sabasabas

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My first name is on the Homeland Security watch list. Apparently “Saba” is a common Middle Eastern name for activists of both genders whose pastimes include making IEDs from cell phone parts and tennis shoes. I have grown accustomed to being pulled out of line and “wanded,” have grown used to watching the contents of my purses and backpacks spread out and examined by latex-gloved security personnel, and do not bat an eye when I am pulled out of line for a body scan. I cooperate fully, of course, and stopped whining long ago. Before 9/11, however, I still attracted the scrutiny of border guards everywhere. The first embarrassing incident I recall occurred on a train as I was returning to Aviano, Italy from Slovenia. My best friend who worked in Aviano at the time had less vacation than I had, so I had taken a train to Slovenia alone. I spent a couple of days in Lubjana, the capital, enjoying the city ambience. I remember how the Slovak youth appeared to embrace all things American heavy metal. They sported Iron Maiden T-shirts and proudly wore spiked dog collars and Doc Martens. They seemed pale and rebellious. Banksy-like graffiti, monkeys carrying bombs and Che Guevara faces, decorated downtown public spaces. I am embarrassed by the poor quality and narrow message of most city graffiti in Tucson. From Lubjana, I took a bus to Bled, hotspot for Alpine mountain climbing and hiking. My climbing buddy was named Igor, and while his teeth made most Brits look like poster children for impeccable dental hygiene he had cannonball calves and was an enthusiastic Alpine guide. Sunburned and sleepy, I boarded the train back to Venice on a Sunday morning. I sat next to a young Italian from Capri who insisted on teaching me the language. When we reached the Italian border, the train stopped and several serious-looking Italian customs officials boarded. We all dutifully handed over our passports, and I awaited what I figured would be a few questions about some of my visas. I had already learned that officials did not like my Algerian visa or any of the African stamps I had acquired while driving the Paris-Dakkar route across the Sahara in a VW-combie van. “Why were you in Africa?” they always asked. “To experience the pleasure of digging out of sand traps a hundred times in blistering heat while being sandblasted during a windstorm,” always sounded suspicious. One of the officials indicated that he wanted to check my bag. He placed my scarred and weathered Dana pack in the aisle and opened it in front of all the other passengers, who looked on with what I took for disdain. The search would delay the train’s arrival. At the tourist office in Lubjana, large bowls full of multicolored condoms had been displayed and offered for free. I had been fascinated by the colorful variety and cyrhillic labels and had put a large handful in my bag to give to my friends back home. The official seemed impressed by the sheer quantity of condoms and the young Italian’s eyebrows shot up in amazement. Out came my a large bottle of sunscreen. The official was acutely interested in this and held it up as if it were a grenade. Apparently it was contraband of some sort. He emptied the bottle outside of the train. After setting a stack of underwear and books on the empty seat in front of us, he let me re-pack. If I were able to blush, I would have done so at that time.
On the train from La Paz to Arica, Chile, my two travel companions were targeted. I must have been in the bathroom when they were taken away, because I simply noticed that they had not returned from the club car as the afternoon waned. A flock of British schoolgirls were sitting in the same car. “Have you seen the two American men?” I asked. One, a horsey-faced teen with violent acne, said “The police took them. I saw them escorted from the club car.” I grabbed my pack and found the little Santa statue I had bought in a street market in La Paz. He was about a foot tall, cheap and made of clay. Over his shoulder he carried a burlap sack full of dried coca leaves which the Bolivians chew constantly. I did not know the restrictions for entering Chile, but quickly threw the little sack out the window of the train. We were passing through the moonscape of the Atacama, and the police had seized my boyfriend and John. I zipped my bag walked toward the front of the train, balancing carefully as we rounded a long curve. I passed through the club car. They had to be on the train somewhere. Finally, I reached a door that did not open automatically and which had no window. I knocked. A young man in a gray police uniform came out. When he opened the door, I saw John and David sitting at a long table with other policemen. “Que occure?” I asked. “Mi novio y mi amigo no regressan, y soy preocupo.” The official teetered and swayed with the movement of the train. His eyes were bloodshot as he ushered me into what appeared to be an interrogation car. It was then that I noticed a half-empty bottle of Pisco in the middle of the table. Everyone was drinking. David and John, while obviously worried for their safety, were also partially inebriated. They had lost what little Spanish they had, and were happy to have me there to translate. The officials spoke no English, and David told me that they had been pulled aside in the club car and brought here for questioning. John told me that he had secretly turned on the video camera as he had taken it out of his bag and placed it on the table. Later, we enjoyed the shaky movie of the Chilean police threatening to beat John’s feet with a cane. The police made me a drink and I smiled and tried to pretend that I was comfortable in this situation. The drunken police held us there, pouring drink after drink, until we reached the seaside town of Arica. I had simply smiled and laughed when they asked me to dance for them, “Salud!” a toast to the gringa. I wanted to tell them what disgusting chauvinist pigs they were and how much I pitied their unfortunate wives, but I forced my face into its most endearing dumb blonde expression, a cross between a Paris Hilton pout and a Marilyn Monroe smile. Playing dumb is often smart, I had learned.