What Is It With Borders? – Adventure Rider

(Photos: The Bear & Mrs. Bear)

There are many different dangers out there on the long road, and there is one outstanding annoyance apart from the way you get ripped off whenever you change money, and that is border crossings. Admittedly, many have simply disappeared (such as the ones in the Schengen Area in Europe) and some are downright genial, but others… oh dear.

Probably the most genial I have ever struck was in Britain – and that’s not common, often British immigration people are dreadful, especially at Heathrow. This time, Mrs. Bear and I had just rolled off the midnight ferry from France and were lining up on our XS1100 in Dover. The immigration chap looked at us in our worn and battered gear; leafed through our passports, lavishly decorated after seven months in Europe, North Africa and the Middle East; raised an eyebrow and drawled, “Not bringing in any noxious substances, are we?”.

I just shook my head wearily and he waved us through.

It’s not always that easy, but you can make it easy if you know how. Take the Wagah border crossing between India and Pakistan, on the way from Amritsar to Lahore. It’s closed at various times when either country gets the poops with the other, and even when relations are good the hours are heavily restricted. It is also deliberately tough, which has always surprised me because I would have thought that each country would want to show off how good and polite it is. No, instead there’s endless searching of luggage and forms to fill out; what you’d probably, and justifiably, call harassment.

I had been through this border before, so I had laid a cunning plan. First, my mate Charlie and I stopped a few kilometers short of the border and donned the polyester safari suits we had had tailored for us in Thailand. They were cheap, packed down small and were ideal for any confrontation with Authority because they looked smart and by extension made us look smart.

Thus caparisoned, we rolled up at the Indian side of the border, and when we were presented with the first lot of forms I “accidentally” handed my biro to the official as if he’d provided it. The response was an appreciative grin and a generous wave – pass right through, sahib. If you can afford to give away pens you must be a good bloke! It worked again at the Pakistani immigration and customs barrier, and we were on our bikes and heading for Lahore while the hippies who had shown up at the same time were still being strip searched and harassed at the first barrier.

You have to give the Pakistani border guards credit. They looked up all of these distances.

We didn’t bother with the safari suits at Landi Kotal, the Khyber Pass border point between Pakistan and Afghanistan. The local fashion tends to a Pashtun cap and a thick and well-used sheepskin vest over a thobe jellabah and open sandals, worn with an immaculate .303 rifle, and we couldn’t compete with that. From memory there was no Pakistani border post at all. On the Afghan side, after forcing us to buy insurance that covered everything up to a 16-seater bus, the guard didn’t know the English for “open your bags”. All he could say was “I must look,” so we simply pointed at the bikes and said “Okay, look.” He finally gave up.

Public Transport at Landi Kotal. Climb aboard, there’s always room for one more.

So sometimes you just need chutzpah, simple front. On that same trip, we rolled up at the Iranian/Turkish border at Bazargan and found ourselves confronted by a seemingly endless queue of trucks, buses and cars snaking up the hill to the concrete gate that was the crossing. I looked, made an executive decision and simply rode past them all on the left-hand side. We pushed in at the front of the queue, which we later discovered can delay drivers by two or three days, and got our paperwork stamped.

Borders are perfect examples of swings and roundabouts, or karma. You get an easy one, maybe even two, and then you get a really bad one.

Mrs. Bear and I were heading back to Britain after our ride through Asian Turkey. We had 24-hour visas for Bulgaria, and for once both the Greek border crossing (leaving) and both Bulgarian ones (entering and leaving) were painless and quick. Even getting into Romania wasn’t too bad, considering that everybody at the border seemed especially interested in us. I think it was the bike, an XS1100 in full Vetter fairing and luggage kit, which was more bike than these guys had ever seen in their lives.

The Nepalese border with India is almost the definition of laid-back. “Where’s the dope?” asked the Indian customs man and laughed as he waved us through.

The crunch came when we were leaving Romania. First there was an alleged problem with our papers. Then we were searched thoroughly, for no reason I could see. Why would anyone want to smuggle anything out of Romania in those pre-revolution days? The only decent thing they had was ice cream. While that was going on in the background, with the bike now completely unpacked, another hassle surfaced.

We had had to change a specified amount of money, which was far more than we needed. And no, we couldn’t change it back. No, we couldn’t “export” it either. Not that anyone in another country would have wanted it. We would either have to spend it at the border shop or leave it behind. I was not about to leave anything behind for these border goons, so we checked the shop. It had nothing even remotely attractive. We ended up buying some wooden pokerwork plates. We gave these away later to unenthusiastic recipients.

Squeezing out the last drop of petrol before the border – it’s cheaper on the other side!

The search of our luggage had finally turned up something. The customs officer triumphantly held up a packet of small, white, soft cylinders wrapped in cellophane with strings attached to one end. What were these? Explosives detonators?

Non, said Mrs Bear in French because Romanian is similar. They were, err, “pour Madame”. The guard looked nonplussed for a moment and then went bright red. He dropped the cylinders back into the mess of luggage and retreated in confusion. The search was over, and we were free to repack (which took ages) and depart, complete with wooden pokerwork plates… and tampons.

Borders…