Crossin' Borders 'Round the World

In the course of my travels I have crossed hundreds, (or maybe thousands) of international borders by plane, train and automobile, so if you think that these crossings may have involved some interesting experiences, you are right.

So let me tell you about some of the most memorable:

But first, a couple of comments.

They say that you should never get in the line in front of the woman inspector. I find that is not true, that line usually moves faster, and if there is some minor problem, a woman official is usually easier to convince (or con, as the case may be,) than a male.

I also believe that there is an inverse correlation between the ranking of a country in the world hierarchy, and the uniforms of their customs and immigration people. The guys with the gold braid, medals, and looking like an overdressed hotel doorman, are surely working in some third world cesspool, while those from developed countries are generally wearing more conservative attire. The new uniforms of our Customs and Border Security guys, under the Dept of Homeland Security, may be an exception to that rule though, as they are
pretty far out.

But on with the stories. You need to know, though, that while the names and locales have sometimes been altered to protect the guilty, the facts are generally correct, and in some cases, understated. So, with that understanding, here goes.


When I was a little kid in Montana, Canadian border crossing was pretty informal. If you wanted to go to Canada, you drove up to the border, cut the barbed wire fence, if there was one, and drove through. And then repeated this drill on the way back. Most places, though, there were only concrete pylons marking the border, every half mile or so, so no need for wire cutters.

And there were certainly no Border Patrol, TSA or Customs and Immigration guys to complicate one’s life.


And speaking of Canada, here are a couple more yarns.

When I was a bit older, but still young and foolish, I had occasion to give a big speech in Seattle, after which, I was heading to Vancouver BC for the weekend.

So, after several Scotches to get up my nerve, and several others to congratulate myself on a good presentation, I jumped in my car, and weaved off for the Canadian border. Where I arrived a little after midnight, at a remote crossing point, and it was literally raining cats and dogs. The immigration guy, probably in a surly mood from being woke up and having to go out in the rain, gave me what I thought was an underserved bad time. One thing led to another, and then he was asking me to open the car trunk. I politely, I thought, declined, and told him that if he wanted to look, feel free to open it himself, but to wait till I got a long ways away. When he questioned me about why, I informed him that the trunk was full of dehydrated Dukabors (A Canadian religious sect who sometime took to blowing things up), and if he opened the trunk, and the rain struck them, the Dukabors would reconstitute, and take over the lower mainland.

Understandably, the guy was not amused, and he invited me into the office for a further chat. After about ten minutes of his lecture, I pointed out that he could either let me into Canada, or deny me entry. It was his choice. But in any event, I was not going to sit still for any more of this S***, and if things were not resolved in my favor, and quickly, I was going to call the Canadian General Counsel, in Seattle, at home, and explain my problem to him. I also suggested that if things went that far, there was a distinct possibility that next week he would be manning a border post between Alaska and the Yukon. (This was not entirely an idle threat, as I did know the Canadian Counsel General fairly well.) An approach like this is almost always counterproductive, but this time it worked. It may have been the spiffy sport roadster I was driving or the suit I was wearing, but after considering his options for about thirty seconds he decided that descretion was the better part of valor, and sent me on my way.

When I related this story to the friends I was visiting, they were scared to death that the RCMP would arrest them for harboring a fugitive, till I made them understand that I had told no one my destination.


Once when going into Canada with a truckload of Boy Scouts, one of the boys made a face, and shouted Oink, Oink to one of the Customs officials. That earned us a one hour delay, while they tore all of our cars apart.

And speaking of Boy Scouts, the Scoutmasters, on a Canadian excursion, had to have their nightly toddy, and it was cheaper to smuggle the stuff in from the States, than to buy it in Canada.

One of the Assistant Scoutmasters happened to be a Catholic priest, so the drill was usually to sit him in the front seat of the lead car, in full clerical regalia, with the booze sequestered under his robes. The customs guys would pay their respects to the Father, and then wave us through. One day, though, a Customs guy asked, “Father, what have you got under those robes?” Oh, our priest quickly replied, only a little something for the Nuns. Fortunately, we were waved through, before we all broke out laughing.


