In mid 1998 I still considered myself a Kiwi and was quite happy to make myself available for the NZ Shooting Team. Despite missing out on the Commonwealth Games Team and the resultant free trips to Europe I was offered a partially-subsidised trip to the 47th World Shooting Champs in Barcelona. Opportunities like this don't come along every day so I took the chance gratefully. The following is a diary of the trip, its highlights and low points. Hope you find it entertaining.
My journey begins normally enough. I check in at Brisbane Airport. Note here and now that I declare my pistols (in one case) and ammunition (packed with my other luggage). Being such a long trip I decide to keep a change of clothes in my hand luggage. This later proves to be a good move.
Arriving at Auckland at 3pm I exit Immigration Control to meet a friend for dinner as I have six hours to kill. Bucket has agreed to pick me up, I have offered to shout dinner. Waiting, waiting. Half an hour later I ring his mobile from a pay phone. Switched off. So I leave a message on his home phone: "Hello. It's me here. I'm here. Where the *&#% are you?"
Just so I no longer look like a pathetic abandoned dog on the side of the road watching every approaching vehicle I go upstairs, buy a book and settle down reading. Airport chairs are designed, I'm sure, to be so uncomfortable they force you to join the Qantas Club. Two hours later I'm thumped on the back. He had to work. His mobile battery was flat. There was an earthquake. It wasn't his fault. Getting the idea why we call him Bucket? We still have time to put the nosebag on, he drives to an arty cafe in Newmarket.
I check back in later. Three other Team members are travelling with me; a rifle shooting husband and wife and Mike Smith, another pistol shooter. The rest of the Team has been in Barcelona for five days already. Our next stop is Los Angeles. It's an overnight trip, but due to the wonders of the International Date Line we arrive before we take off. LA is a brief 90 minute stop. I try a Transit Lounge hot dog, my first taste of American cuisine.
Back aboard the plane a stewardess comes along asking for Mr Smith and Mr Potter. She wants to know if we have any ammunition in our luggage. Funny question as we both declared it at check in. She takes notes on the quantity and type. Half an hour into the flight a steward comes back with the excellent news. My suitcase has been held in LA by Customs. Why? Because it has ammo in it. What a surprise! I'm part of a group booking for the NZ Shooting Team made by the NZ Shooting Federation going to the World Shooting Championships and I have the audacity to take ammo in my luggage! Why they picked my bag and none of the other three is not stated.
So I enjoy the rest of the flight wondering if I'll ever see my suitcase again. In London we meet up with the Shotgun Team, who have just competed in a pre-World competiton in Italy. Their manager has lost his luggage for the third time in three trips. This inspires great confidence. I see a bloke from British Airways called Sohail. He promises that my case will arrive four hours behind me in Barcelona. Yeah, right!
The last leg of our journey ends at Barcelona at six o'clock local time on Thursday night. With daylight saving it seems more like early afternoon. We are greeted by WSC staff who shepherd us to baggage check, bypassing Customs, then out to buses to take us to our lodgings. A young lad called Javier promises to locate my bag and send it on to me when it arrives.
The temperature is very hot, probably mid thirties and very humid. This is much the same as a Queensland summer, but without the likelihood of a cooling storm at the end of the day. The sky is a pallid blue; smog obscures the hills in the middle distance. The Kiwis find it uncomfortable having come from their winter. The bus takes us north, through Barcelona itself, then further to the north west to the University campus near Bellaterra. This was used for athletes' and officials' accommodation in 1992 for the Olympics, and will serve as our home for the next week and a half.
We are allocated our rooms. I share with Mike, with another rifle shooter to arrive in a couple of days. The units are modern but basic, but have no air conditioning. Also no television. It is now eight o'clock, the sun is still high in the sky, and the heat is still pressing. We meet up with the other pistol shooters who introduce us to the small restaurant close to our rooms. Service is painfully slow but friendly. A helpful shooter from another country has kindly translated the entire menu to avoid any nasty surprises. We discover San Miguel is the better of the two local beers and make ourselves at home.
