Dear Travel-related People, It's Not You...It's Me

Making my way from Jamaica, as I approached the security checkpoint, I removed all items from my person that'd likely set off the alert. Holding my passport, I made my way through the arc. No beep. I started eyeing the belt that held my laptop and hand bag. Next thing I knew, the security officer was telling me to "step this way" and immediately proceeded to start patting me down. No heads-up. I protested. "The machine didn't go off!" I said. "We can still pat you down," she said. As her hands made their way over my body, it took every thing in me not to slap them away from me. I was incensed! I had done everything I was required to do to prevent such a thing from happening, and it happened anyway. As she continued to pat, involuntarily, I backed away. I have traveled many times by air. I have never been pat down by hand before. The one or two other times were by wand. I could not get away fast enough. If there's no beep, one is allowed to proceed, isn't one? Somehow, I was of the impression that that was a standard rule that applied at all airports. Not so at the Norman Manley International Airport. Apparently.

Making my way from Toronto, as I approached the security checkpoint, I removed all items from my person that'd likely set off the alert. Holding my passport, I made my way through the arc. No beep. I started eyeing the belt that held my laptop and handbag. I approached the belt unhindered.
"Is this your bag?" The security officer on the other side of the belt enquired.
"Yes, it is," I replied, stiffening.
"I'm gonna take a look at what's inside," she said, half to me and half to the other security woman seated at the x-ray machine.
"Ok."
She proceeded, with gloved hands, to shift items and remove items and walk back to the x-ray officer then back to the bag then back to the x-ray woman asking her something or the other about the pack of Clearasil face wipes she'd happily discovered. X-ray woman must've told her they were okay. She came back to the bag, and dug and searched.
"What are you looking for?" I'd had enough.
"...", as she proceeded to dig.
"What are you looking for?" I asked again.
"...", face down ignoring me.
"Are you not obligated to respond?"
"I'm just looking for something." She looked up, while digging.
I shook my head and picked up my purse from the bag.
"Ma'am, please calm down," she said.
"I'm simply removing my purse with my very valuable items, ID and such," I replied.
She proceeded to search for God He knows what. Just because she could. Apparently. A few seconds later, she was done.
"Thank you for your patience," she said.
It was better to remain silent, so I did. I retrieved my bag and left the area.

Making my way to customs in Jamaica, I held my bag of left-over lunch and fruits (cherries). I had indicated on the customs form that I had fruits. The customs officer asked what they were. I told her. She said to "put them in the bin over there." On my way to the bin, I dropped the bag and stepped on it. Then, I put the bag in the bin. In under 5 seconds, she was about 6 inches from my face yelling and asking why I did that. I didn't flinch, nor was I offended by her animated and aggressive approach. I was dealing with Jamaica's customs officers and I expected no less - truth be told. In rapid succession, she asked why I did it. In rapid succession, I started to reply. Finally, as we were both not getting anywhere, I said, "If you will allow me to reply, I will let you know." She took a deep breath, held her hands together below her very pregnant tummy and said, "Okay, go ahead."
"If the fruits aren't good enough to enter the country, then they simply aren't edible," I told her.
By then, about three or four other customs officers had come around. One of them kept asking me the same thing. I told her the same thing. She asked again. I told her the same thing. Again. Not sure whether she was expecting me to tell her something else; something she wanted to hear. She called me rude. That was...telling. They took it as an affront. Apparently. I wonder why. (I don't, actually.)

While paying the JMD$10,000 fine (I had stepped outside to get the funds from my dad. I had CAD funds, but the thought of changing them at the dismal exchange rate at the cambio right there, pained me. Side note: I later handed my dad the funds in repayment. He said to keep it. Bless his heart.) I heard one person in line at the cashier saying how he was charged for his laptop. A friend of his had bought him one on sale a month ago. The customs officers decided it was new. He paid JMD$6,000. As he shook his head in dismay, he ended his story, "Is alright. Next time mi know wha mi a go do." That was...telling.

I paid the fine for breaching S.198(4) of the Customs Act. I had destroyed the item to prevent seizure by a customs officer or stte. The officer had originally written $5,000, but her supervisor said to change it to $10,000. I possess no qualms about facing the consequences of my actions. It's a personal philosophy. I realized...figured, rather, that if I proceeded to ask them to define seizure and prevent and destroy, I would likely have another $5,000 or $10,000 slapped on as a "mouthing off" charge. Because they could. Also, depending on the nature of the breach (I s'pose) one could be fined up to $100,000. (And  the whole thing had already taken about 45 minutes. Because they could.) I let it be.

