Papers, please?

I was longing for a hot shower and a good dose of greasy Canadian take-out as I walked the long but familiar hallways of Toronto’s Pearson International Airport. Cliché, I know, but I was glad to be home. The last week had been an epic adventure, but the whirlwind pace and long transit was catching up fast. Though I can truly say I love travelling the remote wilds of Africa, the comforts of home had acquired a certain shine.  My friend Mo, just then trailed at my heels, appeared to silently agree.

We hit customs with the rest of the plane, turning down the resident’s line and patiently waiting our turn.  We bantered back and forth wearily, mostly about what our dinner options were.  It was trivial, but it kept the wait from becoming a torturous exercise in patience. 

“Let’s go up together,” I said as we neared the front.  “If they pull us over, it will be because we were in the middle of war-torn Africa.  It would be a hassle if one of us gets pulled and not the other.”

He shrugged, looking like he couldn't care less about anything that didn’t involve a bed. I knew he normally would have tried to get a smile out of the customs officers, perhaps even a laugh, but the long flight and the stomach bug he had picked up had knocked the oomph out of him. I took his passport and customs card, going up to the counter when it came free. 

Though I was trying to hide it, I was exhausted as well.  Nonetheless, I plastered a smile on my face as I slide our collection of passports and paperwork onto the desktop.

“Hello.”

“One passport and one form per agent,” the customs officer said coldly, hardly glancing up.

Rude asshole. I blinked, paused, then licked my lips to keep from growling what I thought of him. I reached out to remove Mo’s paperwork, but just as I was about to lay hands on it the officer yanked it towards himself, huffing.

“I’ll make an exception.  Just. This. Once."  It sounded like a movie line delivered by a B grade actor.  I even imagined I could see the agent's condescension encased around him like a second Perspex shield.

I felt Mo stiffen behind me, standing taller and more alert.  He wouldn’t interrupt, but he knew the opening of a verbal sparring match when he heard one. 

I took a deep breath, firmly reminding myself not to react.  Customs guards have too much power.  I’ve seen them use it arbitrarily far too often.  In the past I’ve been kept waiting just long enough to miss my flight, have watched a grown man bring a lone teenage girl to tears because her grandmother wasn’t picking up the phone, and looked the other way when a wheelchair-bound woman was denied entry because her visa had a crease in the corner.

My smile faded as I waited for his questions.

“Where are you coming from?”

I might have said London at this point.  We had transited there overnight and before that we’d been in Cairo for twelve hours.  That would have been easy though. The agent was being a jerk and I was itching to challenge him on it.

“Eritrea,” I answered.

The officer sighed, his eyes shifting slowly from his computer screen to my face.  “Not the city, the country,” he said slowly, as though I was ignorant not only of his question but of the whole re-entry process.

I wasn’t ignorant, but I was stunned.  You would think a job requirement of a customs guard would be to know the names of each of the countries around the world.  Obviously not.

“Eritrea,” I repeated flatly.  

He scowled, deciding finally to give me his undivided attention.

I considered snidely educating him on behalf of my beautiful and fascinating Eritrea. 

“It’s a small country on the horn of Africa, across from Yemen and bordering Djibouti, Sudan and Ethiopia,  at war with each of those three countries, by the way.  The capital is Asmara, and it has some of the best espresso on the continent thanks to once having been an Italian colony.  It’s one of the 197 countries recognized by the United Nations, and as a Canadian customs guard I would think you’d know that.”

As satisfying as it would have been to spit that out, teaching geography isn’t my job and I wasn't looking for an appointment with the back room.

“It’s a small country in Africa,” I said, mimicking a shade of the condescending tone he had used with me. I didn’t break eye contact with him and waited for whatever came next.

“The purpose of your trip?” 

“Vacation,” I said shortly.  I was enjoying my one word answers.  Ask me something hard, asshole.

Like a chess player realizing they cannot possibly win, he broke eye contact.  I was satisfied to see him looking somewhat chastened. 

I watched critically as he stamped our paperwork and handed it to me.  

He didn’t welcome us back to Canada, nor did he meet my gaze again. 

Canadian customs isn’t all bad.  I’ve had some fantastic experiences and spoken with some really fascinating officers, but that isn't the norm.  Is it unreasonable to expect a smile, a touch of courtesy, and a bit of knowledge about places beyond our own borders?  Customs officers are our first point of contact for foreigners who have often traveled immense distances and spent thousands of dollars to see a country I’m proud of.  I would hope that we would make an effort to make those first moments after a long, tiring journey, good ones. 

But more than that, I would really like to feel I’m welcome when I’m walking back across my own doormat.