It has probably occurred to you by now, as you thumb through your personal issue of ALIVE magazine, that our illustrious editor is focusing this issue on the United States in the 1960s and early 1970s. Even more specific, I am told, he is glorying in the movie representing that era, namely American Graffiti.
This gives me an opportunity that I have longed for since the year 2008 when I first was published in ALIVE with articles titled the same as my book – Stamps In My Passport. I’ve selected offshore venues and shared adventures with you that I’ve had in those “far-away places with strange sounding names,” always including a passport stamp. But, now is the time! There is one recurring stamp in my current passport, as well as the five retired passports, that fills pages and pages. I now have an excuse to share a story or two about that stamp. You guessed it – the good old United States of America stamp that tells everyone “I’m home!”
My first story is about a run-in I had in the late 1970s with one of those stern but polite customs agents. In those years I made several trips each year as a gemstone courier. A business I was associated with purchased emeralds, rubies, and sapphires from miners all over the world. These stones were then stored in banks in that country – awaiting a pickup. There were drops in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania on the east coast of Africa, and rubies smuggled out of Cambodia by the Khmer Rouge and stored in Chanthaburi, Thailand. I was fortunate enough to be able to pick up these bags of rough stones and bring them back to the United States. This meant going through a different line at the San Francisco airport. Sitting quietly in a small room off to one side, I patiently explained to this United States agent how I came about having these imported items. Always had to assure him I was not laundering money for some evil drug cartel. Even though I always thought I had an honest face, apparently these guys felt I looked guilty. Eventually they let me through, and I always got a stamp in