A Thrilling Encounter With Customs Agents

November 9, 2007

It was the mid 1990’s and the US embargo with Cuba was in full effect. Travel to, and trade between, the two countries was nigh impossible. Scraggly rafts washed up on the South Florida shore with alarming regularity. The Elian Gonzalez episode was still a few years away, but everyone could see something like it was in the offing.

It’s possible that the travel bug is genetic. My parents have always been avid travelers, and while it has been a long time since we have done so, my childhood was highlighted by a handful of trips to far off places. We went to Mexico a few times and to Colombia once. My dad’s work as a doctor has taken him to almost every corner of the globe, and sometimes the rest of us would get to tag along. This was only because such family trips could be written off as ‘medical missions.’

My dad is the undisputed leader of these trips. Often he would books the flights, contact friends of his in various locales, and would announce matter of factly that next month we would be jettisoning off somewhere.

The trips were usually pretty tame. We’d stay with family or friends and my dad would work as the rest of us were left to fend for ourselves. The trip that stands out most in my memory was the time we went to Cuba.

We’re American, so getting to Cuba, especially back then, was a tricky business. First we had to fly to Cancun, Mexico. Then we chartered a flight, in a 1950’s Russian jet, to La Habana. If you give the Cuban customs agents a little kickback when you hand them your passport, they’ll innocuously turn to page 16 of your passport and stamp a tiny bank stamp that in barely legible letters says ‘El Banco de La Habana.’

I was young at the time, no more than 10 or 11 years old and the passport business was taken care of largely without my knowledge. We caught a cab from the airport and went to our hotel, the Copacabana (It was in fact the inspiration for the long famous Miami nightclub…Down at the Copa. Copacabana…you know the rest) and checked in.

Now I should preface this by saying my dad has never been one to abide by rules. He is by no means an immoral person, but he is of the mindset that rules can be bent and that authority is there to be challenged.

We had been briefed many times by many different people that not only travel to Cuba is illegal, but buying goods like cigars, coffee and rum— staples of the Cuban economy— is strictly forbidden. To stress that point, the sentence for such illegal trafficking at the time was a $250,000 fine and a mandatory 15 years in prison.

Merely more incentive to my pops.

From the first day, my dad went loco buying things he shouldn’t have been buying. Bottles of rum, boxes of cigars, pounds of coffee—everyday he would come back to our hotel room with something new and very illegal (“But it’s so cheap!” He would explain.)

By the end of the week, he had more stuff then would fit in just his suitcase; so, he passed off some stuff to my sisters and I. My mom, the just and saintly woman that she is, refused to participate. She forbade him from getting us kids involved too, but he managed to usurp her authority with small briberies (I think he gave me twenty bucks—which in retrospect is a gross undervalue).

Our time in Cuba quickly came to an end and we hopped back over to Mexico before returning home. The illegal goods were carefully hidden away in our exquisitely packed luggage and when we finally landed in Cleveland we all crossed our fingers and hoped for the best.

The three kids went first. We showed the customs agent our passports with the big fat ‘Mexico’ stamp. He never turned to page 16 and he never saw the tiny ‘Cuba’ stamp. With palpable boredom, he turned to my sister Sarah, 14 or 15 at the time, and asked her if she had anything illegal. Her wide-eyed deer in headlights look almost gave her away before she sputtered, in a small voice, “No sir.”

He brushed us passed and my mom followed suite after us. She of course came up totally clean and moved through customs quickly and came to join us. We were fervently watching the line as my dad got closer and closer to the front.

We saw him walk up to the customs agent, present his passport and then be quickly carted off to a side room for ‘inspection.’ “The family,” I remember thinking, “is forever broken.” We all let out silent gasps of horror. My mom sat down, ready for the worst. “He’s so stupid,” she kept repeating.

The next part of the story I only know secondhand from my dad.

Stupidity of stupidities, he had forgotten to grease the great wheel of justice upon arriving in Cuba. Instead of the innocent bank stamp, he was given, without realizing it, the big, fat ‘Cuba’ stamp. He was screwed from the get go.

The agent dragged him to an inspection table, and when he put on his latex gloves, my dad feared the worst. The agent asked him if he had brought back anything illegal and my dad, no doubt clenching his buttocks, answered truthfully, yes.

The suitcase was unzipped and all of the illegal stuff came spilling out. Boxes of cigars, coffee, were strewn across the table. Once my dad gets that jolt of law breaking, it seems he has a hard time stopping. His toothpaste was opened and squeezed out. By now the agent was certain that harder, more sinister things were in the suitcase.

“Sir,” he started off, “Do you know that the penalty for bringing goods—“ And then he stopped. Underneath all of the illegal stuff were my dad’s medical supplies for the work he did in Cuba.

“IWentToCubaWithMyFamily,” words came tumbling out. “I’mADoctorAtThe ClevelandClinicAnd…”

Suddenly a spark lit up in the man’s eyes. “What do you do there?”
“I’m an anesthesiologist.”
“Did you know I just had an operation at the Cleveland Clinic?”
An inkling of memory flared up in my dad. “Yes. Yes! You had eye work done, right?”
“Yes…and you were my anesthesiologist.”
“Yeah! I remember you! Scott, right? Hey, how are you doing?”
Grudgingly, the agent admitted, “Much better, thanks. You guys saved my life.”

Just then the head customs agent was making his rounds amongst the stations, checking to see who brought what and who was going to get arrested. Hastily, the agent stuffed everything back into the case. The head agent came over and asked the subordinate if it contained anything illegal. Without looking at my dad, he confidently said, “Nothing at all.”

The head honcho, appeased, left. The man sheepishly looked my dad in the eye and said, “Next time you go down there, don’t forget to bribe the officials and don’t ever, ever, bring back any illegal goods…I have a check up at the Clinic in a few weeks and I would love some cigars.”

And that was that. My dad picked up the suitcase and walked away. Serendipitous seems to come to mind. My mom, who was already well beyond frazzled, nearly beat him. “You’re such a bad influence! I wish they had arrested you, I really do. You never get your cummupins!” She looked at me and then back at my dad, and with vitriol in her voice she said, “And what kind of message does this send your son?!”

“What are you talking about?” He replied, excited and unconvinced. “We have a buddy in customs now! We can bring back anything we want!”