Airport Security Fun

Airport Security Fun
May 25, 2009 By Andrea Hunt , eChinacities.com

In recent years, airport security has been more rigid then ever. For our own safety, airport security asks us to submit to the most invasive of procedures and the tightest of rules. We willingly take off our shoes, let them throw away our toothbrushes and deodorant, and measure our hand cream bottles while disposing of our tweezers. We "shoelessly” shuffle on floors sweaty with foot grime and sock fuzzies while hurriedly removing our laptops from their cases and placing them in separate bins face up. They purposely make you carry around 7 trays for yourself.

Many countries have implemented these security measures but with some sense of logic I feel is sometimes lacking when I see little old ladies protesting when the drug-sniffing dogs are chewing away at their knitting needles. Personally, I have had security digging through my makeup bag scrutinizing a tube of mascara and separately bagging my eyeliner and lipstick and running it through the x-ray machine another 8 times before smelling and tasting the mascara. Ok, that last part was a bit exaggerated, but you get the point.

passport check
Photo: glenmcbethlaw

Similarly, in Beijing during the Olympics I attended a basketball game in which I was forced to either try on all 4 lipsticks or throw them away. I can imagine the guards later sitting around poised in the Chinese squat-squat position over a bowl of noodles snickering and marveling about how they made the "lao-wai” mix red, purple, maroon, and pink lipstick simply to abuse authority. Having said that, despite their best efforts to thwart my "terroristic efforts” using a mere tube of lipstick, they did not confiscate the 4 lighters I had unconcealed in my purse.

Now for some reason, as an American, I am most harassed in my own country. I don’t personally feel that I look like a terrorist or even vaguely offensive; in my mind I feel I appear pretty harmless, but the forces of Uncle Sam do not agree. I have been treated with more respect in China, which most people would consider to be a government controlled security stronghold. Sure, in China there are more guards. They are everywhere, in front of every building, at every supermarket, walking down the street. But I always feel safe; I don’t feel like they are harassing me.

In China, at the airport desk for immigration, they don’t even talk to me, they look through my passport flipping through the pages and pages of expired visas, take my picture and stamp it, while I have the opportunity to rate their performance with a number "5” smiley-faced key to express my extreme satisfaction with their help.

In the USA, as soon as I get off the plane, we are all greeted with a warm, "Welcome to America, welcome to America, wel-hey! YOU! Right THIS way please. ” I usually swing my head in a U circuited motion to one side in defeat thinking to myself, not again, how many times can this happen? They tear through my backpack, which is not carefully packed but more strategically arranged so that it all fits. It resembles an intestinal arrangement of twisted and rolled clothes all layered and ready unravel all over the table the second one item is removed.

airport security
Photo: six million dollar dan

On one occasion, while returning from Mexico to England with a stop in St Louis, the man rummaged through all of my clothes and found a wooden painted Mexican Aztec mask I had gotten for my birthday. Holding it up testingly, he questioned me, "And WHAT is this?” he inquired, sure that he had caught me for something

I blinked twice, puzzled. "A mask?” I said.

 

He cocked his head to one side and continued, "Oh reallyyy? What are you planning to do with it?”

I blinked twice again. "Um, put it on my wall?” I offered. (What does he think I’m going to do with it? Prance around naked in my living room performing Santeria rituals and maybe sacrifice my pet parakeet?)

mask
Photo: RachelH

He looked at the mask, then at me and said, "Ok. So you said that you got this for your birthday eh? When was that?” he said as he fondled my passport searching for this key piece of data.

"February 18, 1978,” I offered, as he scrutinized the date in the passport hoping to find an inconsistency. It doesn’t take a genius to realize that I wouldn’t lie in this situation. What was I going to say? "Um, June 20” so he could rear up in a big "A-HA! Gotcha!” then mercilessly handcuff me and drag me away?

After realizing that everything checked out, I was allowed to leave 45 minutes later; it took me another 20 to smash everything back into my backpack. Luckily, I still had another 10 hours of my layover to go…

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