Thiruvananthapuram

T-H-I-R-U-V-A-N-A-N-T-H……

Sir?
Sir?
What do I do when I’ve run out of boxes?
No, boxes. For letters. On this form you gave me.
I have no more boxes, and still like half the…nevermind.
I’ll just say I’m going to Trivandrum. That fits.

Singaporean police don’t have the sense of humor you’d hope. And changing my stated destination on official arrest forms like answers in a poorly done crossword did not make them laugh as much as it did me.

The fact that the laughter echoed back at me from the other side of my small detention cell should have lessened my amusement at my current situation. It did not.

Curt. Polite. Efficient. That is how I would describe my brief incarceration in the bowels of Singapore’s Changi airport.  I’ve not spent much time in the pokey, but I’m beginning to think that I should have. My ‘cell’ was nicer than most of my hotel rooms in Vietnam. Less bugs anyways. And I even had my own desk to fill out my arrest paperwork.

Alternate tagline for the Southeast-Asian tourism board:

Asia! Where something is always crawling on you!

Four months in the suck, riding 3000 kilometers illegally through two countries and I barely had so much as a few unkind words with officers of the law. Sure, I’d been shaken down a bit. Sheepishly asked for a little money to pay whatever ‘fine’. Once, on the outskirts of Saigon, it even got into double digits.

-gasp-

But for the most part I had gone un-hassled.

The best way I heard it described was from a tanned, sinewy, old Brit who had given up on England in favor of beaches, beer, and questionably aged Khmer women.

‘Cambodia is great, no one hassles you. The only problem is, if you’re the one getting hassled, there sure as hell isn’t anyone coming to help you.’

Singapore did not seem to take the laissez-faire approach to law enforcement that it’s Asian brethren were known for.  In fact the story of the American kid being caned kept popping into my head while I stewed. No, they were sticklers.

That’s an odd word, ‘stickler’. I like it. I wonder where it comes from?

Also: Bamboozle

Anyways…

I was detained for trafficking illegal weaponry into the Republic of Singapore.  An exaggeration in itself of criminal proportions. Made doubly serious by my failure to declare my nefarious intent when questioned by the chipper Asian cutie behind the security desk, but I digress.

I don’t WANT to stab anyone.  I just like mango.

And I prefer it sliced like Deakon showed me (cut two halves, score a checker pattern into the flesh and then invert).  To this end I carry (carried) a knife in my pack.  It just so happened to be a mean looking matte-black Kershaw ‘assisted opening’ flick knife.  A gift from the lovely Sarah McHugh.  Available over the counter in any Walmart from Albuquerque to Zephyrhills. (God bless ‘merica)

I know better than to fly with it. It’s a lesson learned after losing countless other edged doo-dads and a beautiful Colibri cigar lighter (oddly enough, also a gift from the same girl) to various security bins and boxes around the world.  This is why the night before any flight I begin my ritual teardown of my kit.

Bug spray over 3oz?
Move to the checked bag.

Brick of magnesium for starting fires in the rain?
Check-a-roonie.

Flip open tungsten-tipped spear fishing gear?
Check ch-check ch-check, check out my melody…

Fuck-off matte black switch-blade?
That’s a no brainer.

I’m a good, law abiding citizen (when x-ray machines force me to be). I’ll pay to check it all.

Which is why I feel like Singapore was playing a mean joke on me.

I thought nothing of the fact that I was being asked to claim my bags and re-check in for my connecting flight to India.  After pulling my bag from the belt all I had to do was walk twenty yards and up a flight of stairs to the Tiger Air counter and give it right back.

No sooner was my bag on my shoulder when I was being asked by three unsmiling Singaporean police officers to follow them.

Danger.

My repeated questions as to where we were going, and what I had done to be ushered into the bowels of the Security wing went unanswered.

Once I was safely ensconced in my sterile holding cell I watched as my bag was taken down to brass tacks. My meticulously arranged belongings dumped unceremoniously from my duffle bag onto a large table, my muddy hiking boots leaving a satisfying smear of dirt on their clean floor.

Four months of travel in sub-tropical climates had taught me the value of compartmentalization.  Vaccuum bags separated pants, underclothes, and shirts. Easily the most organized I’ve ever been, but it’s easy when you only have ten items of clothing.  The bags served to keep the rain out and ensure that no matter where I land after a long days ride I always had something dry to change into.

An old CD case containing minor odds and ends like sewing kit, mosquito head net, extra contact solution and other rarely used items also doubled as my checked bag armory.  I watched quietly  through the bars as they carefully inspected each item.

Like the cop in ’25th Hour’ sitting triumphantly on the couch he knows is filled with heroin, they obviously knew where they were going. My guess was from an internal x-ray system that happens behind closed doors before being sent to the baggage claim.

Surprisingly they passed over my spear fishing tip, and magnesium fire starter, perhaps not understanding what they were, and went straight for my knife.  My hope was that the rust and mango-detritus that sometimes jams the action would hold, but with a flick of one finger the blade sprung out and locked menacingly.

Like the sound of a shotgun being racked, or Wolverine’s claws, it was a ominous sound that filled the quiet room. -snikt-

I was boned.

Thankfully I had an abnormally long layover.  Long enough I had hoped to take in the sights and try the food in one of the worlds best airports (they have a freaking butterfly garden!).  Instead it was spent pleading my case and answering a barrage of questions.

‘What is your profession?’
‘I’m a librarian at a University’

Librarians are generally non-threatening people and not known for being arms smugglers…for the most part.

Before my former colleagues jump on me (Hey! You don’t have an MLIS!) This was simply a white lie to appear less criminal.  Trying to explain through the bars of my cell that I made cotton candy at Luau’s and was the head of the ‘Anti-Masturbatory Task Force’ seemed like it would invite more questions, and I had a plane to catch…I hoped.

‘Why do you carry a switchblade?’

A valid question. Yet somehow I didn’t think ‘slicing mango’ would suffice.

‘Umm, fishing?’ Yeah, that’s the ticket.

‘Fishing?’

‘Yeah, ya know, for gutting and scaling fish with one hand.’

Way to go brain. Remind me not to maim you with intoxicants.

A hundred questions, and fifty flimsy answers later, I was presented with two documents to sign to secure my release.

‘Do I need a lawyer?’
‘Only if you want to miss your plane.’ -grim smile-

The first relinquished my right to my contraband. It was to be melted down along with a pile of other awesomeness I saw boxed around the office.

Spent shells casings and grenade pins. Most likely tourist souvenirs from the Army run shooting-grenade-RPG (fired at a cow) range outside of Phnom Penh.  Machetes, large scissors, even a bejeweled Indian Kukri, all awaiting their demise in a Singaporean furnace somewhere.

Since the other cells were empty, I assumed their owners had either been executed, caned to death, or released.  I hoped for the latter.

The second more disturbing document was a warning.  Should I ever, for the course of the rest of my natural traveling life, enter Singapore with banned items, be it a suitcase nuke or a pack of chewing gum, I would be charged and imprisoned.

‘No prob chief. Got a pen?’

Next stop Thiruvana…Thiruvanananan….Thiruvananthapu….

India