No way to treat a friend

Press, 11 July 1989, Page 6

No way to treat a friend

Wilsons Week...

Diary of an innocent abroad. Chapter one, in which a novice in the northern hemisphere discovers the Americans have long memories and still think all Nazis are pukes. 1 Between 1941 and 1945 Dad did his best to clean out North Africa of Erwin Rommel, the German Afrika Korps and any stocks of iced beer he could lay his hands on. The record of that service is contained deep within the manilla filing system in the bowels of Defence Headquarters. New Zealand Engineers, Sapper R. P. Wilson, fought the Nazis. Five years after winning the war Dad celebrated with iced beers as his little boy, David, was born. And 39 years later David was sitting at the kitchen table attempting to decipher an application form for a visa to visit the United States of America. Which is why we are talking about the Nazis, or will be in a moment or two. “Would you like a week in America?” asked the Boss. Does a bear sleep in the woods? With this simple philosophy, a great adventure was born. A week in Seattle, Washington, visiting the Boeing aircraft factory. Well, why not, my diary for the week was free. I would have crawled over broken glass for the trip. But first I needed a visa. A form was supplied which required answers on every topic from my age and occupation to providing a full passenger list for the Titanic. The form-filling re-

quired patience and attention, no simple task when two little doeeyed boys were looming nearby pleading to be included on the journey. “It’s, business, boys, honest!” “You’ll be near Disneyland," they replied in their most accusing tone. “I’ll buy you some toys,” I promised. “We’d rather buy our own,” said one. “At Disneyland,” said his brother, ramming the point home. Back in visa land, things were no clearer. I had completed the section of all the things I was, male, journalist, so many years old and so on, and now I had a section of all the things I was not. There was a question asking whether I was or had ever been a Com munist? No, never was, never will be. The profit margins are too slim. Are you, or have you ever been, a member of the Nazi Government of Germany, it asked. For just a fleeting instant there was a temptation to write “nein” in the slot. But then I remembered that people with such senses of humour are condemned to spend their days ,at airports waving goodbye to other people flying off on junkets. Interestingly there was nothing on the application form about being an international master criminal. One can only assume from this that an intercontinental jewel thief has more chance of getting an American visa than a minor clerk in the Third Reich. Although Los Angeles is one of the most popular entry points to the U.S.A., they have a

“softening up” centre in a microwave oven called Honolulu. Our Air New Zealand 747 jumbo had swooped into this exotic location and with nose pressed up against the window I suddenly saw below me every model aeroplane fanatic’s fantasy — a lineup of F 4 Phantom jets, Fl 5 Eagles, Fl 6 Fighting Falcons. “Whoa, Back up!” I pleaded. ' Unfortunately nobody else was interested and the cabin attendants gave me a boiled lolly and colouring book to shut me up. They shovelled us off the plane at honolulu into what is laughingly referred to as a transit lounge, it probably is, between this world and The next. It was fully encased by floor to ceiling glass, had no fresh air, no airconditioning, and then they pumped in the heat. About 200 very jet-lagged humans were squeezed in here, most doing very creditable impressions of zombies. The refreshment store was closed, the toilets didn’t work and the lollyvending machine in the lounge spat back the money I fed into it. It gobbled up everybody else’s dollar bills, but repeatedly rejected mine. Somebody did not want me to eat or drink and I wondered if Weightwatchers had the

franchise for the transit lounge. What else can go wrong? I wailed, reaching for a cigarette. “No smoking!” boomed a disembodied voice over the loudspeaker. A small knot of social pariahs furtively skulked in a far corner of the room, frantically fanning the air to disperse the tell-tale smoke. We also positioned a decoy line of women and breastfeeding infants in front of us. Squawking geese protected the ancient Romans from surprise attack, maybe the same principle would work here on airport security guards. Every 10 minutes a lady announced there

would be a boarding call in 10 minutes. Mainland U.S.A. and cold beers were still 5y 2 hours away, and we’d been travelling since the invention of powered flight, or so it felt. I struck up a conversation with an Australian chap, feeling similarly strung out. The subject of visa forms and Nazis was raised. Neither of us could understand why the Americans were so touchy about the subject. We both agreed the Honolulu transit lounge had to be the work of the Third Reich. The big difference was, when Dad had it out with the Nazis, he still managed to find a cold beer.—DAVE WILSON