If the Canadian border guards looked like the kinky section of a Pride parade, their American counterparts looked like hoodlums to a man. Maybe part of the difference in aesthetic was the fact that the Canadian guards were all bare headed, looking like the crew from
Space 1999, and the American customs agents all wore baseball caps -- and it made them look like total punks, which they were. These guys seemed to have gone from hanging out on street corners with crowbars, to working for the U.S. customs office -- interestingly enough,
also with crowbars: implements formally used to jimmy locks to local businesses and homes, were now used by them to deftly pry open car trunks, upholstery and side paneling for Uncle Sam.
When we pulled into American border immigration after the five minute drive from the Canadian side, four U.S. customs agents were milling around several parked, presumably suspect, cars, holding wrenches and other tools, looking for all the world like a gang ready for action.
Based on our Canadian contretemps, if they had wanted to, the U.S. customs agents could have pulled Chad's Jetta apart, down to the last sprocket and screw. But all they did was take our I.D.s and tell us to go into a waiting area. The atmosphere inside was less cohesive than at the Canadian one: two guards were having a heated argument about Mexican labor laws and immigration policy.
Ten minutes later, a guard, the collar turned up on his border jacket, the brim of his baseball cap slightly askew, questions us.
"So you guys got any priors or warrants?"
"No."
"What was it they busted you for?" (In this age of rapid communication, it's interesting they didn't know.)
"We had some cannabis."
"You mean you were taking cannabis
into Canada?"
"Yeah."
"How much?
"7.3 grams and... a bong and... a pipe."
"Taking cannabis into Canada is like taking tea into China! It's like taking sand into the Middle East!" he fulminated, indignant, earning his pay. In contradistinction to his jock-type colleagues, this guy actually looked like someone to enjoy a toke now and then -- witness his poetic flight, a man employing the same metaphors, more or less, used by the nineteenth century
Le Club des Hachichins -- yeah, a definite Head in drag...
We lowered our eyes in the obligatory Jeeze-you're-right attitude. They gave us our I.D.s back and said we could go.
As we got back into the car, Chad was afraid they would follow us, then pull us over for being under the influence. But nothing happened, and we drove in silence for a while, unsure of our next move...
Rebuffed and humiliated, molested by a half-dozen goons from two different countries, we take our rage out on innocent Canadians everywhere:
"One thing a Canadian hates is to find an intelligent American. It ruins the stereotype."
"They freak out."
"Scatter like chickens."
"Canada is just a boutique country," I grouse. "That inveterate liar and madman, Congressman Mark Souder from Indiana, has more power over Canada than their own justice minister! Canada couldn't survive a U.S. blockade for more than a week and everyone knows it. When Souder threatens the Canadian parliament with road blocks at their border, politicians over there sit up straight..."
"I always think of traveling Canadians as Mormon missionaries," Chad says, turning up the heat.
"Yeah, they do have that priggishness about them that's always a total turnoff. And those Canadian flags they sew on their backpacks, for the sole reason of hoping not to be identified as Americans to illiterate touts and muggers: cowardly. Scurrilous -- just like Dr. Johnson always said... What they don't get is that in Asia, at least, everyone with white skin is lumped as a mark no matter what -- their corny nationalist ploy is totally useless."
"A bunch of dullards," he hisses.
"I remember standing in line in Bangkok trying to get a visa for Cambodia. How prim and fit the Canadians were, happy, well-fed. Upwardly mobile. Sensitive. Worldly. Wearing the loose and colorful cotton fabrics they bought in the local markets. Eager to learn about the art and mores of other cultures. Contrasted to the loud-mouth American slobs behind them: Older guys wearing baseball caps who kicked speed habits in the eighties. Flab dangling from withered arms, pot bellies spilling over filthy wrangler jeans..."
Somewhat sated on jealous jibes and bad-mouthing, our blood pressure turns back to normal, and we decide to get some winks and ponder our situation more thoroughly tomorrow.
We pull into the Bellingham Motel 6, situated in a no-man's-land of strip malls and parking lots off the highway.
As we walk up the outside stairs to our room, crackheads are literally spilling over the railings, shouting at each other, going in and out of the room next to ours for nefarious purposes.
Chad notices the pool is drained and snickers about the floating bodies of addicts...