One time I was retuning to Seattle through an obscure border crossing point in a car I had rented in Vancouver BC. There must have been something wrong with that car, because, as soon as I rolled into the check station, I was assailed by about a platoon of Border Patrol guys who proceeded to collar me, and then take the car apart. I finally convinced them that I had innocently rented the car, and had no idea what they were looking for, so they let me call Hertz, who had another car delivered, and I left them to their fun.


Another time, returning from an extended fishing trip in Canada, we found a joint US/Canadian “Fish Check” operation at the border. Our problem, though, was that the fish were in a cooler under about two tons of camp gear, and 15 cases of contraband beer. But the officials, sure that we were over the limit, really wanted to see those fish. So, with nothing else to do at the moment, they helped us remove the overburden, including the beer, and after satisfying themselves that the catch was legal, helped us reload the beer and the other stuff, then bid us adieu. After all, they were looking for fish that day, not beer.


Once upon a time, Pat and I were going fishin’ for a week at a remote Canadian camp. , Since we had to leave the vehicle at a trailhead and hike in, we made the trip in a totally beat old Toyota pickup borrowed from our son.

So, here we are, pulling up to Canadian Immigration. An older couple in this totally beat truck, with no luggage but a duffel bag. Needless to say, we were pulled over and got the full treatment. To top it off, we had our usual supply of medicine along, so had to explain each bottle in excruciating detail. In the middle of this, I wandered off to take a whiz, and when I got back was accused of flushing contraband drugs down the toilet. Finally, tiring of this game, or deciding we were harmless, or both, they let us go.


Then there was the time Pat and I were crossing into the US from Canada, at some Podunk point, miles from nowhere. When we passed between the yellow posts and pulled up to the booth, the Border Patrol guy really started giving me a hard time. I didn’t worry much about it, figuring that he must have had a fight with his wife, or something, but he finally told me to park the truck and go in the office. When I asked him why, he said that I was radioactive.

So mystified, I went into the office. And while sitting there waiting my turn, I remembered that I’d had, a medical procedure several weeks ago, which involved a weak dose of Thallium. About the same radiation as a medical x ray. I explained this, but the guy said that I had to get screened anyway. So they put me into this big machine with dials, lights, chrome knobs and so forth. When the operator pushed a button it whirred and clanked and eventually spit out a piece of paper with, you guessed it, the word Thallium printed on it.

But the ordeal wasn’t over yet, he had to fill out forms, and get a copy of my passport. Then we went out to the truck where he went over Pat and truck with some kind of sophisticated Geiger counter machine. And we were finally on our way.

The good thing is, I guess, that I don’t think that anybody is going to be able to smuggle an atomic bomb into the US thru one of those crossing points. Incidentally, I told the story to my Docs, and they now give patients a card, explaining to all and sundry, that the bearer has had this test.


And I had a lot of fun in Europe, as well, as these tales will tell.

While working in Germany right after the war, wife, year old daughter and myself decided to take a holiday to Merrie ol’ England. So we drove to Ostend, parked the car and boarded the channel steamer. Arriving in Dover, the first order of business, of course, was to clear Her Majesty’s Customs. (Or was it His Majesty in those days, I don’t quite remember)

Anyway, it’s a very warm spring day, the customs shed is overheated, and here am I in my usual attire, consisting of scruffy German clothes and a dirty German trench coat. Only I am wearing the coat, and it’s pockets are stuffed with suspicious looking lumpy stuff. So the Customs Inspector, becoming a bit suspicious, and not particularly liking Germans, hauled me off into a private room, and started giving me the third degree. Imagine his surprise when he found out that 1) I was an American, and 2) All that suspicious stuff in my pockets was; baby bottle, clean diapers, teddy bear, etc. And I was wearing the coat, because I could not carry it, and all that other stuff. So, after profuse apologies, I was sent on my way.


