Red Flags and Other Souvenirs

Carrying Privilege, Difference, and a Used Bong Across Borders

Apr 19, 2025

The following essay is my submission to Lauren Razavi’s essay competition, The Border Bounty.

Airport immigration lines aren’t the place for nervous fidgeting. So I stood still, hyper-aware of every unconscious movement. I wasn’t hiding anything, not this time. But my heart pounded anyway. My internal voice screamed: Just leave! But that wasn’t an option. My trip was over, I was basically home. Customs and immigration were non-negotiable. As I approached the kiosk with the stoic-looking officer framed behind plexiglass, I braced for the inevitable: endless questions, hours of delay, and a thorough search. And it would be justified. Not for what I was carrying now, but because of what I’d carried once before.

Red Flags

I've crossed many borders with a Canadian passport in hand—a little blue book that, on paper, seems to open doors. But it wasn't always smooth. And it doesn’t always matter where you’re from. What matters is how you travel. I don't always take the usual route. I carry too much baggage—sometimes literal, often metaphorical. I challenge norms, do things differently, and show up in ways the system doesn't expect. Many times, I’ve done so with a patch of the Canadian flag stitched to my bag. But what I've come to learn about borders is that being different is the real red flag.

If you're different—by choice or circumstance—expect delays. Borders don't handle the uncommon well. If you are someone who likes to do things differently, as I do—it's how I live; different, rebellious, and questioning the status quo—you must prepare yourself for unexpected travel delays, glitches in plans, and hiccups in the unfolding of events when crossing borders. The result is a string of travel experiences that push the boundaries of my being. While cutting a unique path for oneself can lead to serendipitous and unpredictable positive moments, it's a two-sided coin, or more aptly, a double-edged sword—there is a balance of positive and negative outcomes. And over the years, I've encountered several instances of border delays prompted by extenuating circumstances that hinged entirely on being different. Whether by land or air, anywhere in the world, this holds true.

Up in Smoke

So, why the trepidation upon arriving home?

Years earlier, Canadian customs caught me with cannabis paraphernalia—a bong, beautifully crafted from a decorative bamboo cutting, that I’d used during travels in Vietnam. But here’s the kicker, I wasn’t flagged for inspection because anyone suspected I was carrying it. Had I been traveling with only my bag, I probably would have breezed through customs without issue. However, I was hauling two extra suitcases for my brother, who had been teaching English in South Korea and was flying home in a few weeks with even more bags. My luggage load stood out. And in a sea of light packers, standing out meant one thing: inspection. I was set apart, along with several other returning English teachers, who were similarly weighed down by baggage.

They searched my backpack first and, upon finding the bong, promptly detained me. My heart sank despite knowing that the body of the head shop essential wasn't anything to balk at without the bowl, which I had separated, tightly wrapped, and tucked away into a small compartment of my rucksack. The presence of the bong, however, still aromatic with the scent of burnt reefer, piqued the officer's interest. Like a drug-sniffing dog, he tore through my backpack until he found the redolent bowl. My attempts at claiming the item was a tobacco smoking apparatus failed after the officer sprayed the bowl with a curious solution and swabbed it to reveal a bright pink colour. "Shiiiiiiiiit," I thought as the officer called over a supervisor to confirm the results. I didn't need any confirmation, I knew what that meant; the vibrant colour screamed "you're fucked!" They arrested me before going through my brother's luggage, teasing open every lint ball and fold of tissue in search of contraband.

After four hours of search and thorough questioning, they confiscated the bong and let me go, flagging my file for future airport visits. For seven years, I'd be subject to a search every time I entered Canada. I was grateful that was the extent of it.1 Thankfully—although they failed to inform me at the time—my blacklisting was airport specific.

So, jumping back to where we started, nervously waiting in the customs and immigration line at a different airport from where I was detained years earlier, I unexpectedly breezed through the border without issue. I managed to contain my nervousness enough not to arouse suspicion or prompt a background check, and I went on my merry way.

Conformity is Key

I know what you're thinking: "You idiot! Who crosses a border with a used bong?" And honestly, you're right. In hindsight, I would've left it behind. I didn't even get to keep it anyway. But the 20-something me—operating with a not-yet-fully-formed prefrontal cortex—wanted it. And I probably would've gotten away with it, too, had I not stood out as one of a few overloaded passengers returning from Korea. Yes, I earned the arrest. However, the reason I was flagged in the first place wasn't for criminal behaviour, but for nonconformity. It wasn’t the bong that caused the trouble; it was deviating from the norm. I didn’t look like the average traveler, and that made me suspicious. The average airline passenger travels light, thanks to baggage fees and size restrictions, and I didn't. That was enough to get noticed.

