The world’s worst border crossings

Its name sounds like a kind of illuminated stairway to heaven—the Rainbow Bridge, which spans both the Niagara River and the U.S.-Canada border, is within almost splashing range of the endlessly famous waterfall that bubbles and roars at this particular dotted line over the bridge. map. It is worth crossing it from America to its neighbor to the north, because the view of Niagara Falls from the Canadian side is (usually considered) more impressive than from the opposite shore. However, our journey in this direction had a price. Stress levels over time and eventually money.

This, I should explain, was in the mid-2000s, in the still undigitized nebulous haze, when you still had to fill out a card form to enter the US and hand over the bottom part of the card upon exit. We had done so, as instructed, to a mailbox at the gate at the American end of the bridge and hopped on to Canada, where the welcome was clipped but friendly. This was not the case for the two US border officials who greeted us when we returned a few hours later.

Where were our exit cards? (The sign is in the mailbox at the door outside, as requested.)

Did we enter the USA illegally? (We didn’t. We landed at JFK, New York, a week ago at the date and time on this boarding pass stub. All of this will be recorded.)

Why are you coming to the USA today? (Except for the two hours we spent in Canada to continue a vacation – no less than a honeymoon – that would take place entirely in your country, to see the Falls from a different perspective. This is literally our rental car right there, except for the uninspiring hotel you can see from the window, inside we have everything .)

The last confession was a mistake. Mustachioed, chubby and sweaty despite the cool autumn day, these two knew they had us trapped between a waterfall and a hard place. There were frowns, mutterings, and movements towards the bench in the corner.

Other travelers soon joined us and a pattern became clear. Those who foolishly followed the ostensible rules and handed in proof of exit without evidence of doing so were harassed, interrogated, and eventually required to fill out an extra form to exit “properly” before re-entering. And there was a $10 fee. Cash only. No receipt.

We paid the money, crossed the border and got into the car, relieved to think that this “penalty” was a relatively insignificant amount – perhaps a heavy, infallible tendency towards vague and confusing regulations, or perhaps just a try for beer money. But to this day I can clearly remember the Officers’ (Redacted) and (Redacted) names and their mocking, piggy faces.

UK-Mexico

By Anthony Peregrine

It was my first trip across the Atlantic—decades ago—and I looked pretty cool: flares, tie-dye shirt, vintage blazer, and hair down to my back like Willie Nelson’s. Talk about a rebel. Was Mexico City ready for this?

In this case yes. Definitely. Quite a lot. Right at the airport. As I was going through the “Nothing to Declare” section, two customs officers called me over and pulled me aside and pushed me into the next room, just like they do to drug smugglers on TV. But I was clean. I was British. Don’t worry. Then the scissors came out and the younger of the two men started pulling my hair. Then he said something very serious. I couldn’t speak Spanish – part of the reason I was in Mexico was to fix that – but I didn’t need to.

The dark, well-dressed man made it clear that Mexican officials took a cold view of the long-haired yokels’ failure to respect internationally accepted Mexican standards of etiquette as they waltzed into their country. I was suddenly horrified. You really wouldn’t want to be in a bare side room with two Mexicans swinging big scissors. And without money.

By an extraordinary stroke of luck, the man who met me at the airport noticed that I was being pushed away from the mainstream. He was a Mexican citizen. He argued and moved towards the next room. He was extremely polite to the customs officials; He agreed that such stupidly long hair was indeed an insult to Mexican sensibilities, as he later explained. Can a few banknotes ease their pain? Yes, they can. Just this once.

We left. The next morning I was at the barbershop. I looked like a lawyer. I have no more difficulties with Mexican authorities. It never happened on my subsequent trips. These are extraordinary people and I’m sure they will prove it if I travel there again.

Mongolia-Russia

By Phoebe Smith