Also in Germany in those days, civilian gas was over two bucks per gallon, But an American could get substantially unlimited quantities of gas from the US Army, either by stealing it, or if he was too lazy to do that, then paying $15 cents per gallon at the Army pump.

The German army in WW II had fueled their vehicles in the field, not from gas tankers, but from 20 liter (5 gallon) cans, carried in quantity on regular army trucks. And there were literally millions of these cans lying around, free for the taking, or priced at a Mark or two.

So with free gas, and free cans, everybody was hoarding gas, either for their own use, or to sell on the Black Market. One could get two bucks or more for five gallons, and the customer could keep the can.

Me, being a reasonably straight shooter, usually only kept a couple of full cans in the car trunk, for an emergency supply if out of range of Army gas. But when on a weekend trip to another country, or countries, would cram ten or twelve cans in the commodious trunk of my American Ford coupe. This would provide a range of up to 1000 miles, which was enough to get most any place in Europe and back.

But, one night when I was crossing a border with a full load of gas in those cans, the customs official for some unexplained reason wasted to see in my trunk. Maybe it was because it was a little down on the springs, with a five hundred pound load of gas. The upshot was, that the guy wanted me to pay duty on all this gas, before he would allow me to proceed. I forget what the duty was, but was probably more than this guy made in two weeks.

Anyway, I told him that if it came to that, I would pour all the gas out on the ground, right there, right now. This apparently shocked the guy right down to his socks, ‘cause he slammed the trunk lid down and told me to move on.


One time, much later on, I was dispatched to Italy to check on a production problem at an Italian factory, and took a young expert along with me. Now this “expert” was green as grass, had never been across the County line, and was really nervous about traveling to a strange foreign country. I assured him that the whole mission was a cinch, that the Italians were nice folks, and that their immigration officials just waved Americans through. Further,I told him that I personally, had been to Italy at least 20 times, and never had a whiff of trouble.

I had him pretty well calmed down by the time we got to Naples, But guess what, as we exited the jetway, a couple of burly cops grabbed us, and hustled us off, spouting a torrent of Italian.

Turned out that they were the Italian DEA, had figured we were running drugs, and decided to bust us. My young friend was totally traumatized, but I finally figured out what was happening, convinced the cops that we were innocent engineers just trying to get along, and they finally let us go. But you can believe that wild horses were never going to drag that kid back to Italy.


Several years ago, Three guys, Gary, Mark and myself, decided to take the ferry from Spain to Tangier, Morocco, for a weekend of sightseeing. Upon our arrival at Tangier, we docked at some kind of military looking establishment, and were immediately surrounded by several Arabs in strange uniforms, gesturing wildly and spouting some unknown language. They confiscated our passports, and it was beginning to look like we were in some difficulty. Gary, incidentally speaks fluent Spanish, and my German is pretty good, but neither of those languages, or English, for that matter, made the slightest impression. Gary and I, although experienced travelers, were getting a bit concerned, while Mark, who had never been anywhere, was in a full fledged panic.

I finally figured out that the officials were speaking Arabic, along with some French. That didn’t help much, as the other two guys’ French was non existent, and mine had progressed barely beyond the menu reading stage. Anyway, after numerous Ouis, Nons, Mercis and hand waving, I figured out that we needed to buy Moroccan auto insurance before we could proceed. So a few bucks changed hands, we got our papers stamped, the functionaries were happy, and we were free to leave.



Things could also get interesting on the other side of the world.

I was entering Japan with a minor diplomatic functionary from a small European country one day, when the officials decided on a full bag check. I saw that the guy did not have a real diplomatic passport, so I cautioned him to stay cool. But no, he had to rant and rave about being a diplomat. Upshot was that, although they didn’t even look in my bag, I was held up for quite a while, while they thoroughly tore my companion’s bags apart.


At the other extreme, a Customs official in Mexico, once told us that for a payoff of five bucks, he would NOT search our car.


Somewhere in my archives, I have a photo of me, clearly inside North Korea, chatting with a North Korean Border guard. When asked to explain how I pulled that off, I explained that I had a platoon of US infantry right behind me. But that is a story for another day.


