Photo: wally g
dink: [di NG k] noun, slang. An irritating, comptemptable individual. Use: The customs officials that he encountered at Terminal Five were a bunch of dinks.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything crazy.” His eyes told me that he was speaking the truth but it was the white rubber gloves that were scaring me. I’ve never seen a TV show where the guy in the white gloves just gives you a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the ass.
Plus, I’d just been fingerprinted and was standing outside of Heathrow’s lockdown. I was much less concerned with where his fingers were headed and more worried about how I had ended up in the pokey.
I had come from Italy, where I’d taken a train all day, followed by a cheapo flight to the UK. About ten hours of travel. I had, as is custom, walked thirty-nine miles through Heathrow before arriving at the custom’s podium. I was exhausted, melancholy and quite ready to fall into the arms of my boyfriend, who was waiting for me in London.
“How long will you be here?” Oh, this crap. Couldn’t they read the neatly printed “7 days” in the box of the same question? I noticed that his fingernails were manicured, which struck me as bit metro for such a toughguy gig. He thumbed through my passport, which was nearly full of stamps and visas.
Photo: James Cridland
“What are you doing here?” I’m a tourist. “What will you do when you’re here?” I will go see Bruce Springsteen in Hyde Park, see a couple more concerts and visit with friends. “Who are your friends?”
I thought for a second about taking a philosophical approach and asking in return, “Yes, good point. Who are our friends?”
Instead I rattled off a few names, including Lewis’. I hoped that this gentleman wouldn’t ask me about how I’d met Lewis, a story that involves caipirinhas and a make out session on a picnic table in Chile.
“I see here that you’re a writer. What do you write?” I explained that I was a freelance travel writer. Officer Manicure asked if I did anything else, insinuating as everyone does that working in travel couldn’t possibly be a real job. I explained that I didn’t, that I was making my way around the world for a year.
He sucked air through his teeth and made his eyebrows go cross-eyed. “How much money do you have?” I told him about ten grand. That didn’t seem like enough, based on his reaction. He abandoned his podium, directed me to heel and led me to collect my bags.
Along the way he told me that there was probably no issue but the answers I’d given fit a profile, similar to one from people who might disappear into the country. I explained that I was not fond enough of kebabs and greasy chips to stay in the UK. He laughed and assured me that we’d have this settled in no time. “I’m really jealous of what you’re doing, this trip. I wish I could do it.” He had the miserable look of somebody who took holidays on the English seaside.
My bags were searched, specifically for anything that would indicate I’d come to England forever. The good officer told me that often they find cards from going-away parties. He found my Western Europe Lonely Planet. “This is good. I’ll be able to show them this and corroborate that you’re on the trip you claim to be on.” He confiscated all of my notebooks and my collection of receipts. “This is all good. It proves that you are who you say you are.” It was a strange place to have an identity crisis.
I also produced my onward ticket, a flight to Spain. He did the air-sucking thing again and explained that thirty quid flights didn’t stand as any kind of evidence for departure, since cheap flights could be abandoned. He lamented that there might be some issue with my not having a return flight to America, even though I had a ticket out of the country.
Photo: zerian
I spent the better part of the next three hours in an intimidating questioning room. Everything in the 10×10 room was nailed to the floor, making me imagine just what maniac had started swinging chairs and initiated that protocol. I could see the other rooms through glass, both with stressed-looking travelers being questioned for God Knows What. Manicure asked me about ten more questions, then asked if he could contact Lewis to corroborate my story. I agreed, hoping this would settle the entire thing.
My big problem came in the form of a change of the guard. At 7pm I was assigned a new officer because mine was going home. A strange, shaky man, Officer Anxious regretted to tell me that he’d have to start at the beginning and ask me every question. Good cop, nervous cop. He took notes on cheap, ruled paper. His hyper eyes darted between the page and my face. Much less forthcoming than Manicure, he dropped me back in the main customs area and hustled off.
He returned with pursed lips. He regretted to inform me that I had been denied entry to the United Kingdom. He explained that they had spoken to Lewis and found a discrepancy between our stories. Lewis, not really knowing how to explain my history with a band we were gong to see, simply told them that I used to work with them as their manager, which was the truth. Anxious seized upon this and deduced that I was here to work with this band, to “market and promote.”
I denied this over and over, yet I was branded a “doubtful entry” and a liar by the C.I.O (Chief Immigration Officer), which sealed my case. I was told that I should have immediately said I was in The UK to see a band that I formerly managed, straight when I walked into the custom’s area. Because I hadn’t, I had lied. The logic sounded dicey to me too.
