(*this is a "seasoned" article, written in 2012 but still very relevant. Learn from our mistake!)
Late one spring my father and I had an alarming experience on a road trip through the Pacific Northwest. The experience had to do with renting a sleek black coupe and crossing the US/Canada border. This seemingly harmless combination proved to be as distasteful as combining peanuts and chewing gum and more dangerous than swilling soft drinks while eating fizzing candy.
We had been planning the trip for the better part of a year and we were pretty sure we were well prepared. Hours and hours had been spent pouring over maps and web pages, contacting hotels, calculating travel times, mileage, reviewing ferry schedules and investigating good places to eat. As we intended to hop up into Vancouver, we ensured that our passports were up to date and in hand. When it came to crossing the border into Canada we felt that a friendly smile, our passports and a willingness to wait made us well prepared.
We began our journey with a flight to Oakland where we rented a black Dodge Challenger. We were going to spend a lot of time on the road and we wanted to do it in style. We drove across the Richmond Bridge, up the 5 and over to Arcata where my aunt and uncle expected us for dinner. The next day the growling two-door took us through the mountains to Oregon. Unable to find a hotel in Ashland, we planted ourselves partway to Crater Lake for the night. The following morning we navigated the smoothest asphalt strips with the most spectacular scenery on our way to the lake. We paused on the winding passes to pose for a few shots in the snow with the Challenger. The same day we rocketed up to Bend and then over the volcanic peaks to Eugene for the night. Our pace had been set and I was determined to see a lot of country before we were through. The next day it was Port Townsend, then San Juan Island, then Orcas Island. I felt road weary yet happily drunk from the steady flow of winding one-lane roads, spectacular vistas and vibrant plant life. We were closing in on our last push North. We made our way out of the wilds of the San Juans for a mild three-hour drive to the bustling city of Vancouver (a three-hour tour).
Everything had been going well and according to plan and I had not yet had any occasion to question our judgment. In my mind we were studs; masters of planning on the go. We used maps and apps and reviews to direct us to places and to our next meal. Everywhere we went the Challenger drew stares and comments of admiration. Who cares if it was only a clunky v6 automatic? It was a sheep in wolf’s clothing and managed to convince people that we were American badasses. We didn’t bother to correct them. We took in the compliments and double takes with an increasing swagger.
All of this came to an end when we met the Canadian border guards. It was here that the badasses were detained. I was shocked. What had just happened? I had felt so wild and free, that I was the master of my own realm. Suddenly my freedom was revoked and I did not even have the right to get up to relieve my busting bladder until “our officer” decided it was ok to buzz me in. I was nervous, but I had done nothing wrong. Called up separately, my dad and I honestly answered the guard’s questions. We tried our best not to look guilty under the intense pressure of the border station. A little over an hour later, without any explanation for our detention, we were finally released and “welcomed” into Canada. I felt shell-shocked and struggled to make the last leg to the hotel that we had booked in Vancouver. There we were, in the heart of a beautiful big city that I had never seen and all I wanted to do was wind up into a little ball and whimper.
It was Mother’s Day and we had managed to drag ourselves to a very nice Chinese restaurant. Here we were reluctantly placed under the smelly fish tank next the door that the waiter’s came bursting in and out of. Perhaps this was a coincidence but I couldn’t shake the newfound feeling of being a second-class citizen. During the meal we decided to cut short our visit to Vancouver. We wanted to get through the border and down near Seattle so we could catch our early morning flight without a problem. We ate our tasty, expensive meal and shuffled our exhausted selves back to the hotel.
I wish I could say that I “saw” the sights in Vancouver but what was really on my mind was crossing that blasted border again. Imagine crossing a cavernous gorge on what you discover to be a rickety wooden bridge that could break loose at any minute. The prospect of crossing back over that bridge is frightful. After some wandering and a visit to the museum of anthropology we made a run for the border. “Coming back to the states can’t be as difficult as coming into Canada, right?” This is what I told myself as we inched along the cue for the border station.
I had done some more research about crossing the border and felt better prepared. Upon approaching the U.S. border I removed my sunglasses, silenced the stereo, rolled down the window and did my best in offering the security cameras a casual pose. I might have been successful in presenting this facade but inside I was shaking in my boots. What must have been a “PR” border patrol officer walking amongst the cars approached us and said, “Welcome back boys, love the car!” This boosted my confidence a bit and I rolled up to the border where… we were pulled aside again! Instantly a gnawing pit of fear established itself in my gut. We were gruffly sent to a detention parking lot and told to report inside the station.
