Greetings and thanks for following! Well, what a curious twenty-four hours that was. I am now safely home and curled on my sofa in Plumstead, penning you a final instalment of this adventure.
I found the most spectacular play area in the airport lounge at Bogota, which included a magical trail which led past a sparkly volcano, a mystical wooden bench to sit on and all sorts of other things. Awkwardly, it was only for children - very unfair.
I had hoped to visit a nearby monastery atop a hill via a quirky funicular railway which isn't too far from the airport. However, this wasn't to be, due to the complexities of leaving the airport, having already checked-in through to London, then coming back to the airport. I thought about challenging this, but then had all sorts of negative thoughts - what if I get stuck in traffic and miss my flight home - that will be seriously inconvenient, plus I may never see my giant orange tortoise again and she deserves better than that; what if I can't find transport to the monastery or what if I can but then can't get back. Had I had more than a few hours to spare, I would have made it happen, but my risk assessing brain multiplied likelihood by impact and the outcome was not worth the risk. Instead, I spent the intervening hours reading, writing, drinking spectacular Colombian coffee, which tastes even better when it's complimentary - sorry, I mean, included in what you've paid. It was about as free as the free minutes you get with your phone contract. They are not free at all.
The flight home was uneventful. I am always amazed at the feat of engineering that is air transport - the thought that a giant silver metal bird weighing the weight of 350 people plus all their giant orange tortoise equivalents, plus the weight of the giant silver metal bird can leave one country, soar through the clouds (waving at the carebears who sit on the clouds, obviously) and arrive in another country - is hard to comprehend. As someone profound once said, if God had wanted us to fly, He'd have built the airports closer to where people live.
The most alarming part of the journey occurred at, of all places, the UK border at Heathrow. I arrogantly sauntered towards the electronic gate, ready to press my e-chipped passport against the reader and glide through. 'Entry refused', said the machine. Ah, I must have put it in wrongly - I turned my passport the other way round; 'entry refused', it said again; oh dear, this is awkward; I tried again - 'entry refused'.
In the last eleven days, I have effortlessly immigrated into the US, Peru, Colombia; I have travelled to 70 different countries in my life, often entering via land, sea, or rail. I have never held any other citizenship; now I can't get into the UK.
'You have to go to desk 35', said the hi-viz clad official behind me.
'Ok, thank you', I hesitantly retorted and walked anxiously to desk 35. A Border Force official in her late 50s looked straight at me. The conversation went something like this:
'Hell0 - the electronic gate doesn't seem to want to let me through!'
'Does it usually?'
'Well, yes' - she gestured that I should give her my passport. She pored over it.
'Where have you come from?'
'Bogota, Colombia'
'Why were you in Colombia?'
'Well, I wasn't really, just for snacks and a snooze'
'Well, you were'
'Yes, but only for a few hours - I was in Peru mainly'
'Why were you in Peru?'
What was I meant to say at this point? To find Paddington?!
'Well, I went to the US really, to visit my sister and her family, then I went to have a little adventure in Peru'
She raised her eyebrows. This is sounding dodgier by the minute, I thought. I don't think I'd have let me in.
'So, you couldn't get a direct flight from Peru?'
'No, not on the right day'
'So,' she perused my passport again, 'you were born in Sidcup'
'Yes indeed, Queen Mary's Hospital. It's not there now, well, the hospital is, but not the maternity bit. I like to think they closed it straight after my birth!'
I laughed. She didn't laugh. She wasn't convinced.
'So, do you live here?'
'Well no'.
'You don't live here?'
'Well, not at the airport, no, that would be strange. That would be like that man in that film, you know, Tom Thing'
'So where do you live?'
'Plumstead, South East London'
'Right'. She paused, then said, 'I used to be a police officer in Belvedere'
Oh great, I thought - is this going to affect my entry into the country where I have lived since arriving at the now defunct Queen Mary's Hospital nearly I-can't-quite-believe how many years ago?
I nodded, 'ok, so you know the area'. This has got to facilitate my entry, surely.
She flicked through my eclectic collection of passport stamps. I still can't believe that I did not receive a passport stamp in Peru or Colombia, honestly, where did it all go wrong? Passport stamps are part of the travelling thing - most of my travels are documented in various passports, although one passport remains in an unknown location following an unfortunate mugging in Ghana in 2002, from which I learnt to never, ever, keep one's passport in a handbag but instead to stash it on your person.
She looked at me, passed me my passport to me, smiled and said,
'Welcome home'.
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