I’ve since recreated the behind-the-scenes events that took place, mostly from pieces of information that airport staff would later slip me in hushed voices. It should be said that this is purely conjecture. First, it seems that the C.I.O. went off duty with Manicure. She didn’t feel like dealing with my issues and ordered me to be denied. When I complained to Nervous and asked to see a C.I.O., she was called at home because it was her case and then she really became pissed. “Not happy” is the British way of saying that.
I think, at that point, everyone was told to hang me up on absolutely anything they could. I’ve since learned that the folks at LHR can hang just about anyone up on something. There are just too many rules to pull from.
Eventually, I would hold paperwork that denied me entry because of my failure to indicate that I was working (completely untrue and never documented by anything I’d said), that my funds were insufficient (ten grand for one week) and that I didn’t have a ticket back to America (although I had one out of the country).
Photo: James Cridland
Something happened to Nervous after he delivered the news. He began stuttering when speaking and I noticed that his hands were shaking. I remember thinking that somebody who has a good case wouldn’t act like this.
It was here that I was searched and relieved of my possessions, including everything in my pockets but my phone. I was ushered into a room that contained thirty folding chairs, a TV and a ten foot stretch of bullet-proof glass, behind which I was observed by three officers packing heat. I was in jail.
Over the next eight hours, from 11pm to 7am, I would flip between utter despair and total anger. One security guard, a surprisingly nice man in his mid-fifties who had “seen it all, mate” told me to accept my fate, that he’d only seen three people get themselves out of this situation and they all knew somebody in government. He’d heard about my case and shook his head. He’d explain, after a few hours of conversation about how the whole process worked, that I was probably marked an “easy pull.” He wouldn’t admit that there were quotas to meet but he did tell me that I looked like the kind of guy they “like” to refuse. In other words, I wasn’t going to get physical or spit in anyone’s face.
I phoned an immigration attorney who was absolutely shocked that this happened, and suggested that I petition to see a C.I.O. I did and was denied. They sent Officer Anxious instead, who met me with a determined look. He’d clearly been put in a terrible situation and tried to get stern with me, which just made him shake more. “Lllllllllisten. Just accept it. You’re ggggggggggoing home.”
I wouldn’t accept it and asked to see all my paperwork. I asked them to strike several things that simply weren’t true (they did) but was unable to have stricken that I was in the UK to work with this band. Their interpretation was the hook they’d hung me on and it wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how untrue. Policy was in motion and they had the upper hand.
I was to fly at 8am and made one last appeal, this time with a morning shift officer who looked like Dusty Springfield. Officer Dusty came clean with one piece of new information. While speaking to Lewis, he’d also told him that we were going out. Although not something they were willing to put on my paperwork, it was something that they were holding against me.
Nobody had ever asked me about our relationship and it’s never been my policy to offer that I’m gay to complete strangers; there are just too many closet homophobes in the world. Plus, in my post-Italy dazed state, it never even occurred to me that it would matter. I’d been through Heathrow at least forty times before with not even a second glance.
“So let me get this straight. I was supposed to walk up to the podium and say that one of the reasons I’m here is to explore a relationship with another man?”
Dusty claimed that I should have offered this news at the first podium when asked who I was visiting. I said that I had, that I was seeing friends and listed Lewis’ name. “But he’s not just your ‘friend’.” I got angry. “So let me get this straight. I was supposed to walk up to the podium and say that one of the reasons I’m here is to explore a relationship with another man?” She didn’t answer. There was a reason that this was left off the paperwork. She repeated the company line. “Just accept it.”
At 8am I was ‘whisked’ through airport security by two guards. They had heard about my story, which was apparently making the rounds. One of the guards told me that my case wasn’t uncommon and his partner coughed up a more surprising comment. “If I were you, I’d be kicking and screaming right now.”
In perhaps the most embarrassing moment of my life, I was brought onto the plane in advance of all other passengers by security. My passport was handed to the head flight attendant, who was not allowed to give it to me until we landed. All of the other passengers pointed and whispered at me as they filed onto the plane, imagining what I’d done that could have landed me in this situation. Up until this point, I’d never so much as had a detention, let alone any kind of police escort.
I landed at JFK and sailed through customs. Two days later I’d booked a flight to Spain to rejoin my trip, at the cost of $1,400. I attempted to see somebody at the British Embassy in New York to discuss my case, only to be told that the embassy does not see anyone about visa matters.
Photo: Hyougushi
It was suggested that I get a lawyer who could figure out how to cut through the red tape of an appeal. I had a letter from the band’s manager saying that I wasn’t there to work and a lot of questions to ask someone but I couldn’t afford to ask them – a lawyer was beyond my reach, especially after eating over a grand for new flights.
