I never liked borders before and I like them even less now.
After a 6 hour long bus ride from Belize City to the Mexican border in the same bus I rode as a 10 year old schoolkid (ahh, Thomas Bus, I never realized your seats were so small) we landed at the Mexican border. Already armed with some information about border shenanigans, I politely declined to pay the extra $20USD that the border officials try to extract out of most foreigners.
But alas, I was not to escape unscathed. After having the bus take off with my belongings at the Bulgarian/Serbian border a while back, I always take my stuff when I have to leave the bus and can’t see it anymore. I have included the email I wrote about getting interrogated for 8 hours and losing my stuff at the bottom of this post as a few people have asked me why I hate borders so much. The story, while it happened a few years ago, will explain why and is kind of entertaining, too.
I suggested to my travel partner that she grab her bag too. She looked at me with a look that clearly said, “You are so paranoid.”
Maybe I am about borders, but probably for good reason. And in this case, definitely for good reason. The damn driver left us at the border. He didn’t want to wait for us to go through passport control, so the guy just drove on despite saying he’d wait. Luckily we were only about 30 minutes from the nearest bus station, so we just got a taxi there. With all our belongings.
Below is the email I sent regarding getting interrogated for 8 hours on a trip to Eastern Europe back when it was a bit more edgy. After reading it, you’ll understand why I hate borders. Apologies in advance for the not-so-hidden stereotypical American abroad comments. I was even more stupid back then.
__________________________
I should be in jail right now. I am writing this, still in the haze
of adrenaline, from Sofia, Bulgaria. I might still go to jail later
this week. I am writing this as a recount, a way to organize my own
thoughts and also a description in case I don’t make it out of
Bulgaria next week.
Friday morning, I arrived at the Sofia bus station to board my 7:30am
bus to Belgrade, Serbia. Everything went smoothly. Having stayed up
all night, I fell asleep fast and hard. One hour into the bus ride,
the driver signaled for us to produce our passports for the
Bulgarian/Serbian border crossing. At this moment, I felt a familiar
twinge of fear, because I know the relationship between the US and
Serbia. We bombed Belgrade to bits in 1999 and the recent 10 year
anniversary of the Srebenica massacre has raised tensions a slight
bit. In their "War Museum", they proudly display bits of a shot-down
US Stealth Fighter. I went back to sleep. Soon thereafter, I was
awoken and told to disembark and bring my bags.
This was the beginning of Chapter 1 of my Nightmare.
Figuring that it’d be a standard customs check, I grabbed my backpack
and daypack, leaving my jacket, pillow and hat on the bus. In my
sleepy stupor, I was ushered into a stark, cold room with very small
windows. The border officials started barking at me in some foreign
language (all these Balkan languages sound so similar) and sensing my
confusion, one finally said, "Fake passport." I woke up instantly.
The tinge became a tingle as I heard the border police ask me one
question after another. They wanted to know my itinerary. They
wanted to know why I didn’t have a second passport (assuming I’d have
a Vietnamese one too?). They wanted to know if I was in the military
or was a government spy. All the while, they were searching my bags
frantically. They literally checked everything. They read my
journal. They smelled my toothpaste. Everything.
I admit, I was frightened. However, I knew that showing obvious fear
would be akin to confessing my guilt. I had nothing to hide, so I
shouldn’t be afraid. These guys were good though. They were all
45-60 years old, well versed in the communist ways of interrogation.
Hell, they probably worked for the police during the communist days.
I had four guys on me, barking at me. It was like some bad movie.
Finally, the door opened and one guy came in with my passport. He had
destroyed my passport, peeling the laminate apart. He said, "American
Passport Fake. You go to jail."
Immediately, "I want to talk to the US Embassy. They will prove my identity."
They wouldn’t hear of it. Or perhaps they didn’t understand what I
was saying. They were going to send me to jail and then I would be
appointed an attorney next week. Though him, if I was lucky, I could
speak to my embassy later next week. They left. This made no sense to
me. My mind was racing. They were no longer communist, yet this
sounds like the stories of communist intimidation that mom/dad retell.
