Hanoi, I had been assured by travel literature and influencers, welcomes visitors with a smile. The immigration official at the Noi Bai airport, however, only had contempt for such assurances. After an efficient scan of documents, a quick look-over and what sounded like a grunt — the official’s countenance remained set in stone during all of these practised acts — I was ushered into the warmth of a Vietnamese evening.
But then stony-faced immigration officials in airports are not Hanoi’s monopoly. Heathrow must rank as the OG — apparently the modern synonym for pioneering authenticity — airport with Vulcan-like staff.
On reaching Heathrow, and having waited what felt like an entire Year of the Lord, I finally reached the immigration cubicle, only to discover that it was manned by Star Trek’s Spock in the guise of an Englishman. Having shielded his Vulcan sensibility from my human hello, he passed me on to — Mrs Spock. This lady was directed to retrieve my luggage from a conveyor belt that was, like most of England, malfunctioning — it was, after all, the year of Brexit. Mrs Spock finished her task stiff upper lip intact.
I had hoped that, given their historical contestations with the English, Scottish officials would be cut from a different kind of kilt. Alas, while changing trains on the way back from Edinburgh, I missed a connector. I approached what could only have been Hagrid in a steward’s uniform, who directed me to another platform. After a longish trudge, I spotted a waiting train, only to be told gruffly half an hour of waiting later that this one was headed for Amsterdam and not England. Ms Rowling, I insist Hagrid is unkind.
Not all transit sites give you this kind of treatment. At Suvarnabhumi in Thailand, I came across a genial lady at immigration at an unearthly hour. Her energy was infectious. The only problem, she was speaking in chaste Thai. She was, I gathered, asking me to place a set of fingers on a scanner but I couldn’t understand which set. In the meantime, the queue behind me got longer. The lady’s voice — she now resembled an enraged yakshi, not the genial bodhhisatvi — had grown shriller and then, beep! I produced the correct finger, bringing the scanner to life. Lo and behold, the yakshi returned to being boddhisatvi.
Then there are wondrous airports where politeness comes with attendant risk such as a slip disc. Let me explain. In Tokyo’s Narita airport, nearly every personnel was courteous, had beaming faces and countless bows to match. That, I reasoned, demanded a reciprocal bow every few seconds. Since that day, I suspect, I have been walking hunched.
For every sullen airport, there is Paro, the gateway to a nation that prioritises its gross national happiness index over GDP. A faulty stamping device had held up the immigration queue but none was complaining. There was light and laughter in every corner. My papers were yet to be stamped, but my friend who had come to receive me was allowed in
by a security official for a quick hug.
My destinations have been kind hosts. But Paro and Bhutan feel like home.