I
swear it was in my bag right before I got off the plane. When I got to the
counter, though, no amount of rooting around in the bag would produce my
passport. Not a good way to start off. The immigration agent frowned at me and
muttered something under her breath. I couldn’t make it out, but I’m pretty
sure it was swearing. She called another agent over. They had a rapid-fire
conversation in their language, then the new guy escorted me down the hall to
some offices.
An
agent in there actually spoke English. Sort of. I explained my situation and
that I wanted to speak with someone from the U.S. Embassy. He said he’d make
the call, but getting help could take hours. Would I mind waiting in the room
next to his office? Fair enough.
Once
settled in the room, I started feeling shaky. This could ruin the whole trip! I
needed a smoke. At least I had the pack I’d bought at O’Hare airport; it was
probably worth about as much as a new passport. I lit up and started to relax.
But
not for long. Soon three men in uniforms burst into the room and began shouting
at me. What they were shouting, I don’t know. I stood up and started to reply.
Okay, maybe I was shouting too. One of them gestured to a sign behind me. “No
Fumar”. What was that? I turned back around and made a gesture of my own, and
in the process I accidentally flung my cigarette right into the officer’s hair.
That little fire didn’t take long to put out, but before I knew it I was on the
floor in handcuffs.
I
don’t think I’ve ever left an airport quicker when traveling. Wouldn’t
recommend the procedure, though, with all the police officers, emotion, and
general humiliation. The two officers kept an angry-sounding dialog going on
the ride over to the jail. The officer riding shotgun kept patting his head and
scowling at me. That patch of hair still smelled a little burnt, but didn’t
look that bad. I thought all the hostility was a bit overdone.
Clang!
The holding cell I was in now had four other occupants, and they didn’t look
happy to see me. One of them, a huge guy with long, stringy black hair, stood
up and walked toward me. I wondered if I could punch him hard enough to have
any effect at all, since he probably had six inches and a hundred pounds on me.
I was just starting to make a fist when he spoke.
“You
wouldn’t happen to speak English, would you?”
I
stared up at his face, barely able to see his eyes through the hair. Then it
occurred to me I should speak.
“Um,
yeah, I’m from Chicago. How come you’re in here?”
He
explained that he was a bass player in a band that had come down here to play a
few shows. A fellow bass player, how about that? At the hotel bar this evening
there had been a slight misunderstanding about the tab, followed by yelling,
threats, broken furniture, and his arrest. The band’s manager was trying to
post bail, but it was taking forever. The police had his passport, anyway, so
he wasn’t leaving the country soon. I kept wondering who had my passport, and
where that embassy official was.
The
other two detainees turned out to be more drunk than mean, and they didn’t
bother us. I sat down with my new friend Ivan and we started comparing notes
about our favorite bands. It turned out that we had much in common, down to the
songs we knew. Ivan mentioned they had a show booked for the next night, and
wondered if they’d have to cancel.
I’m
not sure how much time had passed, but I heard the main lock-up door open down
the hall. Soon a man with a jail guard escort stopped at our cell. He called my
name and I walked over to the bars. Good news! My passport had been found on
the airplane and was now at the embassy. The cigarette fracas was a little more
delicate. It appeared that no charges would be filed, though. The police wanted
to know where I was staying and for how long, but otherwise I was free to go.
Ivan
came over as the guard was starting to unlock the cell door. He borrowed pen &
paper from the embassy official and wrote out a name and phone number. That was
the band’s manager, Ivan said, and I needed to call him right away. If Ivan
couldn’t get out in time, maybe I could fill in for him at tomorrow’s show? If
I wanted to, that is. And I did!
Walking
out of the building, I thought perhaps this vacation wasn’t totally wrecked
after all. That was before I discovered there was a polka convention at my
hotel, with several accordion players in adjoining rooms practicing day and
night. I shudder every time I think about it.
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