Why I stay above the 49

There are those moments when traveling that produce a chemical reaction somewhere deep within the folds of our mind that fire off a synapses of electrical impulses. The reaction triggers a response in our nervous system producing symptoms including, but not limited to a dry mouth, a sweaty brow, and a twitch in the right eye. This is normally described as fear. That feeling came upon me not too long ago as I attempted to enter the USA on my way to the International Projects Meeting for Samaritan’s Purse. I mumbled to my boss as we were about to pass through US Customs in Atlanta: “I wonder if I’m going to make it.” He rolled his eyes incredulously at my inability to make it through borders. His premonitions were realized; I did not make it very far.

US Customs Officer: “Where are you going?”

MK: “Boone, North Carolina”

US CO: “Why? What brings you to this part of America?”

MK: “International Projects Meeting.”

US CO: “What do you do?”

MK: “Humanitarian Aid Work. I manage the agricultural program in Liberia.”

US CO: “Humana what?” [shoots me a look of disbelief] “Where are you staying?”

MK: “800 Bamboo Road, Boone, NC”

US CO: “Is that a hotel or what?”

MK: “Umm…it’s actually my organization’s HQ.”

US CO: “So you’re staying at the HQ?!” [At this point I could see that he was losing interest] Have you ever been to the States before?”

MK: “What? Yes, of course. I live in Canada! I have been to Washington, California, Oregon.”

US CO: “When? Which dates?”

MK: “Many times. Which days? I don’t exactly recall.” [At this point I was giving up hope of becoming friends.]

He placed my passport and declaration card in a black folder and orders: “Report to the office.” [I was on the black list.]

I entered the office. The room was filled with a racial cross-section of humanity. We all sat there tentatively, waiting for our individual interrogations. One man was told to sit back down and wait his turn like every other suspected criminal. Another man with a thick accent was told that his resident status was in jeopardy. He retorted with the honesty of a supplicating child, “What is wrong with smoking marijuana anyway?! It was only a small amount.” It took a great deal of discipline to avoid bursting out in laughter. It was at this point that I began mentally noting a list of “The top three things of what not to say to a US customs officer.”

Another gentleman also put on quite a show a few minutes later. This man was able to get all of the customs officers to look up from their workstations. It was a very impressive display. The man who was in his fifties with no time for seemingly unnecessary delays decided that he needed to let the officer know that he was going to miss his plane (this was after the officer had just told another man to sit down for the same reason. The officer gave a speech to the audience telling us that we would be served one at a time.) The man’s priority request was met with a negative response. The man walked away with curses falling from his mouth. This pushed the right buttons for the customs officer who stood up and stated in a voice echoing authority laced with a thin layer of passive aggressiveness: “Sir! SIR! You are coming with me. Right here. Into this room in the back. NOW SIR!”

We all rubbed our hands in eager expectation for what was surely to follow and we were not disappointed. The Customs Officer yelled at the man in the back room and this man yelled a few words back. In a few moments of mostly one sided engagement the man walked out of that room, his face a deep shade of crimson. As he was taking his seat he blurted out something that no one was expecting. It rocked the room like an explosion. “NAZI!” He threw it out in the direction of the officers. The crowd was hushed by the claim. The officers all looked up from their workstations. Even the pot smoking immigrant stopped talking about the reasons to legalize marijuana. The officer wheeled into view from behind the desk and aptly retorted: “Sir you would not know, you were not there!” The supervisor was called and we did not see him again.

My turn came for an interrogation. I was escorted into a room where they asked me the same questions six different times hoping to help me tell a lie. I was blacklisted for problems entering the US four years ago. I will not get into the details suffice to say “do not ever give false information to a US Customs Officer even if it is non-intentional.” Back in the room I was under questioning. I became a little more nervous thinking that I would not make my flight and after having been in the plane for nine hours I found myself with a growing sense of needing the washroom. They allowed me this courtesy. The interior decorating style of the washroom had a 1960’s stainless steel modern state penitentiary prison feel to it. It came complete with toilet paper, but no soap or running water. It also did not have a flushing lever for the toilet. I thought this would be problematic, but I noticed a camera looking down at me in the corner. He noticed me too for as I stood up and walked away the toilet flushed. I knocked three times on the door (as instructed) and we completed the interrogation. I was free to go and even made it onto the aircraft.

In summary here are my tips on what not to say to US Customs:

· “Consuming marijuana is ok.” or any other positive or negative reference to pot. It is not up for discussion with the US Customs.

· “Nazi.” Most people do not like the Nazis. Keep this in mind.

· “I like your toilet” or any other reference to non-essentials to getting out of the customs office.

Marcel

PS- On the way out of the US I was given the "SSSS" treatment, which means I got the pat-me-down search. In this instance however, the lads redeemed themselves. They were friendly and had personality.