Bordering On Bribery

Have you ever received an affable smile at a border crossing? It's as difficult as locating a replica English cooked breakfast when you're out of the country. But therein lies the point: why go abroad if you cannot face some culinary hardship; and who said that border officials have to be brimming with beaming grins?

Our last border crossing from Montenegro to Serbia should have been troubling. We were asked to park our vehicle and follow the armed guard in to a dilapidated office. Crumbling plasterboard hung limply from the walls, sparse '70s furnishings adorned the main office with no hint of kitsch, and there was an unmistakable whiff of corruption in the smoke-filled air.

We were still incredulous when we reached Belgrade. Surely they should have taken some money in bribes: if not for themselves, then at least for the ruts that pockmarked their roads... yet they stamped all three passports and bid us adieu.

The upcoming Hungarian checkpoint boded well for us.

Gavin parked our not-so-inconspicuous-big-white-commercial-van in the line to cross the border. The sun shone down brightly, illuminating the clean-cut lines of the modern buildings as cars were waved through with an encouraging nonchalance. There was a pervading feeling amongst us that this was less Eastern Bloc, rather more fastidious and efficient.

Reaching the head of the queue, the muscular official cast a beady eye over us, looking our vehicle up and down. We were instructed to park up and turn off the engine.

“Open here!” he hollered, pointing at the back door. We couldn't. The door had been jammed since we'd bought the van.

“Here!” He motioned at the sliding side door. As it parted, some empty beer bottles fell at his feet and he was overcome by the putrid stench that accompanies three young men on a long road trip. He wanted to search the van but the odour and dishevelment had discouraged him somewhat.

Closing the door, he makes us follow him to a garage area with a vehicle pit. A German car is being stripped down. A full cavity inspection. We are told to hold out our hands, palms upwards. He takes three medical swabs, wipes our fingers, and then leaves for several minutes.

He returns. Raises his voice. “You are gild!”

Confused looks pass between us.

“Gild, gild, you are gildy!” he exclaims, raising his voice as we struggle to comprehend his idiomatic expression.

“Oh, guilty” says Michael. “He means guilty.”

“Yes, guilty,” he shouts. “Who is driver?”

Michael and I both automatically point at Gavin who is standing between us. Seconds pass by slowly as it dawns on a horrified Gavin that yes, he was the last person to drive, and yes, his friends have just implicated him in some unknown criminal activity.

Suddenly the guard bends over, laughing helplessly. Then he tells us we're free to go.

They might not smile at the borders, but I've heard them chuckle.