Passporting

First published in Column 8 on the 20 April, 1994

As I had to write this column earlier than usual (for reasons which I’ll explain in a moment), I was glancing through the ODT in search of a stray thought when I came across an intriguing juxtaposition of headlines.

‘Lively and colourful tone to Haydn’s “The Creation”’ said one, followed on the same line by, ‘Police arrest 20.’

 Amazing how these old composer get ‘em going!

In the same paper a conservative Anglican group in England called Ecclesia accused the Movement for the Ordination of Women of ‘killing the church,’ and ‘dancing on the Church of England’s grave.’

Now surely one can only dance on the grave of something that’s already dead. And if the C of E is already dead, why are Ecclesia accusing the women of killing it?

As an institution the C of E has been dead for donkey’s years. We watched a video of Barchester Towers earlier this year – the behaviour of these 19^th century clerics was even then more political than spiritual.

If some old diehard Anglicans want to flog a dead horse, let them get on with it. They’ll die doing it. The Christian church, one section of which these women were being ordained into, is alive; it may be struggling with theology that works in the 20^th century, but it’s still forging ahead.

I think Jesus Christ would  have said to Ecclesia, ‘Get on with real life – let the dead bury the dead.’

The funniest part about all this Anglican kerfuffle is that some of their priests have ‘gone over to the Catholics,’ with some vague idea that the Catholics have remained as dead as they are. I think they may have a few thinks coming, as one of my grandparents used to say.

And why am I writing this column earlier than usual? Because I have to travel to Wellington to get a new passport.

‘What,’ you say, ‘travel to Wellington? To get a passport? Ain’t you a New Zealander? ‘Ave you been criticising our institootions and quirks all this time when you’re something else? you ain’t an…Aussie, are ya?’

Yes, I have to admit it. I’m a cuzzie from across the water, and I’ve had to make the choice of becoming a New Zealand citizen, at some cost to my pocket, or remaining an Aussie, at an equal cost to my pocket.

The curious fact is that my native government doesn’t trust my word on paper, nor my photo accompanying it, nor the affidavits of my legal mates. Without interviewing me face to face they don’t believe I am who I am. What my face will tell them I’m not sure.

Will my face convince them I’m not a drug dealer, or a terrorists, or that I’m not out to defraud them? As Michael Joseph Savage said, ‘Though I was born in the same district in which Ned Kelly did his bushranging, I did not inherit his methods.’

The Australian government’s rationale is that I only have to go Wellington once every ten years to renew my passport. I asked them if they were going to pay for the trip, particularly since I was standing by them in their hour of need and not changing my allegiance. No way. I have to pay my own fare.

Strangely enough, if I wanted to apply for my temporary twelve-months passport, I could get it without showing my face. Seems to me that a twelve-month period is ample time to do something fraudulent!

I’ve a good mind to write to the Australian government – my real government – and demand my money back, or insist they call me home.

When I see in the latest Metro that Australia’s got a worse unemployment problem than New Zealand, however, I think maybe that isn’t such a good idea.

 

Australian Passports galore
Photo courtesy of Citro

 

 

I was born in Australia, but at the time this column was written had only set foot in the place once (in the sixties, for a month) since leaving Melbourne in 1948 to come to Dunedin. My father was English-born and my mother was a Kiwi. I’m not sure that really qualifies me to be called an Australian at all, but up to this day – the 3^rd Nov, 2026 – I continue to be one, officially.

The last time I applied for a new passport, only a few years ago, the Australian Embassy was happily sending staff around the country to do the job with their face rather than mine, as it were. I met the staff member in the hotel that’s situated in the rear of the old Chief Post Office building, and we were as friendly as two Aussies can be on such short acquaintance. It was all done and dusted without fuss.

On the occasion written about in the column, when I went to Wellington for my ‘interview,’ I expected to be at their office for some time, and duly turned up for such an important occasion with sandwiches and a flask. (I’m kidding.) In fact, the interview consisted of a man behind the grill in some pokey office taking a look at me, asking some question that could have been asked over the phone – like ‘Who are you?’ - going off out of sight for a couple of minutes to pretend he was doing something important and coming back to say my passport would be in the post in a few days’ time.

Incidentally, I’m not sure why the ‘typical’ Kiwi who asks amazed questions in the middle of the column should have sounded more like someone who wasn’t sure what part of the English-speaking world he was from…

 And apparently there are great benefits in holding an Australian passport!