Yes, the communist/socialist party won a plurality in recent
elections and perhaps that influenced policy, but they were also
aiming for EU acceptance in 2007, so these heavyhanded methods
wouldn’t be condoned. I needed to find the levers to get what I
wanted. I didn’t dare risk trying to bribe them. It didn’t help that
the yes/no nods are reversed in Bulgaria, leading to lots of
communication problems between my interrogators and myself. When he
asked if my passport was fake, I shook my head left and right. In
Bulgarian non-verbal communication, that signals "YES."
They left. I sat in silence in the interrogation room for another two
hours. I watched my bus leave the border, along with my jacket/hat.
The guards taunted me constantly. One would walk by and stare for a
minute then yell, "You go to Jail!" Great, tell me something I didn’t
know. In a moment of sick humor, I bet myself that the Bulgarian
jails had probably not been renovated since the communist days. I
laughed to myself. Weird what your mind will do to alleviate stress.
Then, through the door, came the blessing I had asked for. Two men
came in, barking at me that my passport was false. The words were
repetitions of what I’d been listening to for hours, but somehow it
sounded like music to my ears. The accent was clear and I could tell
that they spoke English well. They pulled me into another room and I
decided to figure out who was who, in hopes of playing one off
another. The non-English speaking police were…..Bulgarians! I had
been maligning the Serbians for no reason. The English speakers
were…..Germans! I feigned confusion so the Germans would go logical
and start bragging about their mission in Bulgaria. The combination
of logical talk and having their ego stroked calmed the Germans down.
They were beginning to like me.
This was a breakthrough. This was the lever I was looking for. As I
suspected, the Germans were there "monitoring and advising" the
EU-aspirant Bulgarians on how to do appropriate border control.
Every time the Germans spoke, the Bulgarians shut up and listened. I
had my button to push. I now knew the Bulgarians wanted to impress
their oversee’ers with their "gentle approach." I restrained my
smile, as to not reveal my cards.
Despite my blind optimism, I coudln’t ignore the fact that my
situation had gotten worse. They called for a truck to take me to
jail. I had built solid rapport with the Germans and they had already
told me about their families at home, but when push came to shove,
they proclaimed that they could only advise, not make decisions. I
knew this was their polite way of saying, "Force the Bulgarians to do
what you want by using our presence as oversee’ers." Or maybe my
delusional mind wanted to believe that.
I calmly said to the Bulgarians, but loud enough that the Germans
could overhear, "In my country, and I believe in the EU, if you are
arrested, you are allowed to speak to your embassy." This was my
silver bullet. In unison, the Bulgarians looked at the Germans, who
smiled ever so slightly. They went to another room and called the US
Embassy.
I waited another hour. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I knew the
Embassy would easily establish my identity but would they do it before
the paddy wagon showed up? I wanted to talk to the US Embassy myself,
but at that point, I’d take anything I could get. . I paced, but was
forced to sit down. 1.5 hours later, the Germans came back…
"We have good news and we have bad news. What do you want to hear first?"
"Good news. But let me guess. I am who I say I am."
"Yes, at first the Bulgarians wouldn’t allow me to call the Embassy
but then finally relented when we mentioned EU policy. We faxed your
passport to the embassy and they said the picture matched their
picture of you. They also have a 2 inch thick file on you and need to
talk to you in order to establish your identity. Your file is like a
Police Dream. In Germany, we don’t have that sort of detail on
citizens."
"Yeah, we love Rummie (Donald Rumsfeld) and his beloved Patriot Act. Bad News?"
"The Bulgarians still want to arrest you and have every right to.
This is their country and their laws. You will likely spend the
weekend in jail before meeting with an attorney early next week."
This marked Chapter 2 in my Nightmare.
