Writings By Date| Security, Please | 1 | 2 |
But we're not done yet, folks. At the gate, we were selected for another search of our carry-on bags. This guy was even slower, checking every single zipper, pouch, pocket, and baggie; even leafing through every single one of my tiny books. After the search was over, my bags were set aside with my ticket while I was wanded. Thank God I didn't have keys in my pocket, as it might have triggered a strip search.
Meanwhile, Erin and I were called back to the ticket desk again. (Ineptitude alert: they separated us from our luggage when we did this, because they wouldn't let us have our bags back until we boarded.) They were demanding to see our return tickets. We finally realized that this was why all the bells and whistles were ringing: we didn't have any. When we explained that we had none, they basically had no idea what to do. They had this look in their eye that said, "If you don't have a return ticket, then the computer tells me you must be a terrorist." It wasn't until person-in-charge-of-telling-people-to-go-get-searched said we were fine already, and go on board, and stop holding up everyone already.
A few hours later, we arrived in Cancun Airport in Mexico. Our baggage tags were glanced at, and "apparently" checked, but in fact they weren't (he checked them off backwards). The customs woman took our filled-out form without even making eye contact with us or the form, put it on a pile, and waved us on.
Welcome to Mexico, now get out of here and go spend some money.
Just to show that this wasn't a unique experience, I'd like to tack on a story about what happened right here in Chetumal, just last night. Our room was definitely at a "budget" motel, the "Hotel Ucum". (I swear I'm not making this name up. Go ahead and insert your own joke here.) The room looked as if it were part of a monastery, containing nothing but two beds with one sheet each, a desk and chair, and a bare bathroom that lacked even a shower curtain. We dropped our stuff and went to dinner, then came back to discover that the key wouldn't turn the lock enough to open the door. We went to the front desk (I'm amazed that Erin knew "el llave no turbajo!"), and Javier the fix-it man came to help. Sure enough, he couldn't open it either, making me feel a lot less like a dufus, but still leaving us out of our room.
Javier's solution was simple, yet ingenious in its own way: pry open the shutters on the window, slit open the screen with a pocket knife, then reach in and open it from the inside. Once inside, Javier said he'd come back to fix the screen, but after we lingered around for half an hour, we figured he must have meant another day. So this was it, for us. Why even have a key?
Of course, we had to cover this giant hole, which, for mosquitos, is like an entrance to an amusement park. So we Macgyver'ed it by stuffing it with toilet paper, and holding it in place with hospital tape.
Despite this laxness, we never had any problems in Mexico: no muggings, no room break-ins, and, as far as I can tell, no anthrax. Well, there were some gas-related issues, but I don't think we can attribute that to security. Don't let the stories fool you: it's just as safe a place as anywhere else. Let's just hope the terrorists don't figure this out. If they do, I say we start recommending they stay at the Hotel Ucum.
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