It’s 8am. I have been sitting at Jackson’s International Airport in Port Moresby waiting for my flight home since 3am (as in when most sensible people are still asleep). A five hour wait and the uncertainty of whether the flight will actually leave seems bearable you might suggest but my uncharacteristic enthusiasm at arriving at any airport early has been born by the fact that I sat for nine #^%$$*#@! hours yesterday, through three %%$$#@! false starts, in the steamy airport in East New Britain waiting for my flight to the capital.