I wonder what food is served in Ukrainian jail
Crossing into Ukraine had taken three hours, as customs agents had fumbled through vehicle documentation. But exiting should be smooth, or so I thought.
As I pulled up to the customs station to exit Ukraine into Hungary, an agent flashed a friendly smile (think, Chris O'Dowd, the cop from Bridesmaids), and asked, "Anything to declare?" I paused enough for him to clarify. "Medications or guns?"
"Nope." The response was second nature at this point.
"Great! Where have you been in the Ukraine?" He had me step off he bike so he could peek into the luggage. I opened the left side bag and the top bag. I figured the drone would get attention, but it didn't. He was satisfied with the search. I told him about my route through half the country. "What did you find interesting? Take anything with you?"
"No, Sir. Loved the people and countryside, but not the rain," thinking alright, buddy, let's keep this short.
A younger, stone-faced agent yelled something at him in Ukrainian while finishing up a car search (Think Draco Malfoy, the blonde punk kid in Harry Potter 1-47). My agent replied with the names of towns.
With a smirk, he barked, "Motorbike here." He gestured for me to pull off into the search area. I complied, still not thinking much of it. As the search became seriously thorough, he dug deep into my right side bag...and there was my expandable baton. Stupid me! I'd had one confiscated in Central America a year ago at a border crossing and had debated the need for one on this trip. William, a fellow adventure rider, had said he gave up such things. Juice isn't worth the squeeze. I should have tossed it weeks ago and was lucky it hadn't caused trouble somewhere else. Previous plans for concealment or holstering it on my person faded over time, and now I carelessly just left it visible.
The young man, appearing angry at the world that day, almost jumped back for a second when he spotted it. Then he slowly picked it up with two fingers, holding it far from him like a snake or a weapon at a crime scene. His eyes fixed on me. The then swung it to hear the loud shing of metal as it came unsheathed and more than doubled in length. His stare finally turned from me to the baton. The rust and obvious lack of use didn't phase him.
"You said you had no weapons." The kinder gentleman said.
"I didn't know that was a weapon." Oh, crap. Panic set in.
"I asked you if you had any guns."
I saw an opening. "That's right, you said, 'guns.' That's not a gun."
"Okay, but that's like a gun...just as bad."
"But you asked about guns, Sir. You know you did."
"That doesn't matter. You should have declared this. This is very, very bad trouble." I could see a hint of pity come across his face, as he really saw my genuine innocent intent. Then, he started to feel jointly responsible for this.
The other guy spoke little English but was aware of the discussion. "Open everything." I complied. It couldn't get any worse, so I thought. He combed through EVERYTHING. A bottle of prescription allergy medication made them pause.
"You said no medications." This guy was now out to get me.
"Come on...that's for my allergies. You can buy it anywhere."
"But I asked you and you said 'no.'" He had to cover his ass a bit at this point.
Ugh. "Look, I'll throw all of this in the woods. I don't want it."
Angry-boy went back to the baton. "You, stand over there. Now, police come and..." he put the insides of his wrists together and made a clinking handcuff sound. A hint of enjoyment peered through his stone-faced expression.
Oh, crap. I was really going to Ukrainian jail. I was a bit hungry and honestly started to wonder what kind of food would they serve there. I stood a few steps away from Green for 30 minutes or so. Other officials came and went, looking at the baton and shaking their heads. The nice man endured more apologies and offers to chuck the baton. "I'm sorry, but it's too late. I can't help you."
My crappy Blackberry might finally prove useful. When the coast was clear, I slid over to the bike and grabbed the phone from the handlebar mount. It was 1:00 am back home, and I didn't want Mom to lose a night of sleep. I waited until the very last moment to dial home to have Dad call the embassy and start tracking my movement through the system.
Just as I was about to hit "send," the kind man appeared. "Put it all back. Put that thing away. Go. Now." I paused for a moment, confused, but started packing. He had to clarify twice that I was free to leave.
Whew. Close call. Entering Hungary, I was fully prepared to declare and hand over anything and everything.
"You carrying any tobacco?"
"Nope."
"Texas?" He chuckled. "Cowboys, women, guns... yeee-haw."
"Yep, pretty much, my friend."
"Be safe, Señor."
"Gracias, mi amigo."
I was outta there in a flash and would soon be rid of that stupid baton.
