Passport stamps of disapproval

There’s no one like a customs officer to tell you what they really think of you, discovers Kent Valentine.

Given our track record as a nation, it really isn't fair to complain about being a victim of racist behaviour while overseas. If the 500-metre racial slur was an Olympic event, Australia would probably win gold, silver and silver. There wouldn't be a bronze medal - the brown colour frightens us.

The point is, I've been through passport-control in a bunch of airports lately and I've discovered that if there's any place in the world where a country's ingrained prejudice will rise to the surface, it's customs. Customs officers will use a combination of passport scrutiny, aggressive questioning and racist taunts to ascertain the level of threat that you pose to the sovereignty of their nation, to protect their country from murderers, professional football players and other unsavoury characters.

When I left Australia, there was no passport control, just a pat on the back from a federal policeman and who urged me, “Give them hell”. Now, I don't know what that means, but I have a personal rule never to question an armed man at an airport. Things were a little different when I stopped over in Singapore on the way to Europe. Two airport cops saw me taking photos of their security cameras and whisked me away to a room where an officer was very keen to examine my documentation. Apparently our criminal heritage has followed us to Singapore. The officer was convinced that me pointing my photography equipment at their photography equipment was a prelude to crime, crime he was keen on preventing. I tried to explain that I was only taking photos because their cameras look like laser canons, but apparently, “That's what everyone says”.

England however, was a different story yet again. In the bowels of Heathrow airport, in a sterile and grey room, sits Britain's first, last and only line of defense against antipodean interlopers: Gary. Upon entry into the UK, Aussies must fill out an entry card, the sole purpose of which is to provide Gary with ammunition for the barrage of offensive questions he’s about to unleash. I'm not sure if Gary hates everyone, Australians or just me, but there was no way that he was letting me into his country without working for it.

“Great, another crim returns.”
“What?”
“I’m watching the silverware. How long are you staying?”
“About 18 months.”
“That's 18 too many. Says here you're a comedian.”
“Yep.”
“I hate comedy.”
“…”
“Welcome to England.”

After Gary, I was sure that our nation must be internationally despised and considered blackguards and rogues the world over. But I found a flicker of hope in a tiny nation at the bottom of Scandinavia and I think I know who's responsible.

“Passport please... You're Australian?”
“Yeps.”
“That’s fantastiske, I love you guys. How long are you staying?”
“Just five days.”
“That’s not long enough, you must come again soon.”
“Thanks very much.”
“No problem, welcome to Denmark.”

Thanks, Princess Mary.

- Kent Valentine