Travel hell
August 18th 2006 11:38
TRAVELLING IS THE END OF THE EARTH
It’s 1.30am and the glare of the brutal fluorescent lights burning down on the tired, dazed travelers crammed into the customs area of Wellington international airport is vicious. At the moment I’m relaxed and patiently determined, like a low-security prisoner, to bide my time and enjoy the freedom beckoning on the other side of the desks in front when it comes to me. I’ve been through this all over the world and I know that getting worked up is pointless. Hey, I’ve got no particularly pressing engagements for at least another 12 hours anyway. I know this could be a lot worse. As always, I try to make myself feel better by thinking of the more trying airport experiences I’ve had.
Los Angeles airport was memorable for two things. Firstly, the startling sight of the wall that stretches the length of the moving footpath to the arrival lounge, and secondly, the customs officers. The former is a strange swirling, nauseating affair, made up by thousands of tiny, differently coloured tiles. It’s pure porno movie carpet pattern, must have taken an exceptionally long time to put together and will take twice as long to banish from my memory.
The customs officers are armed heavily and dress so similarly to the local police force that the almost violent aura they carry is quite unnerving. The man that processed me had no time for greetings and demanded not only my passport, but to see my cash, credit cards, the contents of my pockets and my shoes. I was about to declare with confidence, borne from the benefit of having packed them myself, that the contents of my shoes consisted of only my feet, but the expression on his face froze the words in my throat. I received no hello or goodbye and I was shattered. I thought all Americans were legally obliged to say “Have a nice day” to everyone they met. I then realised that the date was September the 10th, so I decided to just be happy that I couldn’t see rubber gloves among his armoury.
Another memorable experience was Arizona. The airport is the size of a modest bus station and so dreary that I cheered myself up by reading a newspaper story about drive-by shootings at an L.A high school. Despite the airport’s apparent lack of significance, security is tight and in addition to all the usual procedures, I was asked to remove my belt and footwear. My belt was for looks only and sewn into my shorts when I bought them. The fact I was wearing thongs made no difference either. And so I came to be standing at the metal detector of Phoenix Sky Harbour airport, barefoot and in my undies.
The first time I went through customs at Heathrow, the shock almost stopped my heart. The massive cattle shed of a room is the size of several football fields and crammed with roped off lines. These barricades snake up and back, up and back, up and back until they reach the raised throne-like customs booths whose occupants we travelers, the scum of the airports, worship, and which look to be several kilometres away from the entrance. The one thing that really stuck with me though was the height of the ceiling. It seems to reach the Heavens and a freedom that is just as unattainable. The ubiquitous fluorescent lights also add to the general feeling of despair, whilst the hideous brown and tan interior is the icing on the cake. It appears the English approach to anti terrorism is to simply break the bad guys’ spirits before they get into the country. The grumpy, moustachioed woman that stamped my passport will also continue to haunt my dreams.
Back in Wellington there’s only two customs officers processing us at the moment, but that’s only to be expected at this time of morning. The line is moving like molasses through a funnel and my patience is crumbling away. I’m a calm person and I don’t get upset about things I can do nothing about, but some people just cross the line. Idiots that step up to the customs desk with their passport still buried in the depths of their hand luggage or without having filled in their arrival form, causes an urge to beat them, until they agree to travel in the future exclusively by boat or donkey, grow inside me like a bushfire engulfing a parched hillside.
When I do get to the desk, I’m processed in about 12 seconds, leaving me with a profound feeling of not having got my moneys worth. The officer is so cheerful and polite that I want to tell him his uniform is silly and he has too much gel in his hair, two things that I couldn’t help noticing over and over again in as I was in line, a sure sign that I was standing in the same place for far too long.
What can we do to protect ourselves from these airport criminals? Sadly, nothing. Just be glad when you don’t have to sit next to them on the plane. If you do however, don’t be afraid to take matters into your own hands. No juror that’s experienced air travel would convict you.
It’s 1.30am and the glare of the brutal fluorescent lights burning down on the tired, dazed travelers crammed into the customs area of Wellington international airport is vicious. At the moment I’m relaxed and patiently determined, like a low-security prisoner, to bide my time and enjoy the freedom beckoning on the other side of the desks in front when it comes to me. I’ve been through this all over the world and I know that getting worked up is pointless. Hey, I’ve got no particularly pressing engagements for at least another 12 hours anyway. I know this could be a lot worse. As always, I try to make myself feel better by thinking of the more trying airport experiences I’ve had.
Los Angeles airport was memorable for two things. Firstly, the startling sight of the wall that stretches the length of the moving footpath to the arrival lounge, and secondly, the customs officers. The former is a strange swirling, nauseating affair, made up by thousands of tiny, differently coloured tiles. It’s pure porno movie carpet pattern, must have taken an exceptionally long time to put together and will take twice as long to banish from my memory.
The customs officers are armed heavily and dress so similarly to the local police force that the almost violent aura they carry is quite unnerving. The man that processed me had no time for greetings and demanded not only my passport, but to see my cash, credit cards, the contents of my pockets and my shoes. I was about to declare with confidence, borne from the benefit of having packed them myself, that the contents of my shoes consisted of only my feet, but the expression on his face froze the words in my throat. I received no hello or goodbye and I was shattered. I thought all Americans were legally obliged to say “Have a nice day” to everyone they met. I then realised that the date was September the 10th, so I decided to just be happy that I couldn’t see rubber gloves among his armoury.
Another memorable experience was Arizona. The airport is the size of a modest bus station and so dreary that I cheered myself up by reading a newspaper story about drive-by shootings at an L.A high school. Despite the airport’s apparent lack of significance, security is tight and in addition to all the usual procedures, I was asked to remove my belt and footwear. My belt was for looks only and sewn into my shorts when I bought them. The fact I was wearing thongs made no difference either. And so I came to be standing at the metal detector of Phoenix Sky Harbour airport, barefoot and in my undies.
The first time I went through customs at Heathrow, the shock almost stopped my heart. The massive cattle shed of a room is the size of several football fields and crammed with roped off lines. These barricades snake up and back, up and back, up and back until they reach the raised throne-like customs booths whose occupants we travelers, the scum of the airports, worship, and which look to be several kilometres away from the entrance. The one thing that really stuck with me though was the height of the ceiling. It seems to reach the Heavens and a freedom that is just as unattainable. The ubiquitous fluorescent lights also add to the general feeling of despair, whilst the hideous brown and tan interior is the icing on the cake. It appears the English approach to anti terrorism is to simply break the bad guys’ spirits before they get into the country. The grumpy, moustachioed woman that stamped my passport will also continue to haunt my dreams.
Back in Wellington there’s only two customs officers processing us at the moment, but that’s only to be expected at this time of morning. The line is moving like molasses through a funnel and my patience is crumbling away. I’m a calm person and I don’t get upset about things I can do nothing about, but some people just cross the line. Idiots that step up to the customs desk with their passport still buried in the depths of their hand luggage or without having filled in their arrival form, causes an urge to beat them, until they agree to travel in the future exclusively by boat or donkey, grow inside me like a bushfire engulfing a parched hillside.
When I do get to the desk, I’m processed in about 12 seconds, leaving me with a profound feeling of not having got my moneys worth. The officer is so cheerful and polite that I want to tell him his uniform is silly and he has too much gel in his hair, two things that I couldn’t help noticing over and over again in as I was in line, a sure sign that I was standing in the same place for far too long.
What can we do to protect ourselves from these airport criminals? Sadly, nothing. Just be glad when you don’t have to sit next to them on the plane. If you do however, don’t be afraid to take matters into your own hands. No juror that’s experienced air travel would convict you.
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