NEW ZEALAND TO PV THE HARD WAY
By Maggie Stoffels

Still alive and kicking after a year from hell, I decided to change my life. Taking little more than an over-large dose of determination and optimism, I began my journey from New Zealand, leaving behind everyone and everything that was near and dear to me. The traumatic farewells haunted me on the sleepless 12-hour flight to Los Angeles. As is true of many travelers, Los Angeles International Airport is not one of my favorite places. This arrival was more ghastly than usual –renovations were in progress. The whole terminal was full of concrete dust, noisy machinery, malfunctioning escalators, and irritated passengers. The service crews were rushing everywhere. I smiled at a notice wrapped around a half-formed concrete pillar: WE ARE MAKING YOUR AIRPORT BETTER.

Everyone struggled with their hand luggage down endless corridors and flights of stairs, surging onward to the immigration hall. I stared in disbelief at the packed area. Five flights had disgorged their contents almost simultaneously, but only five immigration booths were open. My flight companion was flying over for a family funeral later that day and had little spare time for her connection to Houston. I sought out the most official-looking immigration attendant.

"Excuse me, but where is the queue for the transit passengers?”
"There is no special queue here, Ma'am. Everyone has to wait their turn."
I glanced at my new friend, who was very anxious. Check-in time for my own connection was not too far off. I still had to clear Customs, transfer my luggage, then bus to another terminal 15 minutes away.
"Please, couldn't the transit passengers be attended to more quickly?"
"We are very efficient here, and you will all form a queue."
"Why aren't there more immigration counters open?" I asked politely.
"It is too expensive to open them all."

We made 10 queues of 100 meters with the 2,000 plus passengers. Rather like ten drunken caterpillars, we wobbled along. We proceeded to shuffle forwards, sideways, reverse, sideways then forward again. I think that I was number 435 in my flight alone. I finally arrived an hour and 20 minutes later.

"Why don't you have all the counters open?" I asked again of another official.
"It costs too much."
"But your airport is one of the highest airport facility chargers in the world," I countered. I was getting a little angry as I saw a very old lady trying to kick her second bag along. Her back was bent; she missed, slipped a little, and grimaced as her ankle twisted.
"Please, that woman needs your help." The arrogant, overweight official smirked complacently. I repeated it again a little louder this time.
"She shouldn't bring so much hand luggage." He smirked again, examining his dirty fingernails, but didn’t move. He was enjoying his little power game.

"Why do we have to make this ridiculous queue, when you could have five lines going directly to the open counters," I asked.
"It takes less room." He smirked again.
"How so?” I asked not so innocently. "Do the people and their luggage shrink when they form your queue?"
I got a blank look, then a slow dawning of realization as he laughed, followed by a condescending leer.
"We all know that it doesn't take less room, so why?” I asked again.
“You passengers think that you don't have to wait so long.”
"I'm sorry, but I don't think I heard correctly, could you repeat that?"
"You passengers think you don't have to wait so long," he shouted as though to a particularly deaf and backward child.
"I see. And exactly which passengers here do you think believe that? Does time suddenly accelerate and do we all shrink when we form your queue?" I asked louder now. He had missed the heavy sarcasm, but the other passengers hadn't. They were listening, becoming bolder, many smiling.

Another passenger took up the battle, and more joined in. "This is ridiculous.” “We demand better service.” “What is your huge airport tax for?" I looked at the enormous number of angry passengers still waiting. Was I starting a riot? I definitely did not have time for this; I would miss my connecting flight. I wished them all good luck, and checked the porters for large, strong and happy ones, while running with my hand luggage toward the carousel. I smiled to see who smiled back. Several responded, but one stepped forward.
I clutched his arm, imploring him, "Please help me or I will miss my flight. My international check-in was half an hour ago. These two bags here are mine."
"Of course!" he said, thinking it would be easy. One of my bags was 40 kilograms, the other 35. I had packed tight and heavy. I pointed to them as they were speeding past on the carousel. He ran after them and heaved them off. The look on his face said it all.

"Please follow me quickly. Now this is my oversize luggage." He manfully hoisted my computer and printer onto another cart, manipulating all with the ease of a friendly giant. Unbelievably, he was still smiling. We raced down the sloping corridor, the heavy luggage carts pulling at him like two oversized, leashed dogs.
He was calling out directions, "Left, up that ramp, to the right past those old ladies. Yes, now hold up your flight ticket as we go through."

Who was I to question this helpful man? I grinned back and held my ticket aloft. We raced towards Customs. He shouted as we flew by, "She's ticketed through. She's a VIP. We haven't got time for this. We have a plane to catch." They stared and nodded at my ticket.

We whirled to the right to the forwarding luggage counter. "Forward this luggage; it's ticketed through," he called. I silently blessed my travel agent's foresight. I turned to see my faithful porter smiling, my luggage being placed on the conveyor belt, and the Customs men grinning. I could see the doors to the outside world. I had been in airports and planes for only 16 hours, but it felt like an eternity.
"Could you help me get the correct bus to this terminal please?" He obligingly stopped the appropriate bus, lifted my trundler aboard, and told the driver where to let me off.

I opened my purse and gave him $10. Now, you won't believe this, but he gave it right back, explaining that he had had the time of his life. He'd always wanted to run through Customs with a passenger, but had never seen a likely candidate. He couldn't wait to tell his wife about it. I left L.A. with my faith restored.
I caught the plane to Central America, the second leg of my journey, and many hours later came the announcement. "We have nearly completed our descent. Don't forget that if you have nothing to declare at Customs you go straight through to the lights. If you get the green, you pass straight on; however, if it is red, you must stop and all of your luggage will be thoroughly searched. If you have failed to declare anything, you will be fined heavily, the article will be confiscated, and you may face imprisonment. We are about to land; please keep your seat belts fastened until we come to a complete halt. Thank you for flying with us."