It turns out that I didn’t need a lawyer. Two months later I went back to the United Kingdom, this time through Edinburgh. I was prepared with every kind of evidence that I needed to prove that I was there to visit and attend the Fringe Festival and see Lewis, who I immediately offered was indeed my boyfriend, which made the older Customs Official blush a bit.
Although he did pull me out of line, he was polite, efficient and reasonable. I was an emotional wreck and he helped make me feel like a human again, just by his demeanor and the way he asked the questions. He asked to see my exit flight and bank statement, which contained less money than it had last time.
His eyebrows raised when he came upon my crossed out passport stamp from London. “Oh, Terminal Five.”, as if to say that it all made sense now. He then stamped my passport and welcomed me to the United Kingdom.
I think he knew about the dinks too.
Author’s note: I considered writing this under a pseudonym but decided against it. If you’d like to hear what happens on my next trip through Heathrow or if I find any resolution with my case, simply follow my Tweets.
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35 Comments... join the discussion!
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Wow that is just amazingly absurd, but not surprising considering the logic of British customs officials. I got a lot of suspicious looks and questions from them when I was living in England as well, even though I HAD an actual work visa. One officer threatened to deny me entry but once I started crying he just told me to go (English people seem to really hate crying).
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Just ridiculous… I am shocked that you were treated like that by the immigration officers at Terminal 5 at Heathrow.
I run a London blog (The London Insider) with quite a good following, and you can be sure I will be publicizing your case as much as I can to highlight the often hapless plight of thousands of innocent travelers just like yourself.
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What the….this is insane, Tom. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.
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Great article! Gotta love Heathrow. I experienced some issues with them when I had to catch a connecting flight to Edinburgh. They were not very helpful and had the “bloody American” look on their faces!
I hope you enjoyed the Fringe Festival. I went in 2007 and will be going back. It was a lot of fun and I sailed through Edinburgh without any problems. Everyone was very helpful…
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Oops! I almost forgot, I was “padded down” when I was leaving Edinburgh because I set off the alarm. I took off the usual items, i.e., belt, earrings, etc…but I forgot to take off my ring. Very sensitive system.
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Brutal, Tom. I’d heard the short version before, but it was sort of morbidly fascinating to read all the details leading up to your grand exit.
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Ouch, that does blow. From this, and my wife’s story, it seems that putting ‘writer’ or anything similarly freelance and unreliable, is not a good idea when coming to England. She was nearly denied entry as well, but thankfully wasn’t in the end.
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thanks for the story! any time a traveler reads this kind of thing i think it prepares them for the many things that can happen on the road, especially if it’s never happened to them before and they wouldn’t have been expecting it.
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Same. So nice to get the full story, and in such engaging prose.
I take it you were never able to recoup the $1,400?
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Dinks indeed. Really sucks that you had to stand all that.
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This is unacceptable. Living in the UK is becoming the more and more difficult: with the excuse of “security reasons” they ignore people’s rights with no problem. “Just accept it” is becoming the British way, even if something makes no sense at all they settle issues with their philosophical “just accept it”. No wonder why people are becoming more aggressive.
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This is my favorite thing that you have written so far. But I’m a sucker for well versed mis-fortune.
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Wow, Tom. I’m so glad you posted this. I consider myself an incredibly easy-going and passive traveler. But I do worry about this very thing sometimes. Especially after watching way too many episodes of “locked up abroad” I’m starting to take travel documentation a little more seriously. I’m glad that you got back safe and will definitely continue to follow your travels. Best of luck and don’t let the man get you down!
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This is utterly ridiculous and immensely typical of Heathrow/England Airports. I’ve had troubles in their airports, but you definitely hit an all time low with this adventure. Hilarious too.
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Shocking treatment but I don’t think it’s isolated to the UK and certainly can be typical of other airports. I’m a UK citizen, living as a permanent resident in the US and I always get hassled, whenever coming back to the US (and also Canada) – once even being accused of marrying my US wife, just so I could gain residency! I think a large part of it depends on whether the immigration officer dislikes the country you come from, as I’ve twice been greeted warmly after they had made a point of saying they loved England.
I’m pretty amazed they just didn’t forward you on to your next country, instead of sending you all the way back home but it’s great that you managed to get back on the road again.
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Mike – this is an important point. I am hearing just as many horror stories from Brits coming to the US. It’s almost like it’s reciprocal venom. I heard stories about folks from Scotland, after the Lockerbie guy was released, that just plain freak me out. Getting even with another country politically through its people, who have come to spend money at your theme parks and Hard Rock Cafe’s? Not smart.
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Geez Tom quit being such a gol darn threat to national security!
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Man, I´ve heard some Heathrow horror stories, but this is the worst. At least you can take some small solace in the revenge of an excellent piece of writing.
