In this modern age of high-speed internet connections and instant access to virtually anyone in the world, it would seem reasonable to expect the arrangements for my study tour to New Zealand to be pretty straightforward. Or so I thought.
As I made my way to Heathrow Airport, everything was in place. My air travel tickets were booked, and I had a meticulously-planned programme of visits with researchers and civil servants arranged, with the odd day of sightseeing thrown in.
I arrived at the check-in desk and gave the genial chap with the rather flashy gold, protruding tooth my e-ticket number. I then handed over my passport. On receiving it, he sucked his teeth a bit, giving us a flash of his expensive dental ware. Some desperate attempts to scan the passport failed and he then tapped in a rather long number on the keyboard.
“I just need to check with my supervisor if we can accept your passport Dr Pullar,” he said.
“Oh,” I replied. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, er… yes, there is the problem. Your passport is rather dog-eared. In New Zealand they don’t accept dog-eared passports. You could get all the way there and then they could refuse you entry!”
“Shall I carry on without you?” said Mrs Pullar, waving her rather tidy passport and looking unconcerned. I replied with a fixed grin.
10 minutes later we had established that my degree of dog-eared-ness was not a barrier to travel and I was allowed to continue on my journey.
22 hours later in Auckland, a genial, ginger-haired New Zealand passport official surveyed my dog-eared passport.
“If you were a New Zealander I would throw this in the bin!” he said. “Please get it replaced when you return to the UK.”
I assured him that I would. And I meant it. Being faced with the prospect of several months of planning going down the pan because of a frayed passport is not an experience I want to repeat.
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