My previous visits have been pleasant, apart from the minefield of getting into the place. At JFK airport I was pulled aside by a grossly overweight woman complete with sidearm, a barrage of badges and a hostile manner.
"These papers are out of order, buster, what’s your birth date?"
I remained polite and explained that the birth date on my passport, entered by a New Zealand official, was 11-6-46 and the date on the visa, entered by an American official, was 6-11-46 but that they were actually the same thing.
Like an angler losing a big fish she grimaced and thrust the documents back obviously disgruntled to see a shady drug mule turning out to a law-abiding nobody.
A trip to Canada involved a short stopover in Hawaii and another brush with American border paranoia. Airport staff directed passengers to various queues and instead of fetching up in the transit lounge we found ourselves at an immigration desk with no visa. Confusion reigned amidst a fusillade of loud American English, an unpleasant sound even at the best of times. From the wall of frantic officials emerged a worried woman who beckoned us to follow. Through a small side door and on to a golf cart which she drove around the tarmac area to another small door behind which was the peace of the transit lounge.
"Don’t ever tell this to anyone. You have actually been illegally on American soil," she whispered. It’s taken me 30 years to risk making the story public.
Things are worse with Donald Trump in charge. Latest prediction is that visitor numbers to the United States will decline by about 10%. Last week Australian comedian Alice Fraser cancelled a visit to the US on legal advice because her act has included jokes about Donald Trump and Professor Robert Patman of Otago University says he would not travel to the United States at the moment as he has been critical of that country’s foreign policy.
This column has often ridiculed Mr Trump and there’s no doubt a file on me. It’s just not worth the risk
In other countries it’s the rip-off merchants who are out to get you. On my first visit to Paris in 1974 I was ticking off the sights and was soon surrounded by loopies taking photos of themselves in front of the Eiffel Tower. I never carry a camera and was soon targeted by an unsavoury looking Frenchman holding a Polaroid camera who indicated he’d like to take my picture. I shrugged but posed and he snapped. A few seconds later he pressed on me a grainy snapshot of a short man in front of a tall heap of scrap iron. "Fifty francs," he proclaimed in broken English. At last, my Stage I French came in handy as I retorted in broken French, "Fous le camp!" (It means "p... off!") He stamped his foot and shouted phrases in French which I didn’t understand apart from the word "cochon" which peppered his outburst. (It means "pig".)
In London 10 years later, I found myself in a crush of tourists watching a smooth card sharp running a find-the-lady racket. The victim is lured into betting on being able to pick the queen from three face-down cards. I looked on in superior amusement knowing well that it was a con. An American beside me muttered, "It’s a trick. I wouldn’t touch it, pal." But some of the punters started to win so the Yank decided to have a go and put down a fiver. He won and scooped £10 back. "Have a go," he urged, so I plonked down a fiver. Of course, I didn’t pick the lady (she was probably no longer among the cards) and lost the fiver. (£5 was the price of five pints in those days, so I’d learned an expensive lesson). I realised that the previous winners and the Yank were part of the swindling group and noticed a couple of policemen plodding along nearby. The swindlers saw them, too, and even before the bobbies took another step the card table and card sharps had melted away.
What joy it was, then, to read of two London policemen who last week, disguised as Batman and Robin, swooped on a bunch running the find-the-lady game on Westminster Bridge. The crims were fooled by the masked avengers and never made their getaway. The fines of £925 certainly made up for my lost fiver of long ago and reinforced my faith in the British bobby.
But I’m staying home, all the same.
— Jim Sullivan is a Patearoa writer.