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A horrible experience, but a great story to read sitting here at my desk. Told with a calm tension that had me captivated till that brilliant ending with “Oh, Terminal Five.” I really did LOL. Sorry you had to go through it all, but thanks for writing about it. I was hassled once at Heathrow, but just at the podium. I had no idea at all I could have been denied access.
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Captivating writing, but horrible, crazy situation! Wow. I’ve always worried about something like that happening, especially when I was, indeed, living illegally abroad in the Netherlands. Thanks for writing this!
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Woh. I’m all worked up now (and not in a good way). That makes my blood boil! I can just imagine the frustration you must have been feeling. That sounds traumatizing, being treated like a criminal, this is so wrong on so many levels.
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Wow I can’t believe they can just do that to you. What jerks…
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the horror! i hate big airports. though none of my experiences come close to what you had to go through. three cheers on not quitting on the UK and for writing this out!
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I try to avoid Heathrow since being frisked there in 1989.
That was a great read though…thanks very much (for writing it, not having to go through it).
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Wow. This got my blood boiling.
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I am absolutely disgusted that this happened to you in the UK. I’ve recently blogged about homophobia in South America. Because I live in a left wing fantasy bubble, I think that everyone else thinks like I do. This and the article in the Daily Mail last Friday is proof that they don’t.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/oct/16/stephen-gately-jan-moir http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2009/oct/19/jan-moir-complain-stephen-gately
(I’m not posting the link to the actual article – the Daily Mail don’t deserve your hits)
Since 9/11 and the onslaught of evil Ryanair, air travel in and out of the UK is utterly joyless. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve had to run across Stanstead terminal in my socks with my jeans falling down (no belts, no shoes) because I’ve been delayed at security by girls being deprived of their threatening make-up or mums of their dangerous looking baby formula.
Oh and by the way, it’s common knowledge that the further north you go, the friendly the people get. Edinburgh was a good choice.
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I had issues getting into America all because the people I was going to stay with I’d only met once before and only knew them before that online. They wouldn’t let me in until they’d spoken to either of my friends in the country, both of which were at work when I landed at 9am and I didn’t have work numbers for them. I missed a connecting flight because of it which Immigration refused to refund stating that I should have left enough time between flights in case of these kind of incidents!
The worst treatment I’ve had is by Customs officials. I ended up in a white paper boiler suit, five minutes away from a strip search after having spent almost nine hours in a room with a desk and nasty chair, when they finally gave in and I was allowed to go home.
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man, the whole case of the purloined pecans really pales in comparison to this. I don’t think Chile keeps people out, or at least not like this, or at least not that I’ve heard of.
This was terrible, though a fascinating read.
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Wow. To see that kind of situation arise in a country like the U.K is just unbelievable to me. I remember the customs people in England being a little on the strict side but this takes it to a whole new level. I would have expected it from an airport that isn’t used to seeing a lot of tourists but not from an airport like Heathrow.
Apparently cheap airlines are more and more mainstream but we should avoid them at all costs! But then again, I had my passport stolen in New Zealand and the flight from Sydney to Los Angeles wasn’t proof enough that I needed an emergency replacement, I had to prove that I needed to leave New Zealand first (catching a plane in Australia seemed like proof enough to me?)
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I’ve been to the UK three times, and I have absolutely nothing good to say about their customs. They’re twice as suspicious than the US and half as competent.
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To clarify, I mean “customs” as in “airport security”, not as in “habits”.
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Reading you post has taken a huge weight off. I had a similar experience a few months ago. I am so pleased that you got to back. God bless the Scottish!
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What an experience. Sorry that happened. I’ve never really been through anything close to that, and I’m an Indian guy who’s had to get visas for almost every country, so I think that pre-clearance makes things easier at airports. But, immigration (passport control- different from customs) is tough in a lot of places, including the US and mainland-Europe. Apart from a scary night-train ride from Slovenia (EU) into Croatia (non-EU) and into Hungary (EU again), I have no real problems with passport control. I’m used to carrying ample documentation with me, and I’ve got used to giving full, straightforward answers to questions, though I don’t go out of my way to provide EVERY little detail. Maybe I should, especially since I’ll be a US citizen soon and won’t need visas as often (YAY!). I also try to dress like I’m no trouble, and present a pleasant face to the the officer. I’m glad I’ve had practice at this, and, though your experience must have been horrendous, I’m sure you’ll be fine from now on. Good luck, and, by the way, great writing.
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Oh, and for added practice, try to catch Homeland Security USA, which is a show that aired on ABC until it was canceled. It was based on the Australian show Border Security. They both give you the perspective of a border guards, immigration enforcement agents, customs agents and post-sorting centers. It gives you an idea of what they look for, how they consider cases, etc. Fascinating insight.
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