KEY POINTS:
An overseas trip has come up unexpectedly. How serendipitous. The charms of Auckland have been paling recently and I'm delighted at the chance to turn my back on the vagaries of spring and fly away for a while. And so I am planning and packing and shopping, full of excitement and trying not to dwell on the fact that I have (a) no idea where I am going, (b) no idea who with and (c) agreed to let a camera crew follow me the whole time.
Reckless, I know. And yes, reality TV rots our brains and will be the ruin of western civilisation, I know that too.
Nonetheless I've signed up for this and it's too late to back out now. It would be a waste of some perfectly good vaccinations for one thing - typhoid, diphtheria, yellow fever, rabies (perhaps I'm going to Hamilton?) and I've also splashed out (ahem) on a new rain poncho, a plastic contraption that's probably the best prophylactic I'll ever own. By the time you read this I'll be off in parts unknown, doing slalom rides and eating lemmings for your viewing pleasure. I'm packed and ready. All that remained to do was a simple bit of business involving New Zealand immigration and my passport. I purposefully left this little transaction until the very last moment because frankly, I couldn't face it, and my experience this week at the hands of the NZ Immigration Service was an ample reminder of why.
New Zealand Immigration Service. One of my favourite oxymorons. Better even than "honest politician", "interesting game of rugby" or "healthy pie".
I have had many dealings with the NZIS over my five years here and the notion that they provide a service never fails to crack me up. NZIS are a service provider in the same way Typhoid Mary was a chef, or Rodney Hide is a dancer.
All of my dealings with the bureau to date have been coloured by the same mix of frustration, misery and rage. And that's just the desk clerks. From the hatchet-faced battle-axe who laughed in my face five years ago when I asked about extending my stay here, to the countless disembodied voices who have confused and intimidated me over the phone as I attempted to apply for residency, I have never dealt with a member of the NZIS who even so much as resembled a human being, let alone a competent civil servant. I have been a happy resident of NZ for two years now, following an application process that was hair-raising to say the least, and I still walk on the other side of the road when I pass the immigration office on Queen St.
I realise that NZIS workers have a tough job. It must be extremely frustrating to have to deal daily with migrants who understand neither the language nor the system, to have to take them by the hand and guide them through the process. However, I wonder at the rationale that gives a job like that to people who genuinely seem to hate other people. Surely the most cursory of psychometric tests should be able to identify these misanthropes and place them in the little windowless rooms they so crave, rather than charging them with the task of assimilating new generations of New Zealanders?
With a mindset like this, you can see why I don't exactly look forward to a visit to the NZIS. This time it might not be so bad, I reasoned. All I had to do was a very simple piece of business, the transfer of my NZ resident's visa from an old passport to a new one. The work if not of moments, then of mere minutes at least. And I was more than happy to take my place in the queue and pay $100 for the privilege. I am very proud of my NZ resident's visa. It reminds me that I have made a life for myself here, and that I belong here. It's also pretty, all bluey-greeny with lovely holographic ferns. Pretty also is the new NZIS office in Auckland. All restful colours and an interesting wooden wattle arrangement by way of decoration. The old offices on Upper Queen St had all the charm of a public urinal. I felt my spirits lift as I looked around me.
I will not bore you with the petty details of what transpired next. Suffice to say it involved a nasty man with long fingernails and a jones for protocol and ended with me in tears. One obligatory dash down Queen St to the Irish Consulate for a completely pointless piece of paper followed, before I had the pleasure of returning to the offices breathless and raging moments before it closed. Whereupon I presented said piece of paper to a different officer who looked at it in calm bemusement . "Oh, that; you don't need that. Who said you needed that?" Thankfully desk number five was missing its long-taloned occupant at that moment, else I shouldn't have been responsible for my actions.
An hour and 15 minutes, two circuits of Queen St and one crying jag later and I finally had my little sticker, courtesy of the friendly folk at the NZIS. And people ask me why I don't go for citizenship.
