Entering the United States
By Quentin Cockburn
It was a nine hour flight from London to RDU, the airport for North Carolina’s capital city Raleigh. I’d been told watch out at Customs, and “don’t go in smiling, they don’t like humour”.
I approached Customs and joined the comparatively short ‘Visitors’ queue which a lone customs officer was laboriously processing. The much longer US Citizens queue had a number of processing officers and they seemed to be flying through. An individual I’d chatted to on the plane, came forward and asked me, “do you mind if I jump the queue, I’ve got to be on a flight to new York, in fifteen minutes”.
“No, I don’t mind,” and felt happy to give him a hand. Largesse would be an offset to premonition. I watched as they did the fingerprints, iris test, and passport, there was a brief discussion. I saw him wander off downstairs thinking he’d better get a hurry on.
My turn came, the uniformed officer in the booth, with leather gloves asked “How long are you staying here?”
“A couple of weeks.”
He looked at me and leafed through the passport. It’s the Kafkian in me that makes me blush, deep within my unresolved subconscious; am I a murderer, a pedophile, a rapist?
“Have you ever been to the United States before. What is your next destination?”
I shuffled through the papers kindly prepared by my travel agent. “Departing Chicago on the 19th, then back to the UK for a stopover then onwards.” I smiled, and observed as he read my “blue immigration card”.
“Why haven’t you filled in the residential address?”
Unaware of the importance I replied, “I know whom I’m staying with, and I know he lives in Chapel Hill but I’m being picked up.”
His reply, incredulous, “You don’t know where you are staying?”,
“Chapel Hill!” I enthusiastically replied.
“But where?”
“At Sam and Amy’s.” I leaned forward, for emphasis, “my friend, Sam’s Dad is picking me up.”
He drew a line across the card, and cooly said, “I am holding your passport, report to a customs officer downstairs. When you’ve picked up you luggage chat to the officer at the gate he will instruct you”.
I picked up the baggage, walked over to the gate. “The Officer upstairs instructed me to see you”.
This large man led me to a small room, where upon a simple plastic seat sat my queue jumping friend, (he’d missed the plane), along with another individual from Kenya. He advised me, “Man, it’s all a power trip, just be humble and do what they say”
Next the big bloke walked back in, I started feeling intimidated, could’ve been the black uniform, the handcuffs, gun, all those badges. “So sir you have no idea what the address is?’’
My reply, almost pleading, “Well, I know where they live.”
“Yes Sir, but you should have an address.”
“I know I’ll contact him on my phone.” and I picked the phone up,
“Don’t use that phone”!!
More than slightly flummoxed I said, “My friend is waiting for me on the other side.” Oh God, the phrase had already acquired a sinister meaning.
He said quite stiffly, “Would you go to Australia and get off at a airport without knowing where you are going?”
I equivocated, “Well I would. I’d go to Bendigo for example, ring him or work out from locals here he’d live.” Then with emphasis, moving slightly closer, I added, “You see I’ve known this bloke for years.”
“Don’t stand close to me sir!” He was almost threatening.
I continued, “It’s his son Sam, he’s a local, lives here with his wife Amy.”
A pause ensued. “Wait here Sir.” He had my passport and the blue form and he left.
After an appreciable lapse of time, I was summoned and interviewed by a lady officer, the same questions, the incredulity of not having a correct address. At this stage, the large officer returned and said he could not find my friend among those outside waiting. I was flummoxed. This was serious. By now there were four officers watching me.
“Can I have your card?” the woman officer asked.
I searched through my travel wallet for the card. It wasn’t there, now sweating I was going through suitcases when the large officer returned.
She asked him, ‘Do you have the card”?,
“Yup.” and he passed it to her. “And we have your friend outside.”
Intense relief. My ordeal was over, I was let go with the cautionary, “Don’t you ever arrive in the U.S without an address. It’s very important we know where you are.”