Crossing borders

Border guards always make me slightly uncomfortable - spawning a sense of guilt without cause. It's the same way I used to feel at school when the teacher was about to ask me a question, and I wasn't sure I'd know the answer. Despite this feeling, we've crossed into Canada countless times; also into Baja California and Mexico proper Some of our experiences have been funny, some frustrating. But our most recent crossing - oddly, into our own country - was grimly serious.

On the morning of the horrifying attack on the Pentagon and the World Trade Center, we happened to be in British Columbia. At first, like millions of others, we stayed glued to radio and television. But after a couple of days, we realized our vacation time had run out. We needed to get home. That first week, crossing into the United States took six hours. The second week brought a little improvement. So, fortified with reading material and snacks, we headed for the border - determined to stick it out until we got across.

As we sat in a long line of vehicles, slowly inching forward, we tuned our radio to the U.S. border advisory and were stunned by what we heard. No one would be permitted to cross into the United States without either a passport or a birth certificate. Entering or returning from Canada by road, we'd never before needed documents. We had neither passports nor birth certificates with us now.

Ahead of us, we could see determined, gun-toting guards carefully inspecting RVs and opening the trunks and even the hoods of other vehicles. We looked at each other in a state of shock as we contemplated the possibility that - even if we asked a friend to break into our house, find our passports and mail them off- it might be weeks before we could get home.

As we pulled up to the guard station, we expected to be told we couldn't cross the border. But after we had answered endless questions, the guard gave us a nod and waved us on through. Luck was with us -- thanks probably to Dwight's Navy LD., a military sticker on our RV, and the fact that our guard had only reGently retired from the service. Yet rejection had been much too close for comfort. Moral to the story? In these uncertain times, we'll carry passports everywhere.

IT'S THEIR LAW

Still shaken by this recent incident, I thought about the many letters from RVers I'd read in Trailer Life about border crossings. Dog owners complained about needing inoculations for their pets. Irate parrot owners couldn't understand being denied entry into Canada. Fiercely independent gun owners vowed never to visit Canada or Mexico again if they couldn't take their guns along.

With close family in British Columbia, we're frequent visitors to Canada. Two years ago, when we had a grandchild with us, guards pulled us over so authorities could check to be sure we had a note giving parental permission for the trip. Canada requires it, since many criminal cases involve children taken illegally from their homes.

Another time, crossing into B.C. from Idaho, our RV was checked for guns. Two hours later, we were stopped at a roadblock and nearly every inch of our rig inspected - again for guns.

Most RVers know you can't take guns into Mexico or Canada. Only a few very foolish travelers try to outwit authorities - usually to their sorrow. (Gun smuggling penalties are severe.) One thing we've tried to remember in our many border crossing over the years is that if you don't like the rules, you don't have to play the game.

BAJA BORDERS

From the serious to the silly: I love flowers. Those deep-scarlet amaryllis that bloom around Christmas have always been a passion of mine. Over the holidays last year I'd been carefully tending one with no results. Then, just as we were ready to leave for Baja California, it burst into full bloom. What could I do but take it with me?

No problem with this at Baja's northern border, though we had to cool our wheels in Tijuana for an hour for the usual border-crossing formali- ties and permits. (Needed, as we understood it, to drive more than 75 miles into Baja or to stay more than 72 hours.) Then we were on our way -- amaryllis and all.

It was a totally different story as we approached Baja Sur, the southern half of the Baja California peninsula. Here we were stopped, then boarded, by a guard in uniform with a fierce-looking gun and an equally fierce mustache. The first thing he spotted was the flowerpot holding my fragile little amaryllis. Immediately, he grabbed for the pot. Ignoring his gun, I grabbed for it, too. We stood there for a long moment, each of us clutching the pot- locked in combat, you might say- before I realized this was only an agriculture inspection.

LONELIEST CROSSING

On a high, winding wilderness road somewhere between Dawson City in the Yukon and Chicken, Alaska, you come to the U.S. and Canadian border stations. Only a short distance apart, it's as if they've huddled together for company in this isolated spot.

If you'd like to be warmly welcomed at a border crossing - a unique experience - try this one. Both times we've gone through, we've been greeted like long-lost friends. You get the feeling that guards on both sides of the border would like to invite travelers to step inside for a cup of coffee - if it didn't seem somehow unprofessional.

BACK FROM BELIZE

By far the easiest way to cross into Mexico is to go with one of the several companies that arrange RV caravans. We were traveling in the Yucatan near the Belize border when we were offered the opportunity - as an add - on - to visit one of the Mayan ruins in Belize.

A bus took our group across the border past Belize City to meet several waiting boats for a long trip upriver to the ruins. After several hours exploring the ruins, we headed back in late afternoon. Within minutes, pelting rain hit our open boats and continued to pound us for the next hour and a half Soaked to the skin, we boarded the bus to return to our campground on the Mexican side.

Out in the middle of nowhere - still in Belize and well after dark - the bus broke down. Our driver hadn't a clue about what was wrong. With no telephone for miles, the nearest mechanic might as well have been on the moon.

By 11 p.m. our wet and dinnerless group was starving. We'd been warned this might be a high-crime area and were advised to stick close to the bus. Still, with no bathroom facilities, most of us risked a plunge into the ebony-- black night. How far we each walked depended on courage - or modesty

Well after midnight, another bus arrived to rescue us. Going through customs at the Mexican border an hour later was like returning home after a long absence. I'd never have believed I could feel such a warm surge of affection for border guards.

Copyright T L Enterprises, Inc. Feb 2002
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