The worst border crossings in the world

The name evokes an illuminated stairway to heaven – the Rainbow Bridge spanning the Niagara River and the US-Canadian border, almost within the splash zone of the ever-famous waterfall that foams and roars near that dotted line on the map. It is worth crossing when heading north from America to its neighbor – because the views of Niagara Falls from the Canadian side are (generally considered) more impressive than from the opposite bank. But our own journey in this direction has cost us dearly. Sometimes, the level of stress and, ultimately, money.

This was, I should explain, in the hazy-still-non-digitized fog of the mid-2000s, when you still had to fill out a card form to enter the US – and hand over the bottom of it on exit. We did so, as instructed, to the post box at the gate at the American end of the bridge – and hopped over to Canada, where the meeting was acrimonious but friendly. Not so the two American border guards who greeted us upon our return a couple of hours later.

Where were our exit cards? (In the mailbox on the door outside, as the sign required.)

Did we enter the US illegally? (We didn’t. We landed in New York at JFK a week early on the date and time on that boarding pass. This will all be recorded.)

Why did you come to the USA today? (To extend a vacation – no less than a honeymoon – that takes place entirely in your country, save the two hours we just spent in Canada to see the falls from a different angle. This is literally our rental car there , outside the uninspiring hotel can be seen via window, there are all our things.)

The last trick was a mistake. Two of them – mustached, plump, sweaty despite the cold autumn day – knew that they had trapped us between a waterfall and some kind of anvil. There were furrowed brows, mutterings, gestures towards the bench in the corner.

Other travelers soon joined us, as a pattern became apparent. Those who foolishly followed the obvious rules and provided proof of exit without proof that they had done so were harassed, interrogated and eventually made to fill out an additional form – to exit “properly” before they could re-enter. And there was a fee of 10 dollars. Cash only. There is no receipt.

We paid, crossed the border, and drove off, relieved that the “fine” was relatively minor – perhaps a heavy, unbending adherence to obscure and confusing rules, or perhaps just a shakedown for beer bucks. But to this day, I clearly remember the names of officers (Redacted) and (Redacted) – and their sneered pig faces.

Great Britain-Mexico

Anthony Peregrine

My first trip across the Atlantic was decades ago, and I looked very cool: flares, dyed shirt, vintage blazer, hair that reached down my back like Willie Nelson. Talk about a rebel. Was Mexico City ready for this?

In case, yes. Absolutely. Rather too much. Right at the airport. I was going through Nothing to Declare when two customs officers beckoned to me and then pulled me up and shoved me into a side room like they do with drug advertisers on TV. But I was clean. I was British. It’s okay. Then the scissors came out and the younger of the two started pulling my hair. Then he said something very serious. I didn’t speak Spanish – fixing that was one of the reasons I was in Mexico – but I didn’t need to.

The dark-skinned, well-dressed guy made it clear that Mexican authorities don’t take kindly to long-haired bums waltzing into their country without any respect for internationally recognized standards of Mexican decency. I suddenly felt scared. You really didn’t want to be in a bare room with two Mexicans brandishing big scissors. And without money.

By an extraordinary stroke of luck, the guy who met me at the airport noticed that I had been taken out of the mainstream. He was a citizen of Mexico. He protested and burst into a side room. He was fantastically polite with the customs officials – agreeing, as he explained later, that such ridiculously long hair was indeed an insult to Mexican sensibilities. Can a few bills ease their pain? Yes, they can. Only this time.

We left. The next morning I went to the hairdresser. I came out looking like a lawyer. I had no more difficulty with the Mexican official. I didn’t have it on subsequent trips either. They are outstanding people – and I’m sure they’ll prove it if and when I go there again.

Mongolia-Russia

Author: Phoebe Smith