06Nov2003
I reported last week that the reception area of the New Zealand Embassy in Madrid with its three week old New Zealand newspapers and the photo of Helen on the wall made me feel I was at home.
What I forgot to report was the orange formica reception counter and the three plaster ducks flying in formation across one of the walls. We were there to replace some stolen passports and I was to learn just how much like home it really was. The staff were delightful and caring. The Foreign Affairs lady we were dealing with was full of concern. Her assistant – a young man who was obviously training to be the next ambassador to United Nations had a fine head of dark moussed hair with a part straight down the middle. He had obviously watched “Casablanca” too many times. Or otherwise he thought that when in Spain this is how one should present oneself.
The Foreign Affairs lady smilingly announced that it would take at least two days to produce the new passports. “The man that makes them is away at a bullfight. I suggest you fill in these forms and come back at 4:00pm on Wednesday. Don’t phone us. And don’t come before 4:00pm. They’ll be ready then – 4:00pm. Oh and by the way the cost is 300 euros each”. A euro at the moment is about $2.00(NZ). 300 euros multiplied by 2 even without a calculator comes to $1,200.00(NZ). “I know it’s a lot” she apologetically remarked. “But we’re on a quota system here. It’s a bit like the speed cameras and traffic fines you get back in New Zealand. Under our quota system we are expected to replace at least 6 stolen passports a day.” Just then a couple from Auckland who’d been filched of their passports at Barcelona’s railway station and two more from Christchurch who had been zapped in Bilboa squeezed into the tiny vestibule with us. Kia Ora’s all round. They hadn’t heard what a replacement passport cost. What with us, the lovely Foreign Affairs lady, the future young ambassador with the moussed hair and the centre part and the couples from Auckland and Christchurch we just about had a quorum for a kiwi barbie. I facetiously suggested that it was time for a beer – a Tui. “Yeah right” came the call. The Foreign Affairs lady smiled. It was a smile that said “I’ve got my quota for today.” A smile very similar to that of a traffic officer who’s just clocked you at 57kph in a 50kph zone. Absolutely no tolerance. Six passports at 300 euros equals $3,600.00(NZ). “I’m sorry I’ve got no Tui – but there’s a water cooler over there.”
The man from Auckland was given the news of the passport replacement cost. He showed signs of collapsing but the young ambassador with the centre part quickly got him a plastic cup of water from the cooler. The Embassy lady then addressed us all. The whole nine of us crowded together in this little piece of New Zealand, three floors up somewhere in Madrid. With Helen and the three ducks beaming at us. “Look guys (apparently that’s the modern terminology in use for a group of women and men) I don’t set the rules or the rates. Foreign exchange is the lifeblood of our country. In the past it used to be the receipts from wool and meat. You’ll all now that returns from these products has declined dramatically in the last decade. We’ve got to look elsewhere for overseas funds. Wine and mussels are doing quite well but the replacing passports has, as we say, become a real earner.” I counted out the 600 euros. I felt a patriotic lump in my throat. I knew I was doing my small bit to swell my country’s foreign exchange coffers. “Look on the bright side” the lovely Embassy lady remarked as I slapped down the last euro. “At least there’s no GST on that”. And as Helen on the wall benignly looked down on us I’m sure the smile looked more like a smirk.
What I forgot to report was the orange formica reception counter and the three plaster ducks flying in formation across one of the walls. We were there to replace some stolen passports and I was to learn just how much like home it really was. The staff were delightful and caring. The Foreign Affairs lady we were dealing with was full of concern. Her assistant – a young man who was obviously training to be the next ambassador to United Nations had a fine head of dark moussed hair with a part straight down the middle. He had obviously watched “Casablanca” too many times. Or otherwise he thought that when in Spain this is how one should present oneself.
The Foreign Affairs lady smilingly announced that it would take at least two days to produce the new passports. “The man that makes them is away at a bullfight. I suggest you fill in these forms and come back at 4:00pm on Wednesday. Don’t phone us. And don’t come before 4:00pm. They’ll be ready then – 4:00pm. Oh and by the way the cost is 300 euros each”. A euro at the moment is about $2.00(NZ). 300 euros multiplied by 2 even without a calculator comes to $1,200.00(NZ). “I know it’s a lot” she apologetically remarked. “But we’re on a quota system here. It’s a bit like the speed cameras and traffic fines you get back in New Zealand. Under our quota system we are expected to replace at least 6 stolen passports a day.” Just then a couple from Auckland who’d been filched of their passports at Barcelona’s railway station and two more from Christchurch who had been zapped in Bilboa squeezed into the tiny vestibule with us. Kia Ora’s all round. They hadn’t heard what a replacement passport cost. What with us, the lovely Foreign Affairs lady, the future young ambassador with the moussed hair and the centre part and the couples from Auckland and Christchurch we just about had a quorum for a kiwi barbie. I facetiously suggested that it was time for a beer – a Tui. “Yeah right” came the call. The Foreign Affairs lady smiled. It was a smile that said “I’ve got my quota for today.” A smile very similar to that of a traffic officer who’s just clocked you at 57kph in a 50kph zone. Absolutely no tolerance. Six passports at 300 euros equals $3,600.00(NZ). “I’m sorry I’ve got no Tui – but there’s a water cooler over there.”
The man from Auckland was given the news of the passport replacement cost. He showed signs of collapsing but the young ambassador with the centre part quickly got him a plastic cup of water from the cooler. The Embassy lady then addressed us all. The whole nine of us crowded together in this little piece of New Zealand, three floors up somewhere in Madrid. With Helen and the three ducks beaming at us. “Look guys (apparently that’s the modern terminology in use for a group of women and men) I don’t set the rules or the rates. Foreign exchange is the lifeblood of our country. In the past it used to be the receipts from wool and meat. You’ll all now that returns from these products has declined dramatically in the last decade. We’ve got to look elsewhere for overseas funds. Wine and mussels are doing quite well but the replacing passports has, as we say, become a real earner.” I counted out the 600 euros. I felt a patriotic lump in my throat. I knew I was doing my small bit to swell my country’s foreign exchange coffers. “Look on the bright side” the lovely Embassy lady remarked as I slapped down the last euro. “At least there’s no GST on that”. And as Helen on the wall benignly looked down on us I’m sure the smile looked more like a smirk.
posted by Lundon at 1:44 PM
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