Returning to America

                       Returning to America

      So I left Idaho in March of ‘98, following a fine winter season, bound for the Far East. To offer my skills to an interesting Japanese gentleman, building log homes in the land of the rising sun. 

After three months of six, sometimes seven, ten to twelve hour days I departed, with a promise to return, taking the long way home: through Switzerland.

There I stayed for a month, soaking up intermittent sunshine, spending hours gazing out from a favorite window; seeing old friends and family; taking long hikes up steep middle land. Up the Moutatal; into the belly of Herrloch, one of the most extensive cave systems in the world.

And after a month of this I found I was not ready to leave. But my return flight was set; staying longer would only be more costly.

         Returning to America seems to never be that good of an experience for me. Only a couple, maybe three times have I been let right through customs, and that was mostly in the early years. 

I arrived in Seattle mid-morning in mid-summer following 35+ hours of traveling: Zurich to Rome, Rome to Seoul, Seoul to Osaka, Osaka to Seattle… man, lots of layovers.

As I waited in the baggage collection area, prior to going through customs, I spied a uniformed female officer with her dog making the rounds on the far side of the carousel. I did a mental inventory of my bags. All clear, as far as I could remember. She moved out of sight and my weary mind shifted to other thoughts. Suddenly, the small dog was at my feet, sniffing at my backpack and pawing it gently. It barked lightly, circled around it, sniffed again and sat right down. I recognized this as a definite sign the dog believes it has found something.

         “Sir, is this your bag?”. The question is direct and without emotion. I look down to see that, yes, it is my bag. 

“Yes it is,” I answer, “feel free to...”

Deftly I am cut off. “Sir, do you have any other luggage?” she asks with the same authority. 

“I do,” I reply, “a guitar.”

She again, ”Is that it over there?”

Yep, there sat the dull, black familiar shape.

“Sir, will you collect that and come with me?”; to other Custom officers she adds, “I’ve got one!”

I glance to see her signaling to a couple of uniformed guys; whoa, what’s going on here?! I don’t remember leaving anything in my bag. I collect my guitar, my mind resonating between overdrive and denial.

“Sir, do you have any weapons or narcotics in this bag?” Apparently we’re dealing with a bi-olfactorial hund here.

“Nyet.” I tease, instantly regretting it. She gives me that look.

“No,” I reply, “feel free to open…”

Again I was interrupted, something to the effect of, “Oh, we will.”

          Now there are a couple other officers around, and I’m being herded into one of two enclosed inspection areas. 

“Sir, will you step this way?” Along with a half dozen tables in the open processing area, where U.S. Custom officials ask travelers a few nosy questions, maybe have you open one of your bags and then lets you right through, were two partitioned areas. I filled one and I guess the other was for overflow.

“Sir, place your luggage on the table and step back.” Okay… that was not a question.

“Sir, were you or your luggage ever around any illegal substances?” Hmmm, lots of things to define there; just what is meant by this?

“Sir, it is standard procedure to inspect all bags completely when our dogs alert on them.” They are no longer asking, simply informing me.

“Go right ahead.” I say. I may as well play along with them, as I really have very little choice in the matter.

By now the ensuing activity has attracted quite a few other officers, hungry for the big bust. I am openly regarded with contempt as I answer their questions and attempt to act as if this were something that happened to me every day. One man does engage me in a bit of conversation; probably a tactic, to glean what information they can from me. My passport and travel documents are requested and procured.

         It was soon painfully obvious that the kinder, middle aged woman attempting to extract the contents from my pack was going to need some assistance. I had been away from home over four months now, and anything I carried was an absolute necessity. Everything was packed just right and tight, and I began to dread repacking it.                        Apparent to me as well was the fact that most, if not all the officers present, seldom, if ever, encountered my type of traveler. As the inspection progressed they became openly impressed and amazed at what was being exhumed.

“Just what is it that you do?” I was asked at one point. That’s a hard one to explain in a few words; I try.

“Well," I mumbled, searching for a definition of myself, "I write a bit, and photograph… I ski patrol in the winter, and build in the summer. I… I climb and ski a lot.”

They stared at me unconvinced and kept pulling things out, and these things needed opened and inspected; camera bag, sleeping bag; 1st aid kit, book bag. They inspect the authors, flip through the pages. My basic mountaineering kit entertained them. I was asked to explain my avalanche beacon. Gifts I had purchased were opened and evaluated. Then my personal bag… all the things dearest to my heart. By far the favorite of everyone present. My journal full of musings, clippings and photos; a small taped box full of silver and natural jewelry and stones for trading or gifts; a film canister with a piece of stalagmite from the cave wrapped in cotton.

“What is this?” they asked, almost in unison as they pressed closer, eyeing me suspiciously. I made them guess, knowing nobody would get it. In an odd way it was fun; it’s not every day you get to meet U.S. Customs face to face in this arena, but I was beginning to tire of the nervousness in the situation.

         Within a few minutes I could sense the baggage inspection drawing to a close. Finally, the moment I was waiting for. 

“Sir, could you come with us?” The older man whom I had spoken with earlier and his fidgety young companion are standing before me. “Just bring your wallet and come with us.” the older one tells me. I pause… why just my wallet? I think. I don’t like being separated from my stuff.

“What about my things?” I ask. Finally, they seemed to understand I was more concerned for my things than my papers, and assured me all would be okay. Anyway, into a small side room we three went. The door clicks shut, and yes, quite ominously. That has got to be done for effect, I think. The atmosphere in the room is awkward. I sense a sort of rapport with the older one; now he does not want to find anything on me, but thinks he will.

“Sir, place your hands on the counter, face the wall and take two steps back.” The small room is bare but for a counter the length of one wall, with a small padded seat built into one corner. The counter has white tape the shape of hands on it. I am to place mine here; I do.

“One more step back Sir.” Apparently they didn’t like the size of my steps. “Don’t look down Sir; face the wall.” Yeah, well whatever; let’s just get this over with.

Once I am positioned correctly and things are to their liking, the older one comes up behind me, and, carefully stepping closer, initiates contact and searches me, one side and then the other; hair, collar, shirt folds. Pockets are emptied; waistband pulled; crotch caressed. His hands traced down my legs, and then;

“Sir, sit in the corner there and remove your shoes.” Another pause… just how far are we going to go with this? I think, looking around the room. I remove my boots slowly and hand them to the man, advising him to be careful. He chuckles something to the effect of having seen and smelt worse.

“These look very comfortable; like they have some miles on them.” he said.

“I couldn’t begin to count.” I reply.

         Immediately upon completion their attitudes instantly change; “Alright, Mr. Lewis, thank you for your cooperation...”, and I am once again considered something more than sub-human. I am led back out to my things, where I discover the woman who was doing the looting was, bless her heart, diligently trying to return everything to its rightful place. Give it up, I think, I couldn’t repack it as it was without a couple of hours. I thank her for her effort and quickly finish the job. I was feeling better, but weary and had absolutely no desire to be there any longer. I had already missed one shuttle to Spokane; luckily, they run several a day.

So, breathing a big sigh of relief, I go pay my three dollars and change for trying to import some forgotten item into the country, and I am on my merry way.

note: I traveled often for over 25 years, beginning in the late 70’s. For the most part my experiences have always been pleasant (I can just imagine the 50’s and 60’s), becoming really bothersome only in the new millennium.

The entire time this story was unfolding I did, in fact, have @ 10 grams of quality hashish on board. I would normally say, better luck next time, but there won't be a next time..

Scott A. Lewis