I stepped off the plane, thanking the stewardesses with the funny veil dropping from their heads. I did not find the one steward who spoke Swedish. I assumed it was the one who was flirting with me when he handed me my brunch (which was strangely edible), but I wasn’t sure.
‘Excuse me, can I see you passport and arrival card?’ a customs officer.
‘Of course you can!’ my courteous reply.
‘Travelling for the first time to New Zealand?’
I say yes and tell him a short version of how I ended up here and how long I’ll be here, where I’ll go and all the things he needs to know, being very friendly and cheerful (I did have a happy hangover).
He writes codes on my arrival card: 1, 2, 4, 9, 29, X, X, X. I assumed the X’s were kisses of good luck.
Fifty metres on, a new customs officer asks to see my passport. He’s less friendly than the previous one, but I continue with my very friendly mood. He writes two V’s on the back of the thing and looks pleased as he sees the rest of the codes are already filled in.
As I continue walking, I pass three more customs officers who all want to see my passport; they all grin when they see the codes have already been filled in. I realise I am wearing an orange very retro-style shirt. I am the only one they seem to stop each time. Past another checkpoint, a “4” is put on the back of the form and the man arrogantly tells me to follow the blue line. On my way following the blue line, more people ask for my passport. Whenever they do so, I always think they want to shake hands, instead they’re already grabbing for my passport.
About 16 tables. Only arab and Asian people sitting near them. Their luggage spread out. ‘I shouldn’t have worn this shirt,’ I think out loud.
‘Do you speak a bit of English?’ a girl asks me. I’m happy it’s her and not one of the arrogant looking officers.
‘I speak it brilliantly, don’t worry,’ I say smilingly.
A whole series of questions follows. Her supervisor passes by and looks at me suspiciously, whispering loudly in her ear: ‘check everything, he’s got something on him!’ She smiles. I don’t stop talking to her, asking her about her job and how I think it’s all because of my shirt I’m there. We’re having a friendly conversation.
More questions.
‘What’s in your bags?’
‘Let’s see, in this one: clothes, underwear, a toilet roll, computer cables, DVD’s, toiletries. In the other one: my laptop, my camera, some books, my journal, more computer cables,…’
‘Anything… that I might be interested in?’
I laugh and say: ‘Deodorant?’ She starts laughing loudly. Anyone else would have been very irritated.
I continue saying: ‘No, if it’s drugs you’re after, I haven’t got any. The only thing in it is two cans of bourbon & coke, though I hardly think that’s an offence.’
‘Look, here’s a form in which you can declare items and this is your final chance to tell me what’s in those bags. You’ve got something and we’ll find it. Anything you don’t list here can and will be used against you.’
I fill in the two cans of bourbon & coke, sign the form and give it back to her.
‘Are you sure that’s all?’
‘Look, I haven’t got any drugs with me, okay?’
‘Sure, here’s a pamphlet for you to read while I fill in some more forms in. I’ll find them, you know!’
I ignore the pamphlet and open a tourist guide to Auckland I just picked up. I sit myself, talking a bit more about things to do in Auckland. I tell her I shouldn’t have worn the shirt.
She objects and says: ‘No, why would you want to look like anyone else. I can see it’s a part of your individuality, so you shouldn’t do that to be like everone else!’
‘No, but if I would, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?’
‘Still, I don’t think you need to be anyone but yourself.’
‘I feel the same way, though it would be good to skip all this fuss.’
She starts going through my bags, taking everything out. She says she likes my clothes. She goes through my DVD collection and tells me she just started watching Six Feet Under and tells me she really likes it. She stumbles upon a card I bought at Melbourne airport with Jim Morrison’s face on it.
‘Ah, Jim Morrison!’ she smiles.
‘Yeah, he’s HOT, isn’t he?’ I proclaim.
‘You look a bit like him in this picture.’
‘No, it’s the other way round; he looks like me, I don’t look like him.’ We both laugh.
Her supervisor walks past and tells her to check my jacket. He gives me another glare. No kilos of heroin found in bag number one, she goes to bag number two. She takes out my laptop, my camera (‘nice camera,’ she says), my journal, some books and my toiletries. She starts going through them and notices my contact lenses and asks me about them. ‘You wear contacts?’
‘Yeah, they’re great! I don’t have to take them out at night, really handy!’
‘Were they expensive, I used to have them, but they’re very expensive.’
‘Oh no, I bought them on the internet, they cost about 200 NZ$.’
‘Really? That’s cheap, man! You see I’m wearing glasses just now, right? It’s ‘coz these contacts are way too expensive!’
‘You should check it out on the net!’
‘Yeah, I will.’
Still no drugs, my bags taken to an X-ray machine, a search for secret compartments. Still nothing. She promises me a glass of water, but will never get me one. I don’t blame her for anything and tell her she’s just doing her job. I start reading the pamphlet in which is said that they did not pick me for my ethnicity, religion or sex. I look in the room and notice how this theory is put into practice. Arabs. I tell her how I do think what’s happening here is racial profiling. She tells me it’s nothing like that: ‘I mean, you’re European, you’re here!’
‘Yeah, but that’s just because of the shirt, basically. And I’m the only one, too.’ More arabic people line up in the waiting line.
‘Well, what we look for is certain indicators, you know. Like is it your first time here, did you book your flight very late, …’
‘…do you look like a hippie,..;’ I add.
She smiles.
The final test is chemical. She puts on a pair of rubber gloves (making me ask: ‘Are you going to do a cavity search?’ She smiles and says: ‘Do you want one?’ to which I say no, not really). She begins the test: ‘This WILL show if there’s been contact with drugs on your clothes.’ She smiles again, this time thinking I had not thought of that. And she was right, I hadn’t thought of that.
Nothing.
Nothing found, she helps me pack my bags (something I thought they wouldn’t do, and I didn’t see it happen with any of the other ones, too – she must have liked me), and escorts me to the exit. I tell her goodbye and wish her a nice day and she wishes me a nice stay and apologises for not bringing me the water. Five minutes later she runs after me, telling me she forgot to give me my passport… We both laugh and say goodbye once more.
Two hours wasted, but I had fun talking to her actually.
My days of misanthropy are over.
Cool.
I stepped on a bus to Auckland city, a friendly bus driver insists on taking a detour to drop me off on the street where I have to be. I thank him for his kindness, and smiles appreciatingly. A guy on the bus is shouting to take him to the airport.
Tim van den Oudenhoven 