I slumped, because I knew that I had used my silver bullet and
achieved little. The core issue was my identity. The Bulgarians
didn’t believe I was an American and I had just established that I
was, yet it didn’t placate them. My problem was no longer about my
identity, but about the ego of the guy who wanted to throw me in jail.
Apparently he couldn’t lose.
I had one last idea. The Germans were twitching, so I knew they
wanted to help me. I looked at his cell phone and mouthed, "US
Embassy." He nodded (which, to the Bulgarians, meant NO). I waited.
They all left eventually and the cell phone German came back in, with
the Embassy on the line. He closed the door.
I had to think and talk fast. I didn’t know when the Bulgarians would
come back. The German had explained my situation to the embassy
official already, so I didn’t waste time re-explaining. I wanted to
push the embassy to act, rather than play the "advisors in a guest
country" bullshit that they normally do. I needed another lever. She
re-capped my situation and then began a seemingly harmless line of
questioning.
Amidst "You will probably go to jail. We will send a representative."
she said, "So, you’re from San Francisco?" I almost yelled "WTF are
you doing trying to make small talk? I don’t have much time here."
But I played along. She asked about my favorite restaurants in SF, claiming that she was from there. She asked about my favorite places to visit. She
was surreptitiously trying to establish my identity. It was smooth
and I give her kudos for that.
Apparently satisfied, she asked about my current address. I submitted
a recent change of address to the USPS, so I assume she had that in
her intelligence file. At that moment, a lightbulb went off in my
head. As bad as it may sound, I knew that, generally speaking,
Americans are brand whores. You tell someone that you’re a professor
at Harvard and they view you as an aristocrat. Despite what people
say, there is a class system in America. Cops help the rich before
they help the poor. Cops help the bourgeoisie before they help the
proletariats. I am not rich nor am I really important, but I had to
somehow portray myself as such and maybe she’d work a little harder.
If she truly was from San Francisco, I also knew that more than
likely, she was an environmentalist/liberal. I couldn’t volunteer any
info, lest I sound like I was trying to manipulate her. Then she said
the magic words, "So, what do you do in the Bay Area?" Slightly
annoyed that she was still playing the identity game, I, nevertheless
knew this was my opportunity to make her think that I was "important."
I told her that I was going to graduate school to learn how to become
a "sustainable real estate developer." I played it up, hoping to make
her think I was some important person and trying to play on her
(potential) Bay Area roots. I told her that I should go, before the
Bulgarians got back. I felt that I couldn’t make myself sound any
better and I wanted to cut myself off before I was tempted to lie
about my "importance." Up until then, it was all "reasonably" true.
But most importantly, if I had truly connected with her, I wanted to
get off the phone while she was in that state. Maybe she would be
driven to help me. She said she’d call back and relay the status.
The Germans left. I was alone again. I began to resign myself to
going to jail. At least I’d have free food and accommodations for the
weekend. I just hoped the lawyer could speak English. I thought of
my travel partner, on the way to Serbia, alone, probably confused as
to why I had been removed from the bus. Half an hour later, the
German came back, closed the door and handed me his cellphone. The
embassy had called the Bulgarian Minister of the Interior. I smiled
but didn’t want to get my hopes up too much. She told me that she
kept telling him to either "Arrest me or let me go!" I told her to
not be so forceful with them and perhaps just give them the latter
option. :) The commander in charge of Border Police came in. He was
a small man but carried a big stick, literally. My heart sank. Was
he going to beat me for calling the Embassy? The Germans listened to
him for a bit and told me that he was on the phone with the Minister
of the Interior. I can’t understand Bulgarian, but I can read facial
expressions. He was a boy being chastised. I relaxed, sure that I’d
be released shortly.
I was moved again. This time, however, it was the plush meeting room.
