Down Under Customs…

The flight to Sydney from Honolulu is about 12 hours long. I had just graduated and had dinner with my family, and in the same suit, I boarded my flight.

Oddly enough, the only flight I could catch from Honolulu to Sydney and back was Air Canada. “Welcome to Air Canada, eh. We hope you enjoy your flight this day, eh. My name is Captain Ray, eh. We’re on our way, eh. We could lay by the bay, eh. Or make things out of clay, eh. We just may, eh. What do you say, eh?”

I was so tired that I fell asleep after the first drink service and woke up when we only had 3 hours left. I said to myself, “Self, this was just about the easiest flight you have ever had.” If only there was some wood on the plane to knock on (besides my head).

As soon as we landed, we were told to stay in our seats and not even unbuckle our seatbelts. Then, the flight attendants opened up all the overhead bins and some special Australian inspection squad sprayed some white aerosol stuff on the luggage. One guy began to get up and everyone on the plane yelled at him to sit down. If you don’t sit there while you get that junk sprayed all over, then the inspector may ask to start all over. And they mean it.

Once that was over, I made my way to customs. My problems were just beginning.

I had planned on meeting some of my associates from Japan in the baggage claim, as they were to arrive within an hour after me. So, after I got my luggage, I parked it by the baggage claim that their flight was using. After about an hour had passed, I figured that they must have gone on without me. I thought I might check my e-mail and see if I had the wrong flight info. I pulled out my laptop only to see that the price of internet was far too much for my blood.

Suddenly, a security guard asked to see my papers. He looked at them and wished me a good day. A few minutes later I decided to just leave and wait on the other side of baggage claim. That’s where customs decided to give me special treatment.

When he asked to see my papers, the security guard made a note on my paper which I failed to notice. On my way out he escorted me off to the side. There he went through everything I owned with extreme precision. He even went so far as to ask me if my garments were clean, because they looked so old and yellow with age.

They call it “down under” because when you come in the country, they inspect you everywhere - even “down under.” I was half expecting a body cavity search. By the end, I felt like the guy should at least offer me breakfast. We got so acquainted I’m expecting a Christmas card next year. By now he knows more about me than my mother, my bishop and the Easter Bunny combined.

While inspecting me from didjeridoo to didjeridon’t, he asked me other questions. “What is the name of the mate you were planning on meeting?”

Since I had never actually met him at that point, I couldn’t remember. I guessed the most familiar sounding Japanese name I could think of. “What does he look like?” I couldn’t tell him. He checked the list, no match on the name.

“What is your business here?” I told him I was with the LDS Church. He hadn’t heard of it. So I tried the Mormon Church. Nothing. How about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints?

“Well, which one is it? Are you just making these churches up?” That didn’t help. “Can you show me a business card?” I didn’t have one yet.

“What hotel are you staying in?” I didn’t know. “What city?” I assumed it was Sydney.

“So, let me get this straight: you flew to a foreign country to meet another foreigner whom you have never seen nor met, have no paperwork or way to contact or recognize him. You don’t know where he is taking you when you meet and have no other transportation here, right?” That about summed it up.

This is the same conversation that I had about, oh, 20 times with about 6 other security personnel. I kept telling them that if they’d let me check my e-mail, I could get the name of my contact and probably some other information. They refused, as they didn’t want me making any contact.

After a stalemate of about 3 hours of repetitious queries, I was escorted to a free internet station in the airport. I was able to get the name of my contact. It turns out he got through only 20 minutes after I arrived. That was four hours prior to that point in time.

The bloke asked me how much money I had. I didn’t think it was his business. So I asked, “How much do you want me to have?”

“I’m not asking for money. Can you get around?”

“I have enough for what I need.”

“Ok, good luck getting around.”

Once he let me go, I e-mailed Miakawa (my contact) and got the hotel name, took a taxi and finally things started to go right. I was looking forward to checking in and getting out of the same suit that I had been wearing for 48 hours...minus the intimate inspection at customs.