No soup for you
Cambodia was the 10th country we've visited so far, if you count the couple days we spent in England.
Including entries, exits and multiple visits to Thailand, our rambles around the globe have given us ample opportunity to interact with immigration agents on four continents so far.
From these experiences, I have begun to develop a Pavlovian response to the sweet sound of the immigration stamp. When I hear that solid thud of metal on paper, I can feel the saliva pooling around my tongue. In a word it tastes like, freedom.
It's not that I am doing anything illicit. Really. On the contrary, years of crossing the Canadian border outside Buffalo taught me not to mess with customs agents. Plus my uncle reminds me of Midnight Express every time I prepare for international travel.
But whether I am operating within all international laws is not really the point. Customs agents have a certain way about them that could make even Sister Theresa nervous.
In my experience, customs agents are a bit like the "Soup Nazi" of Seinfeld fame. Wait behind the line. Step forward only when called. Present all your papers quickly yet politely. Speak when spoken to. No smiling and no extraneous comments. Next!
Yet there is one significant difference between the Soup Nazi and customs agents: In one instance, you are denied a bowl of soup - albeit a very tasty one. In the customs scenario, "No soup for you" equals a body cavity search.
It is the scale of potential impact that makes interactions with customs agents stressful. If they want, they can hold you indefinitely for no reason. In my oh-so-creative mind, I have conjured images of hot, close, stone enclosures full of mosquitoes and cockroaches where foreign travelers are held. In some of the countries we've visited, I am sure my image is not far from reality.
So it is with an air of respectful deference that I approach each immigration scenario. And as I hear the sweet sound of my passport being stamped, my mouth can't help but water for the tasty freedom soup soon to come.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
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