Laid out flat on the bed, I wait for the "crackhead clunk," the inevitable sound of heavy objects falling and furniture breaking that comes juddering through their walls, and blaring out of their rooms at around 3am, keeping anyone within earshot from getting any sleep whatsoever. Endless people knocking on doors demanding to be let in -- and being refused entry -- is the other concomitant to a hotel full of skells.
The next morning we decide to go back to the Canadian border and try our luck again. It wouldn't be the same staff would it?
Oh, you fellows came back for more eh?
We
did wonder if there was some sort of grace period, however, for trying to cross back into Canada after being turned away.
While Chad was in the bathroom, I resolved to find out what our status was as would-be drug felons by telephoning U.S. customs and asking. When I did, I got a surly customs agent, a man who sounded like some sort of street-corner con.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I was turned away from the Canadian border in Blaine last night for possession of a small amount of cannabis, and..."
"Oh man! I wouldn't bother going back anytime soon. You're going to need a
waiver. That could take time. I wouldn't suggest you try it. I really wouldn't."
But I was angry at advice I didn't want to hear, and became strident: "
You don't know what you're talking about!" I shout, slamming the phone down. (I was right. We got into Vancouver that morning without a hitch).
Chad came out of the bathroom and asked what was up.
"Oh, nothing. Try calling the Canadian consulate. They're the ones we should talk to."
After rummaging for the number in the room's phone book, Chad dials them on his cell phone, and they calmly explain that it should be all right to try crossing over to Canada again -- provided we don't have any drugs in evidence i.e. scattered on the dashboard or under the seat.
Chad had gone down to check the car, and make sure the stereo hadn't been jacked during the night. He came back up with a full pipe of pot.
"I forgot all about this! It was under the seat."
It survived the grubby paws of ten customs agents!
We smoked the whole thing in celebration, then threw the pipe in the trash. We had to be clean this time around.
***
In Vancouver Marc Emery is a name that literally opens doors.
There was a nondescript building: Marc Emery sent us.
"Oh, then come right in."
There was menu of ten different types of herb and hash. They were all out of the famous bubble hash we wanted to try and had to forgo it on this trip.
[Editor's note: We are expecting a Marc Emery interview from Habeas Mentem sometime in the near future. Stay tuned.]
The shrooms were coming on and I suggested we stop at Madame Cleo's massage parlor. But Chad unexpectantly became livid at the idea.
"While I'm shrooming?! Show some consideration, guy! Some basic goddamn consideration is all I'm asking from you!"
But I could see something coming over his face and knew the shrooms were affecting his processing abilities and sense of self.
"You mean just go in there and check it out?" he asked tentatively.
"Yeah, just
poke our heads in."
We parked the Jetta and walked over to the building. It was small and squat, nothing more than a run down concrete box, it must have been a check cashing place or data entry business before Cleo's. A total dive, with a pathetic neon sign out front depicting a pink high-heeled shoe.
"You take me to the classiest places," he said with bitterness.
We walked through the door and past a partition to a waiting room with two couches. They must have been desperate for customers because they went all out for us: Ten jaded women came barreling out of no where and sat on the sofas like manikins. The whole thing looked like bad TV from 1970's.
The hostess looked like she was on something synthetic, her vacuum-cleaner eyes sucking us in, pupils the size of dimes.
A pretty, young, dark haired woman walked up to us and presented herself. I guess she was the star attraction.
"This is Brandi," the hostess said, "She has a client right now but will be available shortly."
Brandi turned around looking more like an android than a real person. Her face gave off no indication there was a human behind it at all. Stylized to absurdity. Creepy was the only word to describe it. I suppose there is a huge market for this kind of bullshit.
I glanced around at the women on the couches and all their faces looked hard-bitten and mean. The whole experience was too bizarre on an eighth of cubensis, and I bolted for the entrance. My legs and arms feeling like Jell-o.
"Looks like Habeas is running out the door," the hostess said, trying to be ironic, hoping to at least make a sale from Chad.
But no dice from him either. We got back into the car and decided to walk around Granville street and check out the art galleries.
"If WallMart ever gets into the brothel business, it will be like that."
"Wherever the American citizen goes he degrades the place."
"God doesn't care what you do over the border. He's not watching here."
