End of September 1999, I think it was. Arriving in a place that took me by surprise. “Not like London at all!” I told myself. After seeing such splendid airports of Singapore (Changi) and Malaysia (KLIA Sepang)… well, Heathrow Terminal 3 was… different. It seemed like a throwback to some ages past.
There’s always a certain kind of eagerness when one first arrived in a new destination and when one knew that this arrival could change a lot of perception. But eagerness soon turned into… boredom. Abject boredom. Something that one should bear in mind when entering the sovereign soil of Her Majesty. Who knew really? Well, somebody knew. They just didn’t bother telling.
the med check
Until now, I think, when you enter the UK for long-term settlement (be it as a student, or for employment, or anything else other than a short-term tourist), make sure that you have all your most recent medical certificate with you. That includes an x-ray film or two of your lungs. This will definitely cut down the waiting time in the Health Bureau. You have to pass the Health Bureau first before Immigration can declare you harmless and non-contagious, and therefore fit to enter and reside on this Sceptred Isle. It will also provide you with information on how to enroll oneself into the National Health Service (NHS) scheme. NHS is free, a public service paid for by the government. Free is good (monetarily), but it is not without its attendant problems. Search any newsbytes on the NHS and you will find what a convoluted issue it is. And yes, us foreigners benefit from them too.
Anyway.
Well, suffice to say, I wasn’t prepared for this Health Bureau thing. Well. Expect to wait upwards of two hours, or even three hours (during peak season, i.e. the start of the new academic year for one) before you get called for an embarrassingly short examination. The examination itself took less than fifteen minutes (longer if you’re wearing complicated clothes that you need to shed).
The imigration officer saw my sour mood and smiled sympathetically. It could have been worse, she told me. Papers checked, she made sure that I wasn’t from a country that would require me to report myself to the nearest police station. “That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to report to the police station.” I wanted to ask more about it and why, but I thought shutting up would be a good thing for once. No need to draw more attention than necessary, I guess.
Fifteen hours on a flight (plus transit), and over three hours in the airport proper… the polluted air of the outside smell like heaven.