Across a couple of decades and multiple borders, I've discovered it's not what you carry, but how you look doing it. A border is designed to process the familiar. Step outside the norm, and you're more likely to get stopped. So, how do you avoid that kind of scrutiny? Stay low-key. Blend in. Don't draw attention by behaving—or appearing—out of the ordinary. And while it pains me to say this—the rebel in me shudders at the thought—when it comes to crossing borders, conformity is key.

Lessons from the Fringe

But conformity isn't always an option. Sometimes your mere presence is what makes you stand out; who you are is so extraordinary that there's no avoiding the unwanted attention your uniqueness attracts. Several years after the bong incident, I was traveling southeast on a shoestring with a couple of lifelong friends, an acquaintance, and a handful of fellow travelers we'd met during our travels. We had spent several weeks exploring some rarely visited corners of Laos, including a motorbike trek of "The Loop," and were moving on to witness the dark past and beautiful present of neighbouring Cambodia. We heard about a newly opened border between the two countries, which, if crossed, would save us some transportation costs and significant travel time. We hired a private van at the Laotian border to shuttle our group from one country to the other. Not many people used the new border, the driver said, especially white foreigners.

We received our exit stamps, piled into the van, and began the short drive to the Cambodian border, navigating a dusty road through a sweltering and smoldering jungle. Fires burned all around—controlled burns, we were told. Although none were old enough to have experienced the tropical warfare of a bygone era, we all felt as if we had fallen into a 1970s time warp; fresh recruits to fill the fallen ranks at the thin red line. The driver stopped unexpectedly and informed us in broken English that he wasn't permitted to drive any further; we'd have to walk the remaining few hundred meters into Cambodia.

With packs on our backs, our feet kicked up red dust as we made our way into our own heart of darkness. The smell of smoke filled the air as clouds of it billowed across the road, obscuring our visibility to a few meters. Tips of palms peeked through the plumes. Unseen insects hissed and whirred in the haze. After several minutes on foot, a tripod of automatic rifles, capped with a jaunty soldier's helmet, appeared through the smoke; then another; then a roofline of a hut shrouded by palm fronds. We had arrived at the border, which was no more than a military outpost on the far fringe of a previously war-torn country.

We approached the hut and saw several shirtless infantry soldiers, caked with dust, playing mahjong around a low table. They caught sight of us and stared in disbelief at the farang. After a few moments, one turned his head toward the hut and called out in Khmer. A man in a tan collared shirt with black lapels appeared in the doorway and continued staring before stepping out to meet us.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon. The officer informed us that the border would close at 5 pm, with the added caveat that he wouldn't have time to process all our passports today unless we paid an ‘additional fee.’ Of course. We expressed our disapproval and insisted he had enough time to stamp us through. "You are welcome to stay the night and wait for morning," he said in rough English, motioning with an open palm, as if ushering us to a nonexistent accommodation. We looked around at the lush yet uninhabitable surroundings. He was indifferent to our decision to cross at an unused border and was insistent on taking advantage of us. We were vulnerable; he knew it, and so did we. Reluctantly, we paid the ‘fee’—the tax of doing things differently. The officer processed us swiftly, allowing us to enter Cambodia to find some real lodgings for the night.

Borderline Behavior

Borders and the passports we use to cross them are interesting concepts. Many countries, such as Canada, have visa waivers and reciprocity agreements with other nations to facilitate easy access. However, as I've experienced, these aren’t always upheld, especially when crossing in unconventional ways. Nevertheless, the little blue book we clutched in our hands did its job. Perhaps ironically, the privilege of our Canadian passport also targeted us for extortion. But, the nature of holding a Canadian passport—being from a wealthy, developed nation—also ensured we could pay the ‘extra fee’ quite easily, even as budget backpackers.

While instances like these are frustrating, reflecting on them has broadened my perspective. They’ve allowed me to empathize with citizens of nations who are subjected to border hassles simply because the passport they hold originates from a country that the world deems different. Their presence at the border is viewed as unusual, and they are subjected to rigorous scrutiny as a result.