I had a bottle of water and a comfortable place to sit. The tide was
changing. This was merely a stopping point on my way out of this
place. The Commander came in a few minutes later and told me that I
was free to go. Good news, but I still had no usable passport. I had
to get back to Sofia to get a replacement, but he said, "It’s not our
responsibility to get you back to Sofia." I complained that if his
guards didn’t destroy my passport, I wouldn’t need to go back to
Sofia. He agreed to drive me to the nearest town, where I could get
a cab. Fine.
Begin Chapter 3 of my Nightmare.
Well, the nearest town was 2km up the road. And it was not a town, it
was a food stop. …and no one spoke English. Someone stopped and
said, "Taxi?" I looked at their car. It wasn’t a cabbie. It was two
men and a woman. I just wanted to get to the Embassy though, so I
pointed to the US Embassy on my Sofia map and asked "how much?"
Funny how foreigners always understand that phrase. Another problem
was that I had no local currency, only USD. They said, $20
dollars…looked me up and down and then said, "No, $40." I told them
to piss off, that the police told me it shouldn’t cost more than $10.
I nearly snapped. But at that point, it wasn’t a money issue. $40
isn’t that much, but I didn’t feel safe getting into the car of a
non-english speaking, non-taxi local who was trying to rip me off.
Call me discriminatory, but whatever.
I turned around and hiked myself back to the Border crossing. That,
my friend, was a bitch. I stormed into the Commander’s office and
told him to get me a proper taxi to Sofia. There was no way I’d get
into a stranger’s car and hope for the best. I wanted a REAL taxi,
with signs. He repeated that it wasn’t his responsibility to get me
to Sofia. I wanted to point out again that without his men’s
actions’, I wouldn’t need to go back to Sofia. Instead, I simply
said, "I want to talk to the Germans."
15 minutes later, I was on a Polish bus to Sofia. Bless those Polaks.
But no, my ordeal wasn’t over. Man, I must have been really evil in
my past life to inherit karma like this. The Polaks were going to
Athens, and the turnoff was 20km outside of town. They dropped me off
at the turn-off, right in the middle of a Gypsy settlement. I scanned
around and they were all staring at me. I saw a home improvement
store in the distance and made a bee-line for it, walking fast but
trying not to appear afraid. 20 minutes later, I made it to the
store. A few gypsies had followed me, but didn’t accost me.
Predictably, no one spoke English in the store. I got a calling card,
called a cab and when he arrived, I gave him the "address" to the US
Embassy.
My luck doesn’t improve. He can’t really understand the Roman
characterization of the streetnames and I can’t read Cyrillic
characters worth a crap. He finally understands and he jets me over
there. I had last spoken to the Embassy at 4pm and told them that I
was going to be late and to wait for me. I knew they closed at 5pm
and would be closed all weekend. The Embassy agreed to wait for me.
We get to the "address" in my book and I search around for about 15
minutes. I can’t find the damn embassy. I can’t find the damn Stars
and Stripes anywhere. I finally find someone who speaks English and
they tell me it moved a month ago and that the new location was a 90
minute walk away!!!!
I flag another cab, get to the real Embassy at 6:30pm and felt so relieved as I walked towards the Stars and Stripes. I have never been
so happy to see US Marines before in my life. After a little
wrangling, I find out that the Embassy is closed and that my contact
has gone home. "Come back Monday."
This karma, I tell ya. Jeezus. Anyways, I didn’t want to do that.
In Bulgaria, all foreigners must register their passports in their
hotels. You must keep a form that documents your location at all
times. Without a passport, I couldn’t get that form. The Embassy
guards shrugged and said, "Come back Monday."
So now, here I am in Sofia. The Bulgarians made it very clear that
if I don’t get my papers in order and leave the country properly, I
would be re-arrested. The US Embassy is closed until Monday and I’m
simply hiding in my hotel until then. At this point, I consider this
a minor annoyance. Man, we didn’t even bomb this country. It’s just a
delay, really. I am who I say I am, so once the temporary passport
gets issued, I should be OK.
So that is the hope. Despite my troubles, this is a beautiful country
with great people. If you visit, just make sure you have a new
passport.
_______________________