Just before handing my passport back to me, the customs officer decided to explain the procedure for acquiring a permit to bring fruits into the country. I asked whether that would mean I would not be charged a fee if the inspecting officer decided the fruits were okay. She assured me that's what it meant. I quickly imagined that my definition of okay might very well differ. Plus, I'd only bother to go that route simply to test that theory. I said none of this. I did tell her that the rationale for the "breach" was something we disagreed on. I shrugged, closing the door to further conversation. My people had long been waiting outside. We said our goodbyes and I took my passport and left.

It took several days but I finally put my finger on what really bothered me about that customs episode. Comments from friends and family with whom I cared to share it, telling me good on me because seizure usually resulted in them taking the items for themselves, didn't make me feel better. The certainty that others who hear it at some point will say I was mean, won't make me feel worse. The thing? It becomes a major challenge for me to accept going along with what is required, when what is required makes absolutely no sense to me. That was the button that pushed me. I eventually assured myself that everyone has their button. After all, I'm only human.

"Human. It's been a while since anyone's called me that." - Monk

Between the impositions and intrusions and a host of things up with which I don't want to put during cross-border travel, I'm seriously considering staying put for a while. Canada is a big country. I should get out more and see more of it.

(Oh, btw, this post was due on the 18th. Sorry. I...I was way too tired to write yesterday. Thanks for reading!)



Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

The Sound and the Fury: Fireworks!!!

For years, sis (@MizDurie), has been inviting me to behold the spectacle that is the Toronto fireworks show at Ashbridge's Bay. Years. This year she tried again. This year, I agreed. I decided to see what the fuss was about.

I get it now.

Credit for all photos: @MizDurie

Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

What's Your Story: Gordie

I met Gordie. He was seated in his wheelchair at the bottom of the escalator. I had just alighted at Dundas subway station from the train heading north. Amidst the throng of people walking through the adjoining level to the Atrium, I saw him perched under the direction signs. He called out to no one in particular - it seemed to me - for "spare change for a coffee." The handle of my lunch bag was perched in the crook of my left elbow, so I made the universal sign for "I got nothin'," with my right hand. And I kept walking. It was Monday morning - the last Monday in December 2014. I wanted to wrap up the year with super early arrivals at work.

I made it about four or five steps away then did the U-turn thing that Torontonians recognize and appreciate. Because, in Toronto, one simply does not stop in one's tracks to turn and head in the opposite direction. The rule is to make a quick glance in the direction of your intended turn - while you keep walking - then, when the pedestrian traffic allows, pull a U-turn and safely blend in the pedestrian flow from the opposite direction. Trust me. After a few attempts, it's like second nature. And, while I'm up, the escalator rule is: Stand Right; Walk Left. And, and, the door rule is: Relieve the other person holding the door open for you (assuming they do) AND hold the door open for the person behind you. Don't worry. If it's longer than two seconds, you can let go - guilt free. There, there. You'll thank me later.

So, the U-turn. I made the safe turn and went back to stand in front of him. I said hi, and asked him whether he wanted me to buy him a cup of coffee. He thanked me profusely. That's so nice of you; I really appreciate it, and so on. I'm not a coffee drinker. Tried it one afternoon several years ago and I did not sleep that night. The fact that I had the beverage at about 2:30, and not being accustomed to it, might have had something to do with that. I do like the scent and taste, though, so I go with decaff once in a while. Where was I going with this? Yeah, I made sure to ask him how he wanted it. Triple. Triple. Medium or large? Large, please. Okay. I'll be right back. Thanks again. That's so kind. I assured him I'd be back. (Not in Schwarzenegger's voice.)

I took the nearby Up escalator, hurried through the two sets of glass doors, then joined one of the three queues at the Tim Horton's in the Atrium. My line was long, and the guy at the front didn't seem to be sure of what he wanted. That happens. Then, a voice to my left called out, "I can help you over here!" He'd just opened his station. I scurried over, "Thank youuuu!" He smiled. I ordered the large triple triple. In a jiffy, I was back through the two sets of glass doors, down the steps (no Down escalator) and across the floor back to Gordie.

As soon as he spotted me, he started thanking me again. I handed him the coffee and assured him it was no problem at all. Then, I did something out of the ordinary. As the crowds passed us by, I sat on the bench next to his wheelchair. I asked him how long he'd been sitting there. He said he'd been there a while. I then said, "You know, I know people don't choose this. Do you care to share what happened?"

