A Story About Cuba
Posted: February 24th, 2009 | Author: admin | Filed under: Life | Comments OffThis true story is about how I was nearly detained for “carrying explosives” while in Cuba.
My husband and I (and our son, and my mom and her husband) spent a week in Cuba on our honeymoon early last November, soaking up the sun at an all-inclusive resort. On our final day, we boarded the bus to the airport, paid the expensive airport fees and decided to do a little souvenir shopping at the duty free in the airport. We were browsing the aisles, picking up cheap rum, cigars and candy and I paid for it with my mastercard. As we were leaving the shop, a security officer came up to me and said, “Are you Gillian ****?” I said that I was, and he said, “Come with me please.”
I handed over our son to Clive, shrugged my shoulders as we exchanged confused looks and went with the officer. As we were walking, I asked him what it was about. He said, “Do you have a gun in your suitcase?” I laughed and said, “No!” and he said, “are you sure?” I laughed again and said that yes, I was sure there was no gun in my suitcase… why? He said that they’d found one and had to search through my suitcase with me present.
They brought me downstairs to where we went through the metal detectors, and Clive was able to look over a balcony and see what was going on. Security guards immediately surrounded me, two behind me, one on each side, and they brought out one of our suitcases and asked if it was mine. I said yes, and then realized that it was the one with all of Clive’s stuff in it.
I had no idea what Clive had in his suitcase that could be seen as a gun, but I was about to find out.
“Is there a gun in here?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“We saw a gun on the x-ray machine. And our dogs smelled explosives.”
“WHAT? Your dogs are wrong, there are definitely no explosives in that suitcase.”
“Can we search your suitcase?”
“Sure. There is no gun in there though.”
They slowly, slowly, slowly take out shirts, unfolding, refolding, pants, unfolding, refolding, underwear. A small tackle box full of fishing lures. They look at me, I tell them my husband likes to fish. They ask me to open the tackle box. They take out a tube of sunscreen, of all things, and examine it for a minute, put it back in, close it up, set it aside. A swimsuit. More pants. Shirts, unfold, refold. They find a pair of plyers. I tell them that it’s another tool for fishing. They find a large lure, and tell them it’s for bigger fish. They find a 12-inch fishing lure, I laugh and tell them that it’s for really, really big fish.
I’m seriously trying to not lose my shit. I remain calm and laugh-y the entire time. I think this is absurd. Clive doesn’t have a gun! What is going ON here? I’m still surrounded.
Then.
They lift out a belt. DING. DING. DING. DING.
Attached to the belt is a belt buckle, shaped like a gun.
They crowd around it. Try to pull its little non-working trigger. Look at the hollow back and look at me and talk amongst themselves. Try to pull its trigger again and again. I nervously laugh and tell them it’s just a belt buckle. I look up at Clive- oh- and the DOZEN OTHER PEOPLE who’ve gathered around to watch me be interrogated- and give him the dirtiest look I can muster up. He is in SO much trouble.
They continue removing all the contents of the suitcase until it’s empty and put it on the floor for another explosive-smelling dog. It slowly approaches the bag. It sniffs the handle, it moves around the bag, smelling it, it rips off the name and address tag that’s attached to the little elastic, and it lays down in front of it. No more explosives. They question me again, “Why did our dog smell explosives? Do you own a gun at home? Have you carried a gun? Where has this suitcase been?” I make the mistake of telling them we used it to go to the United States a few months ago. “AMERICA?” They seem appauled. I realize I’ve said a very, very bad word and have to reiterate: oh, no, no, it was just for business, and it was many, many months ago! I’m sorry for all of the trouble, I don’t know why my husband brought that particular belt buckle ON A PLANE INTERNATIONALLY. Let’s go grab a coffee and forget this never happened, ha? Ha?”
So, they repack his suitcase, continue to leer at me, and send me on my way. I spend the next hour giving Clive the silent treatment.
