“I started out cleaning Freddie Laker’s planes”

Simon Calder, the Independent’s travel correspondent, talks capacity myths, his first job in travel and a love of Singapore’s Changi airport.

Where do you stand on the aviation capacity debate? 
I’d politely suggest predictions of the imminent demise of British aviation have been exaggerated. Listening to parts of the debate it’s interesting how it’s described as a terrible capacity crunch when in fact we’ve actually got a bit too much capacity – it’s just in the wrong places. And I joyfully celebrate every time I board a plane how lucky we are to have such a competitive, low-cost aviation sector. And because everybody wants to fly into London we have better fares than one would predict. To take a brief example, London to Melbourne (just about the longest journey you can make from the UK) costs £900 direct which is about 40 per cent, sometimes 50 per cent, less than a Melbourne resident would pay. Things will get even better once you begin to erode the market distortion caused by having Heathrow at effectively its declared capacity.
 
Are you saying that the capacity crunch is overstated? That it doesn’t exist?
Heathrow has no spare capacity under its current rules and operating regime. The only way to get proper competition in 
a meaningful way is to have spare capacity in parts of the system that do not have spare capacity at the moment. 
 
And where are those parts?
So Gatwick has bits [of capacity] around the edges which is fine. Heathrow has plenty of spare capacity; it is currently about 80 per cent of its ATC [air traffic control] potential capacity within the hours of operation. So when [Heathrow] says they are 98 per cent full what they mean is that “we use 98 per cent of the slots that we are allowed to use”, which is a completely different metric. 
 
So given that competition will only flourish where there is spare capacity, we do need some spare capacity and that might involve building a third runway at Heathrow. It might involve building a second runway at Gatwick; it could conceivably involve building a second runway at Stansted but I think we’re looking at another twenty, thirty, forty years for that.
 
Might that involve building no new runways at all?
Only with the sorts of command economy decisions that we are not going to see. 
So we’ve got plenty of capacity but we haven’t really got it where people really need it. And it’s difficult to see where Gatwick can begin meaningfully to compete with Heathrow while we have the 
current alignment of runways. 
 
When people talk about connectivity they tend to elide this with talk of a single hub airport…
But these people who talk about connectivity tend to be politicians – who have their own reasons to do all sorts of things – and Heathrow airport.
 
Are they wrong to talk in those terms?
Let’s just take a step back. London is the biggest aviation market in the world and rather more than half that capacity is at Heathrow. So Heathrow is important. But  the figures suggest (or one set of figures suggest) that 37 per cent of people at Heathrow are connecting. Let’s call it a third roughly. But they are not doing that every single day because nine out of ten of people flying in and out of London are origin and destination passengers.
 
Now British Airways would much rather fly everybody between Heathrow and Miami point-to-point because it will get a premium for that. It would rather fly everybody from Heathrow to Moscow point-to-point because it can get a premium for that too. But on a wet Tuesday in November, it’s never going to do that. So therefore they have this great power to turn on capacity, to say to travellers in Moscow and Miami, “Hey, if you work around our schedules, our availability, we will give you a great price.” And that helps fill up spare capacity and aviation has very high fixed costs and very low marginal costs. So that’s a fantastic thing to have and it’s not something Air France or Lufthansa has because they do not have sufficient capacity at their hubs to offer that origin and destination traffic. 
 
British Airways wants lots of point-to-point traffic but it also wants to have the right to lots of connecting traffic and I’m not sure the extent to which of the other airline alliances apart from oneworld really sees London as a potential lone hub rather than just simply a rich source of traffic. 
 
So we’re not talking about the need for a hub, we’re talking about the needs of British Airways. Or is that unfair?
If you want a traditional 20th century hub then the best shot Britain and London has is Heathrow and British Airways. But I’m just not sure whether that’s the right question to ask. You need to be aware of what the 787 might do, of what the Airbus A350 might do in terms of point-to-point. Look at what Norwegian – by far the most radical low-cost airline, far more so than Ryanair or EasyJet – is doing buying 787s and flying them to New York. To say, “Here’s how air traffic works, it’s all hubs and spokes” is not correct. And neither is it correct to say it’s all going to be direct. It’s going to be messy. 
 
What’s your favourite airport in the world?
I’m going to be quite conventional and say Amsterdam Schiphol. I don’t love it just because it has somehow managed to compress a hub into an area where you can actually have simple terminal connections but because they put a bit of the Rijksmuseum in there too. They really thought, “Okay, what do we do in Holland. Well, we do lots of trading; we’re very good at that. Oh, and we had the golden age and produced the world’s greatest art. So let’s put some of that in.”
 
Any others?
[Singapore’s] Changi airport because it’s got a swimming pool on the roof and a cactus garden. And furthermore you can get from Jumbo Seafood on the East Coast Parkway to Changi in about ten minutes in a cab which means you can have the best feast ever and then fly home to London. 
 
And your least favourite airport?
[New York’s John F] Kennedy used to be but not anymore. Sheremetyevo in Moscow is probably top of the list. On the other hand, airports are a means to an end like prisons, like hospitals. [You want to] get in and get out as fast as possible. It doesn’t matter if they are Amsterdam or Changi or Sheremetyevo, you just want to get out.
 
If you could change one thing about air travel what would it be?
Security. 
 
To make it more efficient?
To make it more human. You, and everyone reading this, has no evil intent in their heart but if they fly they will be treated as if they are international terrorists. Ensuring that they don’t have any sharp objects or guns is a forty year old paradigm of how we make the skies safe. 
 
You should be looking at people for their behaviour – and absolutely not their race or religion – to spot some reason to want to enquire a bit further as opposed to frisking people even though they are clearly not going to cause any trouble. You might one day have lounge marshals much like sky marshals: they won’t have guns, they’ll sit around and look around. 
 
Is it true that your first job was as a cleaner at Gatwick?
It was my first job in travel. I’d had a paper round before that. But yes, I started cleaning out Freddie Laker’s planes. And then I started frisking people. 
 
So is that where the love affair with travel began?­­
No, no. That began when I realised I was living in Crawley and I thought there must be better places in the world than this. 
 
Interview by Jon Bernstein

 

Schiphol Airport. Photograph: Getty.

Jon Bernstein, former deputy editor of New Statesman, is a digital strategist and editor. He tweets @Jon_Bernstein. 

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Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue