“Pull up to the white garage door and await further instructions”
Gives me a blank stare and a yellow slip of paper with my Passport.
I sigh
Here we go again.
I make my way to the Principals office and idle in front of the ominous garage. Large and wide enough to house a tractor without the trailer.
The big white door inches up, and the first thing I see are 6 Black Military grade SWAT boots, attached to SWAT legs, SWAT Utility belt full of goodies, Swat Gloves attached to SWAT arms and finally SWAT heads, all with that LOOK.
One gloved hand gives me the come hither motion, inside I come and before the bike is even OFF I can hear the creak of the garage door starting its downward descent.
Now, I have been through customs before, and every time I am on my motobike, I get glanced at sideways, but this is the first time I was locked inside a hollow container with 3 armed Customs Officials.
No worries, as I have nothing to worry about, I mean, hey, I aint wanted, don’t do / carry drugs or own / like weaponry.
But worries I will have.
An aside here, before I continue.
This blog will not have a shred of funny from here on, as my mood is really soured even at this late hour, but I plan on just dropping an abridged version to let you know how certain things work in this world.
In order to make this simple on my typing, I will shorten the 3 people involved by naming them, as they did not have names on their bulletproof gear, but long numbers, and I aint Rainman, so I didn’t memorize them.
Custom Officer 1, 2, 3 = CO1, CO2, CO3
COMPLETE SLENCE until garage door completely latches shut.
CO1 “Please step off the bike and walk over here. Any drugs or weapons on your person?”
“Please remove rain jacket only”. (hands to CO2, who completely goes through every pocket, then lies on metal table.
“Please remove leather jacket” (down the line it goes, same guy, same fate)
“Please remove sweatshirt”.
ME – “WHAT”?
CO1 – “Remove sweatshirt sir, we need to see your tattoos”. (Now mind you they are speculating that I even have any, as NONE are showing)
Checks my body, asking what certain Swedish wording I have on my wrists mean
ME - Nonya business (In my head)
CO1 – “Arms on the table, spread legs, any weapons I need to know about”
ME – “Knife (legal) front right pocket”
CO1 – “Asking again sir, any OTHER weapons I need to know about”?
ME – “Nope”
Knife goes to CO3, who is off to my left.
CO1 gives THOROUGH pat down.
CO1 – “Put shirt back on and have a seat on the bench, and don’t move”.
I sit, and CO1 and 2 go to the bike and removes bags.
CO3 Stands above me to make sure I don’t move.
CO1 – “Any gang affiliation sir”?
ME - “Nope”
CO1 – “Prospecting for anyone”?
ME – “Nope”
CO1 takes the small bag to a bench in FRONT of me, CO2 takes the big bag to a bench to the SIDE of me, making it impossible to watch them both, but here is what I got to observe.
CO1 opens small bag, which includes my Business bank ledger, Alaska book and itinerary, my Laptop and writing diary.
Opens up business ledger, and actually asks me who the names of certain people are in there that I seem to be paying.
(Employees and debtors of course)
Opens up itinerary and asks me why I’m so far away from Montana right now
(Snow changed my course, LUCKILY ßheavy sarcasm)
Fires up my LAPTOP and scrolls through my DOCUMENTS
Asks me what on my flash drive, and after answering him CORRECTLY, plugs it in any way to see.
Now it’s my writing diary
What are all these quotes, stuff you like?
What are all these stories about?
My head is absolutely racing now; I can’t even comprehend what is going on.
Meanwhile, CO2 is in my large bag, containing clothes, toiletries, cameras and my cash.
Finding nothing in clothes, he starts firing up my cameras, and now I hear some of my personal home movies playing in the echo of the garage. My dog is barking at me now 1200 miles away.
I’m pissed now actually.
THIS muthafucker is watching me throw a ball with my DOG?
Just a casual scene, but MY personal moment in time ya know?
Video camera down, turns and fires up digi cameras and scrolls through my pictures.
STILL finding nothing, he quickly goes through toiletries bag, then the fun part
CO2 – “Quite a bit of cash sir”
ME – “Well, I AM on holiday”
CO2, CO1 AND 3 all huddle about to stare at my lifeblood, and start to COUNT.
CO2 leaves and grabs my cellular, fires IT up and spends at LEAST 10 minutes scrolling all about.
I’m there for about an hour. Maybe less, maybe more as I am SO not even there ya know?
In the end, they confiscate a metal baton I carry for personal protection, threaten me with a 500 dollar metal baton fine, and ask me why I didn’t declare my liquor (I was honestly a little unclear as to how much liquor I could bring before admitting, as I only had a 5th of Jack)
CO1 – “You may come over and pack up your stuff now sir”.
That itself took about 20 mins or so, the room COMPLETELY silent.
Bike is packed, now they say I can turn around and pull it outside the canopy and come INSIDE to talk to immigration office.
I wait THERE for 15 mins or so until they stamp my passport and talk to me about why they had to keep my “weapon” and release me into their country.
Now, a few things.
1. I am aware that my baton is not legal to cross with, or even own for that matter, and I HONESTLY didn’t even think about that when I packed it, a fact they seemed to fully believe.
2. I would’ve even been crossing there if it wasn’t for snow in the West.
3. This might surprise you, but as I sit here, reliving this and getting all fired up again, I still can’t really bring myself to hate them for what they did to my trip so early here.
You see, I have a lot of respect for them, and everyone else in that position, and as murky as the lines get with judging the likes of me (and btw, the next BIKER that was guided into the garage for identical treatment, a biker, that I feel looks a little to prim and proper to even commit a rolling stop at a quiet intersection but he too is on a Harley and that raised an eyebrow) I realize we need to be checked out due to nefarious actions of the biker gangs and their turf wars going on in the States and Canada.
See, I’m 100% independent, for many reasons, but 1 being I just don’t need the hassle and drama that comes with the inability to outgrow my wubbie blanket and trading it in for a pretty vest.
Here I am, a business man, who has worked his ASS off for the last year to put together a trip of a lifetime, fighting high gas spikes, slow persistent wet weather patterns, shitty drivers and constant fatigue, and to top it off, just because my bike says Harley Davidson on the side, my middle name becomes “random bag check”
Notice how the legacy of Harley Davidson has MOSTLY been co-opted to be ridden by bikers who WISH they went on adventures, want to appear that they HAVE adventures, but never actually GO on adventures?
My world would get so much freer if Motorcycle Gangs would just fall in love with Yamahas.
So sorry
CLUBS :P
Sadly, as cold as it was today, I had an AMAZING ride to write about.
Thank your local patch wearer for getting to read about this one instead.