He had been working as a contractor with an energy provider and, one day, he fell off a scaffold. Hospital stay, specialized care and loss of income took their toll. In three short years, his common-law wife left, and he lost his home. He's now on Ontario Works (financial assistance). "That's just enough to pay the rent for the rats' nest," he said. He has applied for ODSP - Ontario Disability Support Program - and is waiting to hear back. He told me there were so many times he used to sit and simply feel angry or sad, and that he's also battled depression. "But, you know what I thought of?" He asked, stroking his beard, not expecting a response. "I remembered that poem," he said. He started, "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can..." I nodded. He paused, "There's a third bit." I helped him out, "And wisdom to know the difference," I said. He joined me at "...to know the difference."

We talked for a little while longer. I was gonna be super early for work, but, by this time, I was now gonna be right on time. He told me a story about a homeless person who, clad only in a shirt and pants, found little comfort sleeping on a sidewalk grill years ago. It wasn't the dead of winter, but it was cold. Pretty soon, some people from one of the homeless shelters pulled over, helped him up and took him in. It doesn't happen like that a lot, he explained. I listened as he made the point. "People just walk on by when they see people on the street. People don't care. How do you get people to care?"

I didn't have an answer. I told him I don't know. I paused.
"Maybe one way is to help people become aware?" I asked. I told him I'd like to write about what he told me.
"To try to educate people, you mean?"
I nodded, "Yeah."
"Yeah, people need to know that something like this can happen to anybody," he said.

I stood as I told him it was nice talking with him. He said thanks for taking the time to chat, I must be busy, and so on. I pulled off my right glove and we shook hands.
"You have a strong handshake," he said.
"Yeah. I know. I got it from my dad," I smiled. It's my go to reply when people say that.

Earlier this week, January 6, it was reported that a homeless man was found dead after a bitterly cold night in Toronto. He was found, without vital signs, at Yonge & Dundas, clad only in a T-shirt and jeans. As a result of the Artic Air Mass that descended in this neck o' the woods, temperatures have been hitting -18C and lower, but feel like -27C and lower, because of the wind chill. My mind ran on Gordie. Early reports had said the man was in his late 40s. Gordie had looked older. Later reports said "in his 50s" and "55 years old." On second and third thoughts, I don't think it was Gordie. No mention of a wheelchair, and, even though it's a "rats' nest" he has somewhere to go. Still no word on the identity of the man they found at Yonge & Dundas. He was one of two homeless people found dead this week in the bitter cold.

Life. How it goes - and how it goes on.

May your 2015 be a good one.



Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro

Ja Blog Day 2013: Police & Security Force Abuses

Cananapo!

I had not planned on writing a post for Jamaica Blog Day. My blog is dedicated to the 8ths of the month. But, one and two times in the early years, I’d missed and posted on the 19^th. So, I imagine, an extraordinary post on the 23^rd won’t kill me.

Speaking of killing. That's what the first annual Jamaica Blog Day is doing – speaking of unlawful and unnecessary use of force and unlawful killings by members of the security forces in Jamaica. (By the way, would a change in name, to, say, Jamaica Police Service, help any? (Nuh badda cue the JPS jokes now.) Could that help to drive home the idea to many new enlistees what the membership should be about. Thoughts?)

I have never been abused by a member of the security forces in Jamaica. I don’t feel special about that. It just is what it is. I am, however, thankful. Folks can always talk about what and what they would or wouldn’t do if they ever found themselves in this or that situation. Monday morning quarterbacks and veranda commentators abound. All I know is that, based on the record of killings and instances of abuse committed by some members of the force, I am thankful not to have had that experience. I can hear somebody saying, “Knock on wood” or, “Don’t talk too soon.” Mi nah knock pon nuh wood.

In a conversation with sis @MizDurie, (her #JaBlogDay post here), I mentioned that the incessant focus and messaging that Jamaicans for Justice (JFJ) has maintained on this issue has likely reached the point of "noise". Y’know? As children we used to call it “static” when JBC used to sign off and so-so rice grain come on the screen? Kinda like that.  It’s present but, to a large extent, the volume isn’t deafening anymore. And, to an extent, we have tuned out. The occurrences are no less abhorrent, but, for myriad reasons, our attention span has significantly declined. That’s why I think this thrust via social media – blogs - and the extended arm of Twitter – is a timely one. It’s not an aleatory twist that the movement has been birthed on Labour Day.

Living away from Jamaica – residing in the US and in Canada – has inevitably helped shaped my perspectives on a number of things. There was a particular notion that I struggled with for a while. And, it was frustrating to no end as I could not put what I was feeling into the appropriate words. Ever get that? One day, as I read a comment on an article, it helped. Before I get to that, though, let me share this piece first.

