Our Man Almost Not In Trinidad August 2
I approached Immigration Control in Port of Spain with foolish optimism, due in part to my good luck earlier in the day. My checked bag had barely exceeded the 50-pound limit for air travel (50.2, to be exact), but the JetBlue crew member allowed it—after I volunteered to remove my underwear piece-by-piece from my bag at the counter, starting with the oldest and holiest, until it reached the 50.0-lb fighting weight. Altogether it had been a good start to a stressful day.
“Are you here on holiday?“ asked the Trinidad passport official behind plexiglass.
In hindsight, I should have lied and said yes, but I was too proud. I finally had a valid reason to be entering a foreign country, and I wanted everybody to know it. “No more holiday for me, I’m here to work,“ I exclaimed righteously. “I’m a school teacher. I have arrived to instruct the young people.“ Bad answer.
“Do you have a work visa?“
“Not yet. By Friday I should have one.“
“You must have a work visa to enter.“
“But I am getting picked up by a school official with all the information. She is waiting for me outside right now. She is taking me to my new apartment. Let her tell you herself. Her name is Michelle, in HR, and she sounds very nice on the phone, like she is talking in song. She knows all about it. I start work next week.“
“Not without a work visa,“ said the bureaucrat, who was getting ready to go home for the day. And, no, “an official of the International School“ may not be summoned to explain on my behalf.
I gasped too audibly. Uniformed enforcement agents nearby turned their heads to watch a Yankee meltdown at the port of entry. Just desserts for the arrogant Americans, they were likely thinking. At least these people were not putting children in cages.
Instead, they were going to put me on the next flight back to the United States, free of charge.
“No, wait, can I amend my reason for entering? Yes, in fact, I am on holiday, like you first said. I am going see the beautiful Victorian mansions on the Savannah and visit with the warm people and spend lots of money shopping for steel drums and souvenir cricket bats—“
“Not today,“ said the gatekeeper, stamping the form which denied me entry. “Please sign and date on the line that says ‘rejectee.’“ I was to be deported before I even had a chance to claim my 50.2 pounds of luggage.
I refused to sign, but, just like my stupid divorce, my signature proved unnecessary. To keep things in order, she indicated in pen “refused to sign“ and initialed it, but she still had to check with an official whether this was acceptable. By this time, I was surrounded by border agents, making escape impossible. I sent out a flurry of email pleas to my school officials while wheels went in motion to turn me over to JetBlue airline officials—and get rid of me once and for all.
Hours later, my recalcitrance paid off and I was granted a temporary waiver. I am not entirely sure who made what phone calls to whom in order to secure my conditional release, only that the driver waiting for me outside the airport was from the US Embassy. At least someone has friends in high places.
“You were lucky,“ the driver Robert said, with eyes glued to the goat-lined freeway in the driving seasonal rain. “In America, you would end up in a holding facility indefinitely.“ Where high places find no friends.