I have too many ugly border crossing stories to tell, but one always makes me laugh when I remember it...
1988 or '89, touring all over Europe and North Africa with a reggae band. I am the Holder Of The Passports, probably because I don't smoke herb and therefore everyone assumes that I won't leave them on a balcony or in a toilet somewhere. Anyway, passports from U.S., St. Lucia, Dominica, Jamaica - a regular United Nations jammed into in my pocket.
One morning we are in an airport in the UK, and I am sitting at a table trying to eat some kind of stale breadlike thing, when I see our bass player ambling toward me at his usual casual pace. Only on either side of him are British military guys, fully outfitted, with their automatic rifles held in both hands, ready to lay waste to whatever gets in their way.
I can only imagine what kind of horror is about to transpire, or how long it is going to take me to get him out of prison. So the bass player, Ray, finally makes his way to where I'm sitting and says, very calmly, "Dem man deh wan see some passport." Ha ha. Yeah, they wanted to see all of our passports as it turned out.
But to touch on what Father Luke said, we had a lot of stamps and visas in our passports from North Africa, all of them in Arabic. Even in the 80's those attracted attention, and not exactly good attention, whenever you traveled anywhere. For 5 or 6 years I had to explain those damn stamps whenever I left - or tried to come back to - the U.S. I was glad to replace that thing when it expired. I imagine it's much worse now, but man, what a pain.