A few years ago, I was walking along Bay Street downtown Toronto one morning on my way to work. I heard a man at the top of his lungs saying words that I couldn’t quite then make out. As I got closer, I noticed he had a placard hung around his neck as he paced the walkway along City Hall. His words became clearer and clearer: “Write to your MPPs! The only way these things will change is if they legislate! Legislate! Legislate!” Now, Queen Park/Legislative Assembly is a few blocks up the road. But, I figured that he probably hadn’t secured permission to carry out his action on the grounds of QP.  Can I tell you? When I heard the man’s cries, as Miss Lou sang, “water come a mi eye.” I felt a pang of longing for the advancement of Jamaica that I had never felt before.  For, why on earth could Jamaica not be like this?!  Why did many people have to, or feel that they have to, resort to crass-like behaviour, jumping up and down on TV, just to get their points across to MPs for whatever the problem – road, water, tax…? The answer came. Education.  And, self-respect. If ours was an educated society, we would know that we should expect better from those in public office; demand more when they carry out mediocre work; hold them accountable and demand answers when they fail to carry out their obligations. We’re not expecting miracle workers in public office. We should expect them to put Jamaica – and not their party, nor themselves – first.  And, because we’d have a thinking, and self-respecting, society, they wouldn't dare expect that they would be ushered back into office come election time.

But, our politicians, and those who somehow benefit from the illiteracy of “the voting masses” would rather not have that, you see. I am convinced of that. Why would they want to change the status quo when it would likely mean that they’d be ushered out of power quick o’clock? So, in lieu of long term and far-reaching help – to educate and empower communities – it’s a concrete wall here; a plate of food there… And the voting masses are somehow left with the impression that their interest is at heart; that the money they receive through remittances plus a superficial glamour-look and feel, fed by a steady (North) American diet of fashion and other pop culture, is the shizzle!

Enter the notion I had struggled to put into words: First World lifestyle on Third World mentality. Like putting a coat of paint on a rusty car. We have all the trappings and accouterments of ‘foreign’, but, when it comes down to the substance of what would make Jamaica "the place of choice to live, work, raise families and do business"? As my grandmother used to say, “Cananapo!” (read: all now, not a word!) Because, explain to me, for example, these allegations by citizens, of how police officers chose to discharge their weapons. ("Dem put the guns over the zinc (fence) and start firing," she alleged.) How so many killings by members of security forces could go “jus soh”? In many developed countries, swift disciplinary action under the provisions of the governing Act is one thing; criminal charge is another.

And the deafening silence of those “in charge” (quotation marks intended), is yet another. In some countries? The minister would feel so ashamed that he or she would resign. But no. No one is willing to expend political capital to tackle this. And, neither will they pack their bags and go.

We have a role to play, too. It starts in the mind. If it is not at peace, sometimes, all hell will break loose. It is in the perception of, and respect for, self.  It is what Scripture Willy, when I was in second form at Wolmer’s Girls, called “respect for life.” Also, it comes from an understanding that we deserve better from those we put to lead us; from an understanding that, if we do not do something about this haemorrhaging, we might not have anybody to turn to and to speak for us if our time should come.

And, if this continues, for many, it’s simply a matter of when.

Claudia 

www.cyopro.com

www.twitter.com/cyopro

Earth Hour Power, Baby!

Earth Hour, 8:30pm - 9:30pm. It's now 8:45pm, EST. So, how does Earth look from the window of an airplane right about now? I've been wondering about that. No pic of that yet from the TV stations I've been surfing. Ah well.

My lights are off - save for the tiny night light, for my cat. Really.

There have been a few pics of iconic landmarks that are hardly distinguishable at the moment - CN Tower, TO, Ontario; Times Square, NY, New York; Pyramids in Egypt...

Sooo, the significance of this move[ment]? Collectively, the world can save a mind-boggling amount of energy/power in an hour. (Figures will flow post-event, no doubt.) I'm pretty sure the question has been asked time and again. How about doing this more often?

Ah. A friend of mine had a saying, "Used to is a heck of a thing, eh?" That's just it, really. We've become used to using far more than we need.

But, no need to spell out all of that. Let's just do what we can on a personal and daily level to help save energy.

This just in from CBC: Toronto Hydro reporting that in 25 mins, 12.6% drop in energy use in TO alone. Last year, an 8% drop in the entire hour! Way to go, TO!!!

Well, lemme save even more energy by shutting down this computer. I'm not afraid of the dark :) As is written, even the darkness shall be light about me...

8:58PM EST


Claudia
www.cyopro.com
www.twitter.com/cyopro