Borders

Since I am again about to embark on a trip to foreign lands, I have been thinking about some of my experiences crossing various international borders over the years. Most crossings were uneventful; some were amusing, and some downright scary. Crossing into the former German Democratic Republic by train from the West en route to Berlin was definitely a distressing experience. The presence of barbed wire, mine-fields, watch towers, heavily armed soldiers and vicious looking attack dogs at either end of the 'socialist paradise' made it feel like you were entering a prison. The train was sealed and was not allowed to stop anywhere along the way, even passing through stations. I remember seeing residents of the GDR who just stood still and silently watched the passing train. In those days, before the fall of The Wall, they could not dream of going to West Berlin. But in 1989 all that changed forever.

1973 - I was hitch-hiking down the coast of Yugoslavia, on my way to Greece. Unfortunately, Albania got in the way. It was necessary to take a ferry trip over to Brindisi, Italy, then a train to Bari to get the ferry to the Greek island of Kerkyra. Waiting to embark in Bari I met an American who was travelling on an "International Passport". In reality this was a spurious document printed and issued by someone in Paris working out of his basement. The American told me some tall tale about having his documents stolen. I suspect that he was AWOL from the military. He told me that when he entered Italy from France the Italian border authorities examined his 'passport' quizzically, shrugged their shoulders and gave him a two week visa. That's so Italian. When he attempted to enter Germany, however, the border police not only barred him from entering the country, they stamped "Zurueckgewiesen" (denied entry) in his faux passport. That's the Germans for you: unbending and bureaucratic through and through; just give them authority and an official stamp and they feel like gods. (He managed to get into Germany later by hiking over a mountain.) When it came time to board the ferry in Bari, the police took him away. I wonder whatever happened to that poor guy.

1975 - Re-entering India from Nepal. At that time l had legal resident status in India as I was teaching at an International School there. I had all my papers in order. After a trekking expedition in the Himalayas (but that's another story), I was making my way back to India. The border crossing was in a strip of malaria-infested jungle, south of the mountains. The town was a disgusting dump, your usual South Asian border town, nothing but decrepit shacks, flea-bitten curs, raw sewage, etc. The Indian border official who looked through my papers informed me that my papers were not in order and that I could not re-enter. I knew that wasn't right and pleaded with him to check everything again. This went on for a while. I was stubborn; I knew my re-entry visa was in order. The prospect of being stuck in that ratty crap-hole filled me with horror. Eventually the border official relented and let me through. It wasn't until years later that I realized what had actually happened there: that border guard was attempting to extort a bribe from me. Corruption is rife in India. When he saw that I wasn't taking the bait (due to my own naivete, actually), and that I wasn't about to slip him a few hundred rupees (because it didn't occur to me to do so), he gave up on his extortion attempt. I'm so glad I stuck to my guns.

1994 - Crossing from Latvia to Estonia. I took a public bus from Riga to Tallinn one fine summer day. The border crossing between Latvia and Estonia is quite off the beaten track, with a little village on either side. Everyone was very polite to me when I pulled out my American passport. I was the only Westerner on the bus. But the one Russian passenger was forced to get off at the border crossing. The bus left without her. I learned later that, after half a century of being treated like dirt in their own countries, the people of the Baltic States were exacting revenge for all those years and harassing the Russians, giving them a taste of their own medicine. The tables had turned. Later that afternoon in Tallinn (see photo) I witnessed a lively scene in a cafe. There was a customer who spoke only Russian. The Estonians behind the counter refused to serve her if she didn't speak Estonian. For fifty years the Baltic peoples had had Russian forced on them. With independence they tried to re-instate the supremacy of their own languages and cultures. Most of the Russians who colonized the Baltic states during the years of the Soviet Empire never bothered to learn a word of the native language of the countries they lived in. So, no Estonian, no tea and crumpets.