Where are the good old days ?
Where are the times that I packed my bag, kissed the wife and kids goodbye, took my car to the airport and parked for free somewhere in walking distance of dispatch, met the rest of the crew, checked the flightplan and the girls and took off for a relaxing few days of flying, fun, food and a beer, in short a good time, for which we were all paid a descent salary.
I reported last week for a seven days trip and started my flight positioning as a passenger. Unable to park a car even within miles of my reporting point I had to take a taxi to get to work. Having cleared the first obstacle I now had to check-in my suitcase. After having been selected randomly by the computer, that by the way always selects me randomly, I had to go through a baggage clearing procedure where I was asked all kinds of questions about the contents of my suitcase and if I had packed my suitcase myself or was carrying packets for persons I didn’t know or had never met. I now had cleared the second obstacle and took off to dispatch to pickup some paperwork.
Here I was met by a friendly nurse who wanted to know where I had been for the last ten days and followed here interrogation by taking my temperature. All done I was on my way to the gate, but found out to my surprise that my flight kit of the last thirty years suddenly didn’t fit through the little gate at the x-ray machine so here I was back to the gate to get a special sticker for my carry on kit.
Of course we were delayed since we were missing a passenger and therefore had to offload his bag, which only took 20 minutes, but that is a norm these days and doesn’t count as an obstacle. We filled in numerous new forms, arrived at our destination and went through immigration, where to my great surprise my first-officer, holding a Malaysian passport had to report at a separate desk.
Here his fingerprints were taken, a mug shot as well, and he had to fill out a three page questionnaire before he could proceed. His passport had also given him the pleasure of being picked out for a special baggage check, which in all took over 45 minutes. By then we had missed the crew transport and had to find our own way to the hotel.
The way back was more or less the same, where our temperature was taken again in Dispatch, and every six hours during the flight ( as suggested in one of the SARS procedures we as crew should follow.
I still like to know what I have to do when , during the flight , my temperature reads over 37.5 degrees. I take it that I have to make an emergency landing and cart myself of to the nearest hospital , while the rest of the crew and 400 passengers go into full quarantine)
At our destination we again had to fill out all sort of new forms , were temperatured ( new word!) and were told by the officials that we had to wear a mask and were quarantined in the hotel. According to article 41 of the communicable diseases control law and article 192 of the penal code of this godforsaken place failure to do so could get you a jail sentence of only two years. I was lucky that I liked pizza’s because that was the only food the frightened room service staff could stuff under the door.
I know times have changed, I know we have to be serious about security and Sars, but I think it’s time to hang it all up, burn my passport, annoy my wife and never leave my modest home again.