Arriving at Heathrow Airport’s new Terminal 5, is like entering a futuristic time capsule of sorts. We make our way down from the top of the terminal down 3 flights of never-ending escalators. Around us, everything is orb shaped and circular and very spacious.
Before going to customs, we decide to use the loo. We normally do this because the queue is so long and tedious that one must feel comfortable before joining it.
In the bathroom, a Chinese cleaning lady is sweeping and looks up cheerfully to greet another airport employee who comes out of the stall and washes her hands at the sink.
The Chinese attendant asks the black woman: “How are you doing?”
And she replies she is tired already today of “going up and down” constantly.
The young Chinese woman laughs in agreement and says: “No need for a diet or exercise. Our work is exercise enough.”
Outside the restrooms, we proceed to join the line. There are signs that say: EU nationals and Others.
Well, we are Others.
In our queue there are many compatriots from the same flight we arrived on from Kuwait. There are also some other foreign nationals that have come on other flights. But the waiting time is noticeably less than in previous years despite the summer season. I figure it is not the threat of Swine Flu that is responsible for this but the rather large facilities of Terminal 5 that have made the crowds of visitors seem so much more minuscule.
In line, a blond American woman, standing out against all the other darker skinned people around her, asks the middle-aged airport employee of Asian descent: “Where do I go? I am American.”
The British customs employee of Asian descent replies: “Here. That queue is for those with passports from the European Union. Here, all others.”
The American woman looks momentarily disappointed to be waiting with Others while the other EU queue was moving at a noticeably faster rate.
It is all rather orderly really. We wait patiently and our turn comes eventually.
In our line of mixed heritages, there stood one young Kuwaiti man, a single traveler, who was dressed in a crisp white dishdasha and a starched, bright white headpiece (qutra) and black igaal. He face was clean shaven except for a small mustache. He was tall and of a slim build and wore soft white sandals.
Since he was the only traditionally dressed man in the queue, all eyes were on him when he went up to the customs officer’s desk. He spent an average amount of time answering questions. However, very noticeably behind the desk, were two senior looking customs officers waiting. As soon as the young Kuwaiti man went through, one of the men went directly to the desk and picked up his landing card with his details. He took it with him and proceeded to follow the man in the white dishdasha.
Behind us, some young Kuwaiti men dressed in Bermudas and Polo shirts were making sarcastic comments about the Kuwaiti man in the dishdasha, saying that he must be deranged to enter the UK in his full traditional attire. They were wondering if he was mentally “all there” and imagining the questions that were going to be hurled at him now.
I couldn’t help but feel worried about the young man and concerned at the obvious behaviour of the customs employees at singling him out because of his clothes. Personally if I were a man, I would not have opted to wear a dishdasha in a non-Arab country. Most young Kuwaitis going to other Arab countries wear Western style clothing when they travel. Why stand out like a sore thumb? However, in the end one must respect a person’s choice of apparel especially when it does not look threatening (as safety pins in noses or other bodily parts, or chains and metal studded accessories).
When it comes our turn and the customs officer asks why we have come to Britiain, I want to explain in a very lengthy fashion, that the heat in Kuwait is hellishly hot, that most days this summer have been depressingly dusty, that our days have turned into nights to avoid the harsh climate, that our brains have been warped from the constant going in and out from extreme heat to extreme cold air-conditioned interiors. We just want to share your weather, please, for a short while, I want to say.
But of course I restrain myself, and resist the temptation to sound pitiful or jokey and say: We are just visiting for a short while. For leisure.
When we finally make it out of customs, however, we heave a sigh as the tension ebbed and our friendly London cabbie drives us to our destination. It feels is good to be here and the rain lifts the spirits.