Japan, used to require a visa for a business traveler, but no visa for a tourist. So one day, my traveling companion, who had neglected to get a visa, got nailed by an officious Japanese Immigration Official, and given a forty five minute hassle. At the end of which the official told my guy that “You could have avoided all this if you had told me you were on vacation” and let him go. Who can figure out the Oriental mind??


Also, when you entered Japan, you had to fill out a two page form with all one’s vital statistics. Sort of like our Form 94. Page one noted the date you entered Japan, and was given to the Immigration official. Page two was stapled into your passport and was date stamped and surrendered to another official when you left Japan.

I always had visions of some minor Japanese functionary, locked in a room with ten million page ones and page twos, and told that he would not get his pension till he matched them all up.


And now, for some incidents from all over.

In the course of my overseas construction adventures, I would sometimes need to take soil samples at the construction site, and bring them back to a US lab for analysis.

Invariably, at the US border, these samples would get the attention of the Customs guys, who would then have to confer with their Agriculture Department counterparts. Sometimes I could talk my way past them all, but often the samples got confiscated. I finally solved this problem by typing up impressive looking labels stating that this sample was for official use only, and was imported in accordance with Department of Agriculture regulation Number 543624, and I never had any more trouble.


It was also great fun when in the desalination business, I was bringing in seawater to be analyzed. There was no rule against bringing in sea water, but I usually got held up, just the same, while the officials tried to figure out what I was really smuggling.


When entering most countries, except when traveling by car, one must invariably fill out at least one official form. They are printed in the indigenous language, as well as bad English. With the exception of the US, Britain, and Japan, no one ever reads them, so you could fill them out in Swahili for all anyone would notice. As an added complication, in the Caribbean, and some other third world backwaters, the airline service is so bad that often as not, the plane lands in the wrong country, and the form is worthless anyway. So most experienced travelers don’t waste much time filling them out.

Which puts me in mind of some Nebraskans I was traveling with on a train to Canada. They were really having trouble with the Canadian forms, till I suggested that if they were not fluent in French, it might be better to turn the forms over and read the side written in English.


The Caribbean could also be interesting, as these stories will show.

Back in the god ol’ days in the Caribbean, before cruise ships and jet aircraft, a native Customs Inspector named Fat Albert was in charge of her Majesty’s Customs House, in the British Virgin Islands. The place was an unpainted shack, with glassless windows overlooking the harbor. A rude table served as a desk, fair sized rocks anchored the papers from flying out the windows in the tropic breeze, and seating needs were served by some knocked together benches. But this was Fat Albert’s domain, and to him it might as well have been Buckingham Palace. This was brought forcefully to the attention of a friend of mine one day, when he momentarily rested his foot on a bench, and was told in no uncertain terms to “Please remove your boot from Her Majesty’s chair.”


One fine day in the Caribbean, while winging along in a bush plane, we spotted a rubber raft with what looked like three survivors of a shipwreck. We radioed the Coast Guard, and circled the scene till the rescue helicopter arrived. We then went on to San Juan, dropped off some stuff and returned to St Thomas. Meantime the helicopter with the castaways had landed, and as we were clearing immigration, we noticed the US immigration officers hassling these poor sodden sailors, because they didn’t have the proper entry documents. Quite a day, huh.



I had shipped a Jeep to one of those Caribbean paradises, to use in a construction job, and my first step was to get it through customs and locally registered. Probably a formnable task, I thought. But boy was I wrong.

When I drove up to the office, the official asked me who owned the jeep, and I answered “me”. “OK”, he said and without further ado, and without a scrap of documentation from me, he waived the duty, sat down to his battered Underwood, and typed me up a new car title. After signing it and affixing his seal, he handed it to me, and we were done. He looked tuckered out by all this activity, which was more work than he had done in the previous week, so I stood him for a couple of drinks at the local watering hole, and incidentally, made a friend for life.

Such are the wondrous ways of the tropics.

And that, friends, is the end of this book.

Edmonds WA May 2009 -