The World of Leonardo Morgado

Standing at the BA check-in desk at Heathrow Airport being told that there are ‘some problems’ with your passport is not the ideal way to start a trip to New Zealand.

What makes the situation worse is not the sweat that is being created in one’s entire body or even the material fear that the money spent on the flight could become just a minus figure in the bank statement but it is the fact that the staff member telling you the information is being so annoyingly nice about it.

‘It’s Sydney,’ the nice BA check-in staff worker politely and helpfully tells me.

‘The Australian immigration system is rejecting you coming into the country.’

My ‘I’m no problem to anyone’ grin that usually gets me through most officialdom is not only straining but creaking, limping and sagging too.

‘Have you a visa for Australia?’

‘Um, no because I’m not going to Australia,’ I reply, ‘I’m just changing flights at Sydney.  I won’t be leaving the airport.

‘I see.’ The nice BA check-in staff worker politely and understandingly nods his head. He looks at my Chilean passport. I know that I’ve been living in England for thirty years but I have never quite got round getting myself a British passport. I curse my procrastination or as Lin calls it, my ‘can’t be arsedness.’

Lin is standing next to me. I can see the blood drain from her face. I wonder whether she will faint or resort to a knee in my groin for not researching the voyage correctly. I turn to her and I assure her that I have researched the various immigration rules of each country that we’re going to and I definitely don’t need a visa for transfers.

‘I’m pretty sure I don’t,’  I unreassuringly add.

The nice BA check-in staff worker scans my passport again through the machine. A faint beep is heard for the third time. Beeps are always bad. Faint or not it’s modern life’s way of telling you that no matter how in control you think you are of your life, there is a microprocessor somewhere that ultimately is in charge and will launch Trident missiles at you if needs must just to remind you of that fact.

He picks the phone up and dials a number.  A slight pause.  Someone answers.

‘Hello. It’s BA check-in I was wondering if you can help.’ His politeness and willingness to assist is heart-warming. I am thinking that I may have to buy shares in BA if he sorts this out. Fifty pounds worth would be a good gesture.

‘I’m having problems with someone’s passport.  It’s Sydney.’

At this precise moment I’m thinking that Australia’s biggest geographical problem is that it is above sea level. I abandon my thoughts of genocide to concentrate on the matter in hand. Some technical talk ensues on the telephone. He slides the passport through his machine. Silence. No beep.

‘It’s worked. Thank you.’ He hangs up the phone. I feel that I may have crossed the customer/staff relationship boundary but jumping over the counter and manfully French kissing him. It doesn’t matter. I’m flying to New Zealand.

After an unbelievably long time later standing at Sydney airport waiting for our final connecting flight to Aukland, my economy class cramped long hauled flight brain is throbbing with confused time zones. Standing at Sydney airport the fact finally hits me. New Zealand really is on the other side of the world. It is the 5th February, 07:15 local time and I am daydreaming of comfortable beds and warms showers.

On the return flight I am thinking of starting an economy class revolution. The downtrodden taking up weapons in the form of blankets, blind-folds and plastic knives and storming first and business class sections. A mighty battle will ensue. Many of my comrades will fall due to sleep deprivation, being feed plastic nosh and the fact that the enemy will have thicker pillows. Ultimately, we will be triumphant and we will demand our inalienable right to a seat that fully reclines without paralysing a person sitting behind you.

These thoughts continue as we board the LAN Chile plane that will take us to Aukland. The irony that a Chilean airline will take me to New Zealand after my Chilean passport nearly prevented me from leaving Heaththrow is one that does not escape me. It doesn’t matter anymore for as we fly over the Tasman Sea and as the outline of New Zealand is visible and as the plane descends towards Aukland Airport and as the sound of tyre hitting tarmac is heard, all that matters is that we’ve made it.

Welcome to New Zealand.