Borders between peoples etc.

Andrew Petcher’s recent posts about his tour of India has prompted me to think about some of my border crossings. Over time I have probably mentioned them all before so this time I will sketch them briefly.

Spain/France. January 1974. It was night. The scene was the Spanish border but I didn’t know it until they turned on the lights. I thought it was a railway crossing and because the boom gates were up and there was no train coming I started to drive across. The lights came on, a siren sounded and one of Franco’s Guardia came out and pointed his machine gun at me and fired a burst over the top of the van. I stopped and reversed the old Bedford van to the checkpoint. La Guardia was angry. Danny was asleep in the back but his mummy stretched around,and picked him up and sat him on her knee. We were in an English van and the guard came to the passenger’s side door thinking it was the driver’s. The window was wound down and Danny started to cry. We explained in very bad Spanish that we were sorry and we needed to get the ‘sick’ baby home. “Where is home?” We were staying in a town – Port Vendre – which is the first town in France from the Spanish border. “Who with?” The guardia was local and knew many people in France. I mentioned the name of the baker who lived next door to us. The guardia knew him and said that next time we should be more careful. The next week the same thing happened to a young German couple. They didn’t stop and the guardia fired a second burst at the German van and killed both occupants.

France/Italy February 1974. We stopped at the French border as we were leaving and the fairly officious crossing guard came out and ordered us to open the back door. Daniel, 10 months old was asleep on a rug in the back so his mother jumped out quickly to open the door but stopped the guard and put finger to lips and said “Shush. bebe dorme'” or something like that. The guard stopped and she opened the door very quietly; the guard looked at the baby and smiled. and beckoned his colleagues out. They all came and had a look at the sleeping baby. They closed the door quietly and waved us on the hundred yards to the Italian border. But they had rung through to the Italians. So this time three Italian border guards came out on tippy toes. They looked at the baby sleeping and one of them apologised and said he must check for drugs. He opened a small cupboard door in the van that contained breakfast cereal etc. He llicked his finger and poked it in the sugar bowl and said to all his border crossing mates, “Niente Droghe. E’ zucchero,”. By this time Daniel had woken up so the Italians passed him from one to the other and gave him his first Italian kisses and we were waved through with embraces and the angry looks of other tourists whose vans had been pulled apart and were now being tidied up. Second time Danny had got us through.

March 1974. We arrived at Melbourne’s airport, Tullamarine, It had been a long flight from London. Back them there was no such thing as a disposable baby’s nappy/diaper. Mothers would carry a special bag with soiled nappies securely wrapped in plastic. I repeat, it had been a long trip. I had purchased a camera in England. I had buried it in the bag with all of Danny’s dirt napkins. I had not declared it. At the customs barriers we all lined up, tired and grumpy, probably 150 of us. When we got to the customs officer I said, “Nothing to declare”. I know I was a bad person but on the spur of the moment we all do the wrong thing  now and then. We were instructed to open our bags. The first one I handed to the official was the bag with the camera and a day’s worth of dirty smelly baby poo. He opened the bag and recoiled in disgust. He closed the bag quickly and waved us through. There were other people who were very upset with us, but I hoped they would get over it. Third time Danny got us through.