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Border Check Point

by T. SHER SINGH

 

 

I'm on the bus heading back from Dubrovnik, the ancient port on the south-western coast of Croatia.

The war had ended only a week earlier. Being in the general neighbourhood, I had decided to check out the newly carved countries - the borders were still shifting by the hour - and had made my way through burnt shells of villages and over smouldering bridges to ... the sea-port. Now, a week later, I was heading back to Venice, where I had been camped when I first heard of the cessation of hostilities.  

It's in the early, pre-dawn hours in the mountains.

The bus turns a corner and slows down at the sight of a checkpoint at the border between Croatia and Slovenia. The narrow road stops abruptly under a brightly lit canopy beside a shack, still surrounded by thick woods and with no other civilization in sight. Once past this checkpoint, we expect to drive through Slovenia for no more than 15 minutes before crossing over into Italy and heading for Trieste.

The bus comes to a halt under a galaxy of blinding lights. An armed Slovenian soldier boards the bus and makes his way down the aisle, glaring at the travel documents we've been asked to hold up in front of us. I hold up my Canadian passport.

He goes all the way to the back of the bus. Repeats his steps back to the front. Suddenly swings around at the entrance, points a finger at me and motions me to follow him.

Needless to say, I did stand out like a sore thumb in the crowd of anxious faces: I am the only one who doesn‘t fit the mold as I am wearing a turban, as required by my Sikh faith.

He takes my passport, and asks me to retrieve my luggage. He leads me to a desk about six metres away from the bus, sitting in the middle of the road, right in the glare of a dozen lights scowling at us from different directions.

The level of our respective skills in each other's languages does not leave much room for a meaningful conversation. He doesn't appear to know much English. Despite my ease with foreign tongues when I travel, I haven't been able to get very far with Yugoslavian phrases either ... it isn't an easy language.

But we somehow manage, with grunts and a lot of body language.

My knapsack is on the table. He makes me pull out everything, one by one, and place them in a row for him to examine. Nothing particularly exciting. Camera. Binoculars. A mess of clothes. Toilet bag.

He pauses and makes me unzip it and empty its contents, again, one by one.

A bottle labelled "Tylenol" piques his curiousity. "This. What?"

I try to explain: it's medicine, pills, for headaches. But he has no clue.

"Leave. Table. Stand back!" he shouts.

He stares at it suspiciously. Should I open it, I gesture. "No!" he barks. "Stand back!"

He looks around to confirm that the other guards are alert, their guns ready and pointed at me. He shifts his own to his shoulder.

He picks up the bottle. Carefully. Puts it next to his ear and shakes it. The rattle of pills seems to alarm him all the more. He looks at the label and tries to read it. English and French - this product is not only made in Canada, it actually comes from a plant in my hometown, Guelph -  appear to make as much sense to him as Punjabi would have. His face hardens and he glares at me.

He tries to open it. The lid won't budge ... it is child proof! He turns the red top around a few times, and tries again. It won't give. He strains and he winces. It won't give. He yanks and he pulls. It won't give.

This would make a great commercial back home. I make a mental note to myself to call my friends at the Tylenol plant when I get back.

If I get back. I feel like I might burst into a giggle, and struggle not to ... not with a bunch of guns pointed at me, and an embarrassed border guard wanting to wring my neck. I glance at the bus ... they're all glued to the windshield, well entertained by my predicament. I pray that the guard doesn't see them snickering at him.

He screws his eyes shut and his 250-pound frame attacks the bottle again. Nothing happens.

I begin to think that my life or my freedom just might depend on this macho beast somehow saving face.

"Pleae? I help?" I whisper. He hesitates. Finally, slowly, very slowly, he puts the bottle on the table, grabs his gun and nods at me. I pick it up.

"Slo-w-ly. Very slo-w-ly," he warns me.

I make no quick moves. Slowly, very slowly, I move the red top so as to match the almost invisible arrows. The lid comes off. "Put down. Table. Stand back," he instructs me with mounting apprehension.

It dawns at me at this very instant that he may think it contains drugs!

He picks it up ad looks into it. Looks at me. Looks back into the bottle. Sniffs it. Shakes the bottle gently until the pills rattle again. Sniffs it again. Looks at me again, almost imploringly this time.

I touch my forehead. "Medicine," I assure him sombrely.

We go through the rest of the bag. When it is over, he points to my turban: "What?" he says.

"Turban". I say it in English, in French ... and in a mock Italian accent. I carry on, forgetting he can‘t understand me: "I wear it because of my religion. You Christian. I Sikh. This, like a hat."

He waves the gun barrel at me, motioning me to take it off.

I carry on nonsensically: "I will if you insist, but I prefer not to," I tell him. Before he can say anything, I instinctively smile at him and inch forward towards him, while I'm gibbering away. He looks a bit puzzled as I reach out to his free left hand - the one not holding the weapon. Slowly, very, very slowly I put my hand on his burly hand and guide it to the top of my turban. I press his hand down.

He looks at his colleagues, and then slings the gun on his shoulder again, and rests both his hands on my turbaned head.  He feels the turban gently for a few seconds.

Breaks into a grin. Hands me my passport and motions me to pick up my things and return to the bus.

Within minutes we are on our way.

As we cross another border, this time into Italy, I worry about the new jumble of countries I've left behind: They've been so busy fighting like dogs with each other these last few years. Wait till they find out there's a world out there, with far more differences than between Croats, Slovenes, Bosnians, Serbs ...


February 5, 2010    

 

 

  
 

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