Border Conflict.
Friday, September 4, 2009
I'm not a violent man, but sometimes I really have the urge to yell at people. On this day, I kept it under control. Barely.
She was getting in my face. If that's possible to do behind an inch-thick glass screen.
Man, was I tired. The flight had been at least ten hours, and Singapore Airlines aren't really built for 6 foot four Barbudans who are used to lounging about. Well, not in economy class, at least. Still, the food had been exceptional; a welcome relief from the three solid weeks of curries I'd endured through Goa and Tamil Nadu.
But now I'm standing at customs, trying to get home for a sleep, and this woman asks me what my business is.
"I been on holiday."
She looks me up and down, looks at my well-worn passport. I'm proud of it, y'know. For a start, it's a Barbudan passport, even though I'm an Aussie. Plus, there's about twenty five, maybe thirty countries in there. Some weird ones too, like when I went to visit my mate Nas in Botswana.
Anyway, the uniform behind the glass starts leafing through my stuff pretty intently. And she says, matter-of-factly,
"And how did you get the money to pay for your trip?"
Who asks that? Since when do customs care how punters bankroll their holiday. That really pissed me off. She's asking me because I look different. I got smart;
"I stole it of course."
And the cow calls her boss. He waddles over in his grey knit jumper and starts giving me a dressing down. He asked what I'd said to the customs woman to get him over there. It told him that it wasn't cool to ask where someone got their money. So he asked me.
"And where did you get the money?" What an arsehole.
I told him.
I'm a cabbie. Y'know. I work hard for my money. I don't mean this nine to five white collar crap. I'm talking hundred hour weeks, sometimes a hundred and ten. I drive for four different blokes, at all hours of the night. I work my ring off. And now this cow with a sprayed-on uniform asks where I get the money to travel. Maybe I'm just one of those guy who attracts attention for the wrong reasons.
He keeps asking me questions, and making me repeat myself. He says he can't understand my accent. How dumb is that. I mean, I can only speak english.
Eventually, they let me go.
We all knew that she wouldn't have asked if I was white.
She was getting in my face. If that's possible to do behind an inch-thick glass screen.
Man, was I tired. The flight had been at least ten hours, and Singapore Airlines aren't really built for 6 foot four Barbudans who are used to lounging about. Well, not in economy class, at least. Still, the food had been exceptional; a welcome relief from the three solid weeks of curries I'd endured through Goa and Tamil Nadu.
But now I'm standing at customs, trying to get home for a sleep, and this woman asks me what my business is.
"I been on holiday."
She looks me up and down, looks at my well-worn passport. I'm proud of it, y'know. For a start, it's a Barbudan passport, even though I'm an Aussie. Plus, there's about twenty five, maybe thirty countries in there. Some weird ones too, like when I went to visit my mate Nas in Botswana.
Anyway, the uniform behind the glass starts leafing through my stuff pretty intently. And she says, matter-of-factly,
"And how did you get the money to pay for your trip?"
Who asks that? Since when do customs care how punters bankroll their holiday. That really pissed me off. She's asking me because I look different. I got smart;
"I stole it of course."
And the cow calls her boss. He waddles over in his grey knit jumper and starts giving me a dressing down. He asked what I'd said to the customs woman to get him over there. It told him that it wasn't cool to ask where someone got their money. So he asked me.
"And where did you get the money?" What an arsehole.
I told him.
I'm a cabbie. Y'know. I work hard for my money. I don't mean this nine to five white collar crap. I'm talking hundred hour weeks, sometimes a hundred and ten. I drive for four different blokes, at all hours of the night. I work my ring off. And now this cow with a sprayed-on uniform asks where I get the money to travel. Maybe I'm just one of those guy who attracts attention for the wrong reasons.
He keeps asking me questions, and making me repeat myself. He says he can't understand my accent. How dumb is that. I mean, I can only speak english.
Eventually, they let me go.
We all knew that she wouldn't have asked if I was white.
.
This was the second of some literary posts I'll be littering through the blog. Psyche's good like that.
