking open. At first, I thought what you, as the reader, may be thinking, "Possibly the pilot was dropping a load and forgot to close the door?” Very reasonable assumption. However, forty-five minutes passed, and I concluded that the captain, who was piloting 300 passengers over the Philippine Sea, soaring through a torrential rainstorm, shaking hands with the devil, was entirely open for a Q&A from the passengers. Interesting tactic of customer support, considering the only question I had was ‘how the fuck do I get off this plane?’. Allow me to inform you that I practically sold my soul to get onto this flight; I was blessed to have a first-person view of the pilot's experience. 

I know I sound like an arrogant twat, so I should compliment the fact that the lovely, ununiformed staff placed me in the emergency seating, which, considering my height, was greatly appreciated. I could properly relax and enjoy international travel…however…I was ignorant of the fact that being placed in emergency seating involved a complementary crash course in airline safety protocol. Yes, on Jetstar, they like to teach you their entire fucking job, in case you weren’t already loving their services. Had an emergency occurred, I was solely responsible for aiding every poor passenger off that tin can with wings.

God-forbid an emergency did occur, I would’ve been put out of my misery faster. One can only hope for a miracle. 

In-flight entertainment? Forget it. I doubt first class even received that luxury option. Why would you give 300 people the ability to relax when they can just stare at the greasy scalp of the passenger in front of them? There I was thinking I would be able to watch a newly released film and hopefully black out from boredom, instead I realised why anti-dandruff shampoo was invented, because the cock sitting in front of me hadn’t heard of showering before. It was like staring at the head of a mechanic who had been working for twenty years. ‘Greasy McGee’, I’ll call him, and if by some miracle, he reads this piece, please shower, I’m begging you. 

Then came the layover—four hours in Rockhampton City, Australia. Let me write that again for impact. We had a 4-hour layover in Rockhampton City fucking Australia. Transit-lounge? Why would you invent one of those? Instead, 300 of us were informed by staff—who deserve medals—that we would be spending the 4-hour layover on the literal airstrip. I swear on my life, I’m not exaggerating or joking. So that’s how I found myself, using my luggage as a seat, sharing a cigarette with a man I’d met about 20 minutes ago, waiting for our plane to literally land right in front of us. What a predicament. During the first hour, I was empathetic. Patriotic, some would say. ‘I can’t believe they would let these hard-working Kiwi citizens, who paid an arm and a leg to board this flight, sit outside on an airstrip for hours’, I thought stoically. And then I’m not sure what happened, but three hours in, my morals completely transformed and I began thinking ‘these fucking guys deserve it’. Somehow I went from patriotically supporting the passengers to hating them and myself with immense passion. I apologise to you readers for my arrogance, Jetstar brought the absolute worst out of me. 

I’m aware of how I sound. Spoiled. Arrogant. Slightly schizophrenic. But I’m only offering this piece as a cautionary tale, not to use this as a platform to bitch about my life. Next time you're scrolling through flight options and you excitedly notice some suspiciously cheap fares, please pause and consider whether you’re prepared to endure what I have described today. Think about spending 12 hours with the ability to sit shotgun with the pilot. Consider whether you want to have a smoke on an airstrip, which I’m pretty sure is illegal. If so, by all means, book it! I commend your bravery. But if I’ve done my job, you’ll opt for the slightly pricer seat—and a significantly smoother ride.