Field Trip

I'm all for visiting new sites within my surrogate city and I have a pretty good lay of the land having been here these last 17 months. I never really had the local jail on my list of visits, however. (Mom, Dad, don't panic.)

See, I'm required by NZ Immigration to have a police certificate from my lovely home country proving that I'm not a hardened criminal wanting residency. They'll take me as long as the FBI says it's okay. I've already been through this once on the other side of the Pacific, so why not be fingerprinted here. Neat.

Getting to the station was easy. I've passed it a hundred times on one of many trips downtown, so I knew roughly where it was. It's a giant, industrial-ish building housing everything including the jail AND the firearms registration centre. 'Cause we all need firearms.

I walk in to a nice lobby with reception areas on either side and within 10 seconds, a nice uniformed officer asks how he can help. Well, gosh, they are friendly here, these Kiwis, aren't they?

"I need to be fingerprinted for a police certificate, please." Why is it I always feel uncomfortable around cops?

The officer picks up the phone and calls someone upstairs, then directs me to wait for this someone in the outer lobby. Okay.

My butt barely settles into one of the outer lobby chairs before I'm greeted by another officer. He asks for my passport and begins filling out a form. Forms in police work, who knew?

"You know it's $40 cash, right?"

"Yes." I hand him two twenties. He scribbles some more and hands me a receipt

"Cheers. Head down the stairs and press the buzzer. Someone will help you."

Bureaucracy. Gotta love it. The stairs, I find, are located in a rather dark corner, one I hadn't noticed upon first entering.

It becomes apparent that the lobby and reception are a front. I've entered the Twighlight Zone and it's my old Junior High School, complete with 100-year-old graffitti on every inch of wall. Only this graffiti says stuff like "G-man is a wanker" as well as other bits I dare not repeat.

Yep, same concrete floor with chipped paint. I'm 13 again. I push the buzzer, once and only once because the sign says so, and I am in no position to resist arrest should I flout this rule. Yet another officer steps out from behind the one-way glass door and looks at me through the gray bars. There's just enough space between the counter and the bars for me to pass my reciept through.

"I'll have to get someone else to fingerprint you," he says, taking the receipt. He dissapears through the door.

A female officer comes through next. She seems friendly enough. I'm waved through the doors on the other side, led down a few hallways which have been recently hosed down. The peeling grayish paint gleams under the hum of the florescent lights. Even smells like my Jr. High.

Next is the fingerprinting room. Great, we can get this over with. I'm not too fond of places without windows.

"It's quiet," I say, a bit unnerved at the lack of noise.

"Yes, it's great. We just sent them all off to court for the day."

By them all, she means jail attendees.

Damn, I'm sorry I missed the rush. Would have been nice to meet the locals.

I resist the urge to laugh. Usually civilians and those behind the bars wouldn't be mixing in the hallways. I wonder vaguely what would have happened if I showed up earlier. Maybe we would all have shared a cup of coffee and a good yarn while waiting in line to be fingerprinted.

The nice officer and I go through the tedious process of getting all five fingers singularly, then the four fingers of each hand together, my right thumb print again on the back and, finally, my signature. Great. Done. Wash off the black tar with yellow sugar soap that smells a bit like shoe polish and bug spray, and it's over with.

She leads me back through the wet hallways. I'm almost free when I look to my right and see, through a set of bars, a women dressed in a white garmet resembling a thin potato sack. She's facing away and being spoken to by another officer at yet another counter. Her head is slightly bent, shoulders hunched, hair disheveled. She's obviously been here for a few days at least.

While I've tried to see everything in a humorous light in the past 20 minutes, there's nothing funny about this moment.

I thank the officer again for her help, take my fingerprints and emerge into a sunny Christchurch morning to get a Mocha and head for the office. My thoughts remain with that woman at the station. It could as easily have been me in that white dress. I have no right to judge. Perhaps her thoughts at that moment were, "How did I get here?" I am certain that no matter what her crime was, she didn't plan to be standing there, with hardship weighing her down and other people telling her what to do and where to go.

My biggest gripe for the day was handing over $40 for a police certificate. This isn't even a blip on the radar compared to what she must be dealing with.

As I wait for my bus, I say a prayer for that woman. Perhaps she can overcome her obstacles and defeat her demons.

It's never easy, is it? No matter which side of the bars you stand on.

Comments

[Fi]

One of life's little "putting things in perspective moments, huh.

Just had one myself. Was out walking the dog and my knee was twinging a little bit. I grumbled to myself as Pip pulled me a little too enthusiastically through the park, then I saw a lady sitting in a wheelchair, just staring into space.

Perspective all right.

[Caroline]

Yes, both of you. Nice observations.

MUCH easier getting finger printed in the goal on my lttle island, although a little nerve wracking when the officer said "Good luck!" Why? Will I need it?

[TC]

Funny, that. After reading your blog yesterday I went to Waterstone's bookstore.

I was intently staring at a shelf of books when an old guy on two crutches, but smartly dressed, hobbled over to me. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to draw his attention.

"Excuse me, do you come in hear often?". Oh, shit, I said to myself, he's a nut job - maybe even a gay nutjob.

"Well...yeah quite a lot" I said guardedly.

"Only I've got this", he said, putting his hand into his inside jacket pocket. At this, I must have recoiled slightly, because he gave me a sad look. He then pulled out a book of money-saving gift vouchers (you know, like £2 and £3 off books), and offered it to me.

"Only I think it's the last time I'll be coming in here, the way I'm fixed", he said, indicating his legs.

I of course thanked him profusely, embarrassed at my initial reaction (well you never know these days, sadly). At that point I was ready to give him wallet on a plate. If they've had a cafe in the store, I'd have bought the poor old guy a cup of tea.

I then put myself mentally in his place, but couldn't take the anguish, so I went back to my hotel to drown my thoughts in drink.

Had a nasty hangover this morning!