row2k Features
Regatta Road Trip II: Crossing the Border
November 4, 2004
Rob Colburn

"Scuffed-luggage ambassadors sleeping on floors, on our way to any city or nation that would take us in..."

"Why isn't anybody ever happy to see us?" -- Douglas Adams


There is a secret to crossing borders successfully, but unfortunately, I don't know it. Readers expecting to find this column full of useful advice on the subject will no doubt be savagely disappointed by this admission and want to go out and break something. What do I look like, the Foreign Office? I did manage - once -- to get through Dublin customs with my luggage unprobed, but only because the Welsh National Soccer team (plus their exuberant fans) landed fortuitously aboard the plane behind mine, suddenly filling the terminal with inflatable red dragons, flags and wistfully beautiful Welsh singing.

The Dublin customs took one look at the happy chaos, and backed up in a line against the wall, mutely waving everyone through. The more thoroughly they ignored what was happening to their nice airport terminal, the sooner it would go away.

That sort of luck doesn't hold forever. Most trouble I ever got into IN MY LIFE was for bringing a box of blank transparency film to a business meeting in Canada. (Transparency film is made from wood chips, and importing forest products into Canada ranks right up there with serving the wrong wine with salmon.) They went through my luggage like a tour group through Las Vegas. The secret to crossing borders is: never attempt it with me in your group.

We steered aside from the well-behaved line of cars with Empacher singles and oars strapped to their roofs, and headed instead for the special lane reserved for travelers who have accidentally stuck the pages of their passports together with maple syrup. Just to set the scene, our crew included a Russian, a Serb, a Pakastani, a Canadian-Lithuanian, and several people wearing Yankees hats, though we judiciously spread them among various vehicles to avoid giving the border guards "passport shock." Interestingly, Ivan still carries his Soviet Union passport with CCCP stamped on the cover. Good to know that passports remain valid, even after the political entities which issued them expire.

"Purpose of visit?"

"To kick some ass...er, to compete in the regatta. You know, rowing." We demonstrate our bona fides by making nervous rowing motions with our hands. The customs officer gives us a quizzical look and slowly takes one step back.

"Any fresh fruit, dairy or agricultural products?" (What do we win if we get all the questions right?) Too late we remember the yogurt, bananas, and power bars stashed in our luggage. Now would be a really excellent time for a spare Welsh soccer team to appear. Alas, they all seem to be busy at some other border. "No," we lie bravely for God, Queen, and Country.

"Any gold bullion, financial instruments, or currency worth more than $75,000?"

As if. Officer, do we look like we've got seventy-five grand? "No, but we're hoping to de-export a whole bunch of gold medals out of the country."

"Any firearms?" Ah, at last, an easy one. Or would have been except that Julian -- who was either trying to flirt with one of the female customs officers (or else give his coach a heart attack) -- begins making affirmative gestures and holding up an imaginary 7.6mm, rotating bolt breech Kalashnikov with a 12 x 700 night scope, for her to admire.

Importing automatic weapons across international borders is a fairly serious offense, but running nonexistent guns into an allied nation will get you put in a rubber room. Moreover, your consular representative will hang up in disgust when you try to explain that your whole team is in jail on the wrong side of the border just because your three seat -- and his invisible friend -- tried to smuggle fictitious weaponry through customs. That his invisible friend's passport photo doesn't look a thing like him merely complicates an already tense international situation.

"Aefferyungituttovffeeickul."

"What?"

"I think," said our stroke calmly, "they want to search the van."

Oh, officers, you truly do not want to do that. It's not just the crumbs and cookie wrappers all over the floor, but do you know how long it's been since any of us washed our unisuits? The packets of instant oatmeal caused a faint stir of interest until -- one having been torn open and its contents poured on the ground -- it was found to be...just oatmeal. The five cases of Gatorade under the seat passed without comment. The partly-disassembled erg, however, stopped them cold. Until that moment, we had forgotten that Jeff and Chris had resourcefully brought one with them.

"What's this?"

"An instrument of torture," Chris answers, more truthfully than perhaps the officer realizes. Then, fingering the chain with a puckish grin, "We get on it one at a time…for twenty-one minutes. Without stopping."

"You people are weird. No, NO, NO, get that away from me. No, I am not going to stamp your passports." (This to Henry and Nick, who were holding theirs out rather hopefully.) "You can go. Fine…yes, you can have that*. Just GO. Enjoy your visit."


* the little desk flag in the guards' booth.

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