Upon entering the US border station I noticed an intimidating, foreboding presence that can only be described as Big Brother. Everywhere I looked human or digital eyes were scanning our every move. Officers proudly showcased grimaces and steely gazes as they strutted around. They avoided any sort of humane contact. We saddled up to the C line as we had been ordered to. I looked around at the other lost souls. I met a furtive, knowing glance with a few of them. Whatever freedom we had had was gone. We were now completely at the mercy of the swashbuckling border guards.
The A and B lines next to us were filled with what must have been Chinese and Taiwanese citizens renewing their visas. These lines were moving quite briskly. The station must have been serving a second function as some sort of immigration office. The constant, casual chatter emanating from lines A and B contrasted extremely with the stoic, pained silence from our line. Those of us in line C were not considered equal. We had been deemed to be suspicious, potential threats.
Our relatively short line seemed to be moving in geologic time. We were forced to stand there and wait under the cameras and scanners and who knows what else. There were about six officers behind the station counter at any one time. Of those six, no more than two were busy interacting with the people standing in the lines. The other four would alternate between getting up and strutting around, looking mean, going in and out of the staff entrance, visiting with each other and staring down the unfortunate souls on the other side of the counter. There was nothing to do but stand there and try to look innocent. It was clear that we were being viewed as guilty.
It felt like we spent an eternity standing in that line. The pressure got to me and nervous thoughts stabbed at me over and over again. We had done nothing wrong and had nothing to hide. Still, the pressure of the environment and the sudden loss of my freedom pained me. I kept thinking to myself, “Why are we here? Had they found something stashed on the rental?” Other popular thoughts in my mind were, “What if they put my 70 year old father in prison? Oh my god, this trip was my idea. I will have been responsible for my dad finishing off his life in the clink!” Although I am a spiritual person, I have never been one to attend church or address “god” in formal prayer. Being stuck in this US border patrol facility full of menacing, gun-toting border officers changed that. I began to pray that we would be released; that things would turn out o.k.
An officer finally called us to the counter. He asked us a number of questions and then asked for the keys to our vehicle. The intimidation continued and we entered another tense period of waiting. The message was clear. Whatever we had done or appeared to be doing had established us as “guilty until proven innocent.” The realization set in that this officer could seemingly do with us as he saw fit. Again the seconds slowed to a crawl and the pressure recommenced. I did my best to close the valve on the fear that was fueling my imagination.
Finally a miracle happened and we were declared free to go. Although almost every cell of my body said, “Get the hell out of here now!” I realized that I had to ask the officer something. I took some time to consider proper wording. I did not wish to become a suspect again.
“Officer,” I said, “If you are at all able to tell us, what can we do to avoid this situation in the future?”
The officer promptly responded, “It’s simple. Don’t drive a rental car across the border.”
He went on to tell us how rentals are regularly used to transport contraband. Smugglers transported drugs without the driver of the car even knowing. The vehicles are tracked via GPS and by participants in the scheme. They retrieve the contraband with the rental customers never knowing that they are oblivious drug mules.
Feeling grateful that I had received an answer instead of being clapped in irons and run off to the interrogation room, I did my best to take my passport and make as leisurely of a stroll to the parking lot as I could manage. My father and I got back into the car and I drove us away to freedom. I resisted the now familiar urge to curl up into a little ball. I was not satisfied with the border agent’s answer. I knew there was more to it than that but what was he going to do, yell out the nation’s security strategies for all to hear? That said, the shock of being mildly terrorized and not really knowing why left me feeling singed. This feeling was inextricably linked with the fear of not knowing when such an episode might happen again. This ate away at me. It took quite an effort to drive a few miles of highway before stopping to rest and decompress.
Although the obvious lesson here is to not drive a rental across the Canadian border, the experience brought to light a more universal and troubling one. The instantaneousness with which my rights as a US citizen vanished was astounding. This is understandable when entering a different country but not so when returning to my homeland, “The Land of The Free.” Apparently the scenario of us in the rental had raised enough red flags in the border staff to establish probable cause. The mystery of exactly what factors had established that probable cause haunts me to this day. Where must an honest traveler go in order to educate themselves about such probable causes? Where does the rental agency fit in and what is it obligated to share with its customers? What, if any, is the government’s role in informing its citizens of these risks? Why did I know nothing of these risks? What are the limits of the authorities in investigating these “red flags?” If they are able to harass us, browse through our phones and personal possessions and detain us interminably, what are they not able to do? What was to keep them from taking our passports or strip-searching us right then and there?
Although the experience still troubles me and the questions remain unanswered, I hope that others may benefit from this tale. Things could have turned out much worse for us. There could very easily have been a package of something clandestinely smuggled by someone, somewhere within the car. Then what? I don’t think I’d be sitting here writing this. Consider this a red flag of a different sort; the travel bulletin that I sorely wished I had read before embarking last spring. Do yourself a favor. Just as with nuts and gum, keep rental cars and Canadian border crossings separate!