"This person is different. Prepare the gauntlet for the next contender!"
— me, quoting an imaginary border official

You are painted with a wide brush: "You are X, therefore you must do Y to enter our country.” We were easy targets. Vulnerable because we deviated from the norm. Once again, the difference came at a cost. No matter how you slice it, assumptions are made, prejudices projected, and narratives spun, often to the detriment of the passport holder.

Mislabeled in Mexico

Years later, I faced a similar challenge when moving from Canada to Belize. I wrote about it extensively in my piece On the Road in Mexico, so I don't want to rehash it too much here. The story describes my experience driving a shuttle bus loaded with belongings. I had flown to Belize with my wife and kids to get them settled, returned to Canada to tie up loose ends, and then drove the bus with my dogs and belongings south for the permanent move. I researched the trip extensively, and there is, and still is, a lot of information online about road trips in and through Mexico. It seemed commonplace and straightforward, until it wasn't.

What was supposed to be a smooth move turned into an epic transcontinental odyssey involving Mennonites, Spanish-speaking customs brokers, days of delays, bureaucratic hurdles, misclassification, and the revelation that cartels openly regulate the Mexican border (not to mention extortion by corrupt Mexican cops and a handful of close-call car accidents). I found myself in a world I never knew existed: one in which Mad Max would have felt right at home. All my research on a fairly regular road trip route failed to uncover the word' Transmigrante'. Even after conducting some ex post facto research and knowing what to Google, little information came up. But then again, it turned out that I wasn't the typical North American migrant transiting through Mexico.

While I held a Canadian passport, it failed to shield me from border officials labeling something I wasn't, which completely changed my travel plans, adding days, extra costs, and stress. Convention should have revealed that I was not what they claimed I was. However, I was doing something that the average Canadian never does, and it had unforeseen consequences. I'd be willing to bet that I was, and still am, the only Canadian Transmigrante.

When plastered with a label at a border, no matter how inaccurate it may be, you are left with only two choices.

Turn around and reevaluate your plan, or,

Accept the label, push forward, and play the game as an unwitting participant.

You must quickly learn the rules of a game you never knew you'd have to play. I chose the latter of the two as the former just wasn't an option.2

If you ever find yourself in a tricky situation, like I was, you’ll need determination and bold action to succeed. You’ll need patience and equanimity to move through the immigration gauntlet with improvised bureaucratic acrobatics. Your passport may help, defining the level of effort needed for success or indicating where along the line of obstacles you must start; some will begin closer to the finish line, while others will start discouragingly far from it. When deemed "other" at a border, stay open to the flow of events, follow your intuition, and recognize help when it comes, especially from unexpected places—it will go a long way in ensuring your atypical attempt to cross a border is successful.

Doing Things Differently

By no means am I a globetrotter, but I've traveled enough to learn that sometimes, it's not the passport that's scrutinized, it's the way you carry it. At borders, being different is a real red flag, justifiably or not. While my passport has often protected me, I've had just enough resistance to understand what it feels like to be filtered through suspicion; to be seen as "other" or mislabeled. Those moments were challenging, but they fostered a new perspective.

Despite some poignant moments, most of my travel experiences have been stress-free, thanks to my Canadian passport. However, I now understand that for many, this isn't the case. They must apply for numerous visas, deal with intense questioning, or worse, on a regular basis, and jump through increasingly smaller hoops just to enjoy the opportunities that are easily granted to others.

Yet, the privilege of owning a passport and thereby traveling, experiencing other cultures, and gaining life experiences abroad, even when challenging or frustrating, outweighs any downsides to doing things out of the ordinary. Ultimately, my passport allows me to travel authentically, which is a privilege I cherish deeply.

I still travel differently—two energetic boys ensure that! And while that difference has cost me, it’s also given me perspective.

Throughout my travels, I've gotten to glimpse the reverse side of the coin—and feel the other edge of the sword. I wouldn't trade those moments for anything. They've taught me that while my passport often opens doors, it's how I move through them that decides whether I'm welcomed… or watched.

If you enjoy my writing, you might also like Belize Foreigner Blog, the Lili Art Blog, or my award-receiving book Home in Good Hands. If you'd like to support this Substack and help me keep creating stories and essays about life abroad, consider subscribing, sharing, or making a small donation. And to those who already have—thank you. Your support means the world.