Dialogue: Officious functionaries offer chilly reception

If New Zealanders imagine their bureaucracy presents a relaxed and welcoming atmosphere to visitors, they should think again, writes KEVIN RUTTER*.

The sheer weight of antiquated bureaucracy is slowly beginning to strangle the country. As a nation we have never been vocal about anything except football. We have allowed complacency to become a way of life and, as a consequence, we accept without question whatever bureaucratic bungling comes our way.

To the world beyond our borders we look and behave like the sheep we so proudly display as the dominant residents of the country. We seldom complain about poor service from any source. Why are we so tolerant?

My wife and I host a home-stay student who has just arrived here from China. Recently I took him back to the airport to pick up a suitcase he had sent as air cargo from Hong Kong rather than pay the cost of having it come as accompanied overweight baggage.

Unknown to him, and most other students I suspect, many airlines allow students an extra baggage allowance to cover the extra weight they might have with books. Unfortunately, most ticketing agencies omit to tell students of this concession when tickets are booked. Such things are treated almost as top secret. If they don't ask, they don't get.

My home-stay student and I armed ourselves with all the information we thought would be relevant and called the Air New Zealand cargo terminal at the airport. The suitcase, we were informed, was there and could be picked up during working hours.

Great. Both of us, however, were soon in for an unexpected look at the world to which many visitors are subjected when they brush up against the bureaucratic machine.

As an observer, I try to put myself in the place of the visitor trying to cope with the subtleties of New Zealand. What I found is an indictment of the society we call God's Own.

First, we had to find the cargo terminal. It hides behind its own truck-loading bays. We found the entrance and chose the one marked Imported Cargo, but it was closed. A notice suggested we go to the office for Exporting Cargo.

We entered this office to be met by a rather officious woman. The student, a little overwhelmed, handed over his paperwork.

"Have you cleared this with MAF?" the woman demanded. My student had absolutely no idea what MAF was.

"Take this to MAF. They have to clear it before you can have it." She hands back the paper and points vaguely. That way, to the end of the building.

The MAF office was silent and deserted. Several pens lay firmly secured to a long counter by individual chains. Some writing had obviously to be done.

A small bell push hid on the wall at the end of the counter. It had a little notice on it - "Push for attendance." Out came the electronic dictionary, in went "attendance." It didn't compute in a way that meant anything.

I pressed the bell for him. Like magic, a young lady appeared. The student handed her the paper and in a series of well-rehearsed manoeuvres, we were off. Out came the forms.

"Fill in this one." She indicated where this was for us. "Then fill in this one." That was for Customs. "That will be $14.25. Have you got cash?"

For a moment the student was dazed. "Fourteen twenty-five?" he asked. The woman pointed to a sign on the wall before she disappeared into the inner office again. The student shook his head and started to write family name, first name, status.

"What is status?" he asked me.

"I don't know Put down L," I suggested.

"Why L?"

"I don't know. Don't worry, nobody cares."

He put down L and looked at me.

"Now tick the boxes at the side."

He's puzzled. "Which boxes?"

"These" - I show him. He ticked several.

"What is this?" He pointed at a sentence on the form. "Have I any live animals?" He isn't sure what to tick.

"Have you brought a panda with you in your case?" I asked jokingly.

He looked at me like I was mad. Of course not. "So tick the No box," I say.

He paid the money and the lady rubber-stamped the form. So what could go wrong now?

"Take this form to Customs and get it cleared. Then you can collect your suitcase, okay?"

We said thank you and left. Finding Customs turned out to be our biggest challenge. Our instructions were to turn left at the traffic lights and the Customs office was just along the road a short way.

The Customs office, it turned out, was not at the airport. It was 3km away, nearer to Mangere than to the airport. Great fun, no one mentioned that small fact.

When we eventually found Customs, we handed over all the paperwork and after the usual questions regarding the contents of the suitcase the officer stamped the Bill of Lading.

A glance at the time said we had done quite well. It was just after midday and we were on our way to collect the suitcase at last.

Back at the Air New Zealand cargo terminal we triumphantly handed over our stamped piece of paper to a still sombre woman.

"Where's your MAF clearance document?" she asked, her eyes perceptibly lighting up and the smallest sign of a smile beginning to show on her face.

"It is with the Customs officer. He kept it when he stamped the release paper."

She actually smiled. "You will have to go back to MAF and get them to stamp this." With a look of glee in her eye she handed back the paper.

At the MAF office again, an officer gladly rubber-stamped our paper. Ready now for anything, we returned to the cargo terminal to find our supercilious woman happy. She had managed to harass us by being less than helpful.

"Go over there," she indicated the building across the road. "They will get your case for you."

She turned away, losing interest in us now. It was time to turn her venom towards some other unsuspecting traveller.

But our student had a final question: "Where is the paper they will want over there to get my case?"

"They won't want any paper," was the snorted response. "I will put it on the computer, now."

"Oh, are you sure we won't meet someone there like you?"

I almost fell over. The woman couldn't believe what she had just heard and our Chinese student laughed when he finally worked out what he had said, which wasn't quite what he had meant, but it fitted perfectly.

The sad fact is that people coming to New Zealand for the first time are subjected to a system that appears never to have been tried before. It is almost as if every visitor is the first one and is expected to know how all the bureaucratic pieces fit together.

Must we be so intolerant that we come close to being rude to everyone who wants only to collect a suitcase from our national carrier's cargo terminal? With just a little molecule of thought, this exercise could have been a pleasant diversion rather than the fiasco it almost turned out to be.

Or doesn't anyone care? Which seems to be the case.

*Kevin Rutter, an Aucklander, is a retired engineer.