The British Inquisition
Customs officials can be a little bit odd at the best of times. I assume that when the only conversation you can have with someone is limited to “where have you flown in from?”, “are you here for business or pleasure?” and “how long will you be staying?” *STAMP* your mental stability is tenuous.
However, UK customs officials are, hands down, my favourite when it comes to mixing it up.
I’ve had some shocker experiences before in customs. When crossing the Canadian/US border about five years ago, I was so lagged I misspelt my name on my green card and had to ask for another. Fortunately this was pre-September 11 so the customs official accurately assessed I was an idiot, not a suicide bomber.
About three years ago I went back to the US, cashing in some frequent flier miles to do so. A direct flight from Sydney to New York takes about 21 hours, however frequent flier flights back end you on other commercial flights, and so evolution seems to take less time.
I flew from Sydney to Auckland, where I had a 6 hour layover, from Auckland to LA, where I had a 4 hour layover and then LA to New York. All up, the trip took something like 36 hours.
In addition to this, the trip was in the height of post-September 11 security, so every time I got off a plane I had to have my shoes/bag/self scanned; and was vacuumed three times in case at some stage during one leg I decided I’d open up a bag of potting mix and build a small garden.
The woman seated next to me in Sydney very kindly sneezed on me as we taxied down the runway, and so by the time I landed in the US the flu I would later develop had started to take my body hostage. This was no regular head cold, but some kind of super virus clearly developed for chemical warfare.
I disembarked at LAX, having been awake by this stage for more than 24 hours; managed entirely by tepid airline coffee, Finding Nemo on loop and a disturbing dependence on refresher towels, and handed over my disembarkation card to the Customs official.
The conversation went something like this:
CO: Welcome to the United States of America
JD: Whatever
CO: You’ve come from Australia. I’ve always wanted to go to Australia.
JD: Uh huh
CO (looking at disembarkation card): Ahh, what does this say?
JD: Australian
CO: Your hand writing’s not very good is it?
JD: I’m sorry, what’s that?
CO: Well, we wouldn’t usually accept a card with writing this illegible.
That I’d managed to put pen to paper and fill in all the boxes immediately should have qualified me for some kind of Nobel prize in my mind, but everyone’s a critic right?
In February I had the awkward moment with Wilhelm and his tough love glove in Frankfurt and a mistimed (but I maintain funny) joke about gaffer taping large quantities of horse to ourselves in Singapore resulted in a mate and I almost getting chucked off our connection from Phnom Pehn, Christmas Eve 2005.
So, to current time, I’ve just come back from a week in Prague and as I landed at Gatwick (tired, late and not entirely sober) I got the customs official who wielded his rubber stamp with all the authority of the Commonwealth.
He wanted to know exactly how I managed to get my visa; which family member was British; from where that family member originally hailed and how long the visa was valid. This was a more rigorous assessment than required to actually get the visa in the first place! All the while he was rapid firing these questions at me he held the mighty stamp centimetres from my passport, leaving me to clearly understand that he held all the power in this situation.
The detail of my familial link to the UK is not actually something I’ve committed to memory. I filled in all the forms necessary for relocation and then promptly dumped the information from my RAM, to make room for an almost Rainman-like recall of the contents of Hello magazine and Spearhead lyrics. So, I bluffed my way through my British inquisition, with occasional moments of truth thrown in for authenticity.
He knew I was lying and I knew he knew I was lying. But what could I do, no one told me there would be a quiz.
None the less, I’m back, passport stamped. And Prague was fantastic.
However, UK customs officials are, hands down, my favourite when it comes to mixing it up.
I’ve had some shocker experiences before in customs. When crossing the Canadian/US border about five years ago, I was so lagged I misspelt my name on my green card and had to ask for another. Fortunately this was pre-September 11 so the customs official accurately assessed I was an idiot, not a suicide bomber.
About three years ago I went back to the US, cashing in some frequent flier miles to do so. A direct flight from Sydney to New York takes about 21 hours, however frequent flier flights back end you on other commercial flights, and so evolution seems to take less time.
I flew from Sydney to Auckland, where I had a 6 hour layover, from Auckland to LA, where I had a 4 hour layover and then LA to New York. All up, the trip took something like 36 hours.
In addition to this, the trip was in the height of post-September 11 security, so every time I got off a plane I had to have my shoes/bag/self scanned; and was vacuumed three times in case at some stage during one leg I decided I’d open up a bag of potting mix and build a small garden.
The woman seated next to me in Sydney very kindly sneezed on me as we taxied down the runway, and so by the time I landed in the US the flu I would later develop had started to take my body hostage. This was no regular head cold, but some kind of super virus clearly developed for chemical warfare.
I disembarked at LAX, having been awake by this stage for more than 24 hours; managed entirely by tepid airline coffee, Finding Nemo on loop and a disturbing dependence on refresher towels, and handed over my disembarkation card to the Customs official.
The conversation went something like this:
CO: Welcome to the United States of America
JD: Whatever
CO: You’ve come from Australia. I’ve always wanted to go to Australia.
JD: Uh huh
CO (looking at disembarkation card): Ahh, what does this say?
JD: Australian
CO: Your hand writing’s not very good is it?
JD: I’m sorry, what’s that?
CO: Well, we wouldn’t usually accept a card with writing this illegible.
That I’d managed to put pen to paper and fill in all the boxes immediately should have qualified me for some kind of Nobel prize in my mind, but everyone’s a critic right?
In February I had the awkward moment with Wilhelm and his tough love glove in Frankfurt and a mistimed (but I maintain funny) joke about gaffer taping large quantities of horse to ourselves in Singapore resulted in a mate and I almost getting chucked off our connection from Phnom Pehn, Christmas Eve 2005.
So, to current time, I’ve just come back from a week in Prague and as I landed at Gatwick (tired, late and not entirely sober) I got the customs official who wielded his rubber stamp with all the authority of the Commonwealth.
He wanted to know exactly how I managed to get my visa; which family member was British; from where that family member originally hailed and how long the visa was valid. This was a more rigorous assessment than required to actually get the visa in the first place! All the while he was rapid firing these questions at me he held the mighty stamp centimetres from my passport, leaving me to clearly understand that he held all the power in this situation.
The detail of my familial link to the UK is not actually something I’ve committed to memory. I filled in all the forms necessary for relocation and then promptly dumped the information from my RAM, to make room for an almost Rainman-like recall of the contents of Hello magazine and Spearhead lyrics. So, I bluffed my way through my British inquisition, with occasional moments of truth thrown in for authenticity.
He knew I was lying and I knew he knew I was lying. But what could I do, no one told me there would be a quiz.
None the less, I’m back, passport stamped. And Prague was fantastic.
Charles Bridge, Praha