The main office has no news of my luggage. Team management also seems to have no interest in helping locate it, so it looks as if I'm on my own here. This is where my change of clothes comes in handy. I hand wash yesterday's clothes just in case.
We take the bus to the range complex at Mollet del Valles. It is not far in distance but takes around 25 minutes to get there, and about 15-20 minutes for the return trip. Buses are scheduled to leave every half hour during the day and every ten minutes first thing in the morning. We take our guns to be checked in by a policeman who has records of all of our firearms as supplied by our national Association. Only one of mine is wrong; Mike has two discrepancies. The policeman has obviously had this problem a number of times and changes his paperwork without batting an eyelid.
Gun check is in progress so we decide to get this over and done with. I must say that Australian officials are a lot less casual. We breeze through in a few minutes. We then book our gun bags into the huge armoury where they will live for the duration of our stay.
Centre Fire practice is taking place this morning. Our team has one hour allotted in range time. The range is, as you would expect, far bigger and better than I've seen in my shooting career. Both 10 metre and 25 metre ranges are in the same building, facing opposing directions. The entire air range, including 60+ positions plus four running target ranges, is completely air conditioned. There are five 25 metre speed ranges, all controlled by a central Range Officer with microphone. A fouling range is left open for competitors to shoot at one end.
Across a courtyard is the 50 metre range. This is air conditioned, with a large overhang of roof in front of the shooters. There are six or seven rows of elevated seating behind the whole range, which runs for more than sixty positions. Both ranges have upstairs computer rooms where the electronic target systems feed results. Constant score updates are then displayed by overhead projector for the benefit of spectators. This is in addition to the scoreboards above every shooter on the 10m and 50m bays which record every shot in sequence.
There is a large tent alley where firearm and accessory makers and distributors display their goodies. Walther, FWB, Hammerli, FAS, Pardini, Morini and Anschutz also have gunsmiths in attendance and offer free service to shooters who use their guns.Around four hundred metres past the tents is the shotgun range where Trap and Skeet are shot. Perazzi and Beretta have taken up residence behind their clubhouse.
Having sussed out the range I decide to go back to the Uni and chase my luggage. A very helpful lady rings British Airways at the airport to see if it has turned up. Nobody there knows anything about it either. I ask if Javier can be contacted - maybe he has taken it already. But Javier is a diabetic who has taken a bad turn and cannot be found. I relate the entire story and leave it for the lady to chase. It is just after midday, and the office staff will not be back on duty for a few hours. They take siesta time very seriously in this country.
The opening ceremony takes place at the shotgun range this evening. I wonder why my team mates are so reluctant to attend. After sitting in the blazing sun for several hours while VIPs wallow in self-importance and local folk dancers prance about a stage giving us a taste of their culture I believe I understand. King Juan Carlos even attends, which is why we are all searched for weapons on arrival and army patrol the ridges. Even in this region of Catalonia, where the seperatist movement is still strong, we see thousands of people lining the roads hoping for a glimpse of their King after the event.
On arrival back at the Uni I check hopefully once again for my bag. Miracles do happen; it has turned up in one piece. I thank the office lady profusely and whatever Luggage God looked after it.
I should mention at this stage the overall quality of the accommodation. Or maybe I should say, the conditions. We are on the third floor of an apartment building. Due to the lack of air conditioning we must keep all windows wide open. At times we are tempted to keep the back door open also, it creates a great breeze. At ground level, directly below our window, is situated a bar with outdoor seating. It is extremely popular at night. It is also extremely noisy. Since it is not dark until after 10pm patrons stay on until well after midnight. At which stage the staff DRAG the chairs and tables under cover.
I am fortunate in that I am used to the heat and I sleep very heavily. My team mates are not so lucky. We also have early starts, often at 8am, which means a 6am start to have breakfast and get there on time. If this is not bad enough some clown turns up with a mobile sound system to play dance music at eight on the richter scale into the wee hours. If I hear the Macarena one more time I will start throwing furniture out the window. And I still twitch at the sound of Ricky Martin.