Yes, I had made the second leg. Soon, I would be in my hotel for a very welcome sleep. Then, fully recharged after a week relaxing and sightseeing, I would head off to Puerto Vallarta. After a quick walk through immigration, where a very pleasant immigration officer welcomed me, it was on to Customs.
I approached Customs, saying that I was very tired and couldn't remember what was in my bags, just personal effects.

"What is in here, Señora?" asked the official pointing to my computer box.
"My computer," I answered with a smile.
"It is not a laptop," he announced as it passed through the x-ray.
"No, I have had it for two years."
"Then it cannot come in."
My whole being froze. "This must be a mistake. I was told by immigration that there was no problem with your personal computer.”
"No, you can bring in a laptop only."
"I have money. I can pay."
"No, we cannot accept money; it is not new. If it was new, you could pay the taxes."
"But I will need it."
"I'm sorry, Señora. It either will have to be confiscated or you can go back to your country with it."
"I cannot do either of those things; I must keep it. Can’t I store it here until I leave?"
"You cannot leave the airport, I'm sorry. We cannot keep your luggage here."
I was close to tears; I needed time to think. I would have to buy time.
"First of all I need to sit down and have a smoke."
"It is a non-smoking area."
"I don't care. I will have a cigarette, and I need some better ideas." I lit up. "Could you bring me an ashtray, please?"

They disappeared to return too quickly, with an ashtray in hand. "Follow please, Señora." We were now in a small room. I sank gratefully into the proffered chair. The ashtray was placed on a coffee table.
"Gracias."
"Have you decided yet, what you will do, Señora?”
"No, have you got any better ideas?
"No."
These men were not treating me dreadfully, more like graciously looking after a confused geriatric. What did I have to lose? I needed more time; there must be some way out. We looked at each other. I broke the silence, "I think I need a glass of wine."
"We will try." They left me again for maybe 10 minutes.

"Here is your wine." This time, they had a woman with them. "I'm sorry, Señora. Both you and we have a big problem. You need your computer, yes? We cannot let it in because it is not a laptop. It is not new, so we can't charge you tax. You can choose to press the lights. If it is green you may go through with it."
"And if not?" I queried.
"We have to confiscate it." Her voice then became little more than a whisper. "We would really like to help, but we are watched from above. He has a screen showing the lights, red or green. We would all lose our jobs."

Hmm… The Customs lights here are observed from above. I pondered the ridiculous: what if the view of the screen was interrupted for only a few moments? I composed myself as much as possible and looked her right in the eye. "There is another way."
They were eager to accommodate and probably desperate to get rid of me. "Yes?"
"Is it a man or woman who watches?"
"A man."
"And he no doubt likes a pretty face to look at for a few minutes. Maybe he would like a coffee break."
"Of course."
"And you are that very pretty woman," I smile pleadingly. What I was suggesting registered, and she smiled coquettishly.
"I will go up with a cup of coffee," she smiled at me. "No, two." She said no more.
"Bless you." She squeezed my hand in reply, nodded at the men, and left.

We returned to the control lights. "First we must do this." I would have agreed to anything at this stage, but was aghast to have a scarf tied over my eyes. “You must not see. We must push the button now.” Hands covered mine while we briefly touched the button. Then the scarf was quickly removed.
“You are free to proceed, Señora, with your luggage. May we help you to go to your hotel?"
It had worked. I couldn't believe it. Was it green or red? I shall never know.
"Gracias, oh muchas gracias." It was now 2 a.m., and my hotel was hours away. These wonderful gentlemen phoned, organized, and then transported me and my luggage to an airport hotel. I pressed a bundle of notes into the older man's pocket. "Bless you all."

I spent the remainder of the night tossing and turning. I decided that I was crazy to spend another week here alone. I really didn’t need this. The following morning I found that I could fly directly to Puerto Vallarta, but the flight left soon. I made the necessary arrangements and was one of the last to board, but finally sat down buckled up ready for take off.

I was nearly asleep by now and wondered why it seemed to be getting hotter. The tall American beside me also was complaining of the heat. Then the announcement came that the air conditioning was not working. The technicians would board to fix it. Forty minutes later, at about 39 degrees, they came and later left. An hour had passed, and still there was no sign of life from the engines. The hostesses finally decided to serve us. After plastic cups half-full of water were given to the first two rows, there came another announcement.
"One of the passengers has suffered a heart attack. The medics are on their way." Surprise, surprise, I thought, mentally wishing him good luck. Ten minutes later, the passenger and his luggage were carried off, and we finally were airborne.

Desperately, I shut my eyes and tried to believe that my house would not be leaking, my electricity would be working, and that my real estate agent would indeed meet me, as arranged, with the key to my new home. I finally crashed and woke to hear the end of the next announcement.
"Welcome to Mexico. We are now approaching Puerto Vallarta. The air temperature is 39 degrees." YES! I went through immigration quickly, and staggered around looking for Customs.

"Excuse me, Señora, can I help you?"
“I’m looking for Customs.”
"This way, do you have anything to declare?"
Oh no, here we go again. "Yes, I have a computer with me, which I was told I could bring in. It's part of my personal effects."
"Your FM-3, please."
I handed him my passport. "I am waiting for it. It is still being processed."
"That is okay, Señora. Welcome to Puerto Vallarta. We don't get many here from your part of the world. It is very beautiful. I have seen it on television."

I nearly hugged him. All my lights were green, and I was free in the place I love to be.