I am never so acutely aware of how much my fellow countrymen travel than when I sit in the departure lounge at London Heathrow. I’ve been very fortunate to avoid spending too much time in this rabbit warren of travelling hell, but now I am resident at Her Majesty’s pleasure, I can expect to while away many an evening sitting in the overcrowded and underwatered circular oubliette of Terminal 3.
As you look into reddened faces, as your eaves drop in on every nasal vowel, every rising inflection and every Struth, you come to the realisation that a stupid number of Australians spend a stupid number of dollars to sit for a stupid number of hours inside a floating aluminium bird. I’ve heard it said, calm down Microchef, that Kiwis are the most widely travelled nation on earth. I don’t dare refute it, I don’t want 3 million tongue-poking Hakas up in my grill, but might I suggest that the number is proportionate to the population. If 2 million Kiwis went to London, that’s two thirds of their population gone. If 5 million Aussies went to London, that’s barely a fifth, like if we lost Western Australia…so insignificant it may not even be missed.
Either way, there are a lot of us, floating about on these interminable flights, flights during which all respect of personal space, personal noises and personal odours are flung out the portholes at 40,000 feet.
Long-haul travel affords a special kind of human interaction; somewhere between brotherly affection and taxi-driver courtesy is longhaul human intimacy. When you are sitting next to someone for longer than most men can maintain a relationship with a woman, you’d expect you might chitchat, you might share first names; you might smile uncomfortably as you dig around each other’s muffin tops for your seatbelt. You might expect that, and you’d be disappointed.* The number of times I’ve done this, I’ve barely exchanged a good evening with the person, or persons, jammed in beside me. But a few hours after take-off it is perfectly within the realms of long haul etiquette to straddle that same person’s sleeping face because you’ve waited 5 hours to pee.
Wandering the globe, wandering from snow to sand, wandering from bonjour to kia ora I’m amazed by what I see, I’m enthralled with what I learn and I genuinely relish the difference. I draw in deep the aromas of cuisines laced with ingredients I cannot pronounce. I listen acutely and actively to the words of languages I’ve never heard, trying, fruitlessly, to discern a syllable or a sound that I might understand. I stare up into the glassy towers of fabled buildings I never expected to see. I drink in the ripples of rivers that slice through cities I’d only imagined. I move about the world and I am in awe.
Call me a leftie, pinko, hipster, faux-liberal, bobo, dreamer, or anything else of your choosing. I was appalled to learn that England’s equivalent of Pauline Hanson has won the majority in the European election. Nigel Farage is a special kind of man; special inasmuch as I’d like to inflict a special kind of pain on such a privileged white man who has made a living out of propagating ignorance and prejudice, primarily among the already ignorant and prejudiced. France’s First Lady of unqualified facts achieved a similarly disappointing win over the French electorate.
Why all the nationalism? Why all the prejudice? Why all the rhetoric? Why all the purple bloody rosettes? #whynotredwhiteorblue #leavemysuffragettesalone
Denying globalisation or the free movement of humanity is about as fruitful as non-alcoholic wine. Expecting your economy to grow if your population doesn’t is mathematically impossible. Expecting each little country in Europe to prevail in solitude and compete with the new civilisations to the east or the south reeks only of pre-war nostalgia.
In an age when men can pick up guns and shoot women because they aren’t offering up their vaginas like free commuter newspapers I wonder why people care about immigration.
In an age when modern governments of modern countries send people offshore for ‘processing’ or state sanctioned torture I wonder why voting people don’t recognise how fortunate they are to be able to vote.
In an age when mining and missile companies influence environmental policy, I wonder why anyone would be so concerned over the nationality or religion or sexuality of a person breathing in filthy, carbon monoxide laden, hot air.
In an age when so many people can’t or won’t look after their own children, I wonder why a voting person should care about whether someone else chooses reasonably to abort one.
I wonder what will happen next. I wonder what new tragedy will have to smite Europe to unite us the way the last one did. #ddaysixtyyearson
I wonder.
*An exception to the rule I am aware of one very lucky Kiwi who met the Norwegian man she now shares a life with on a long haul flight between the UK and NZ. I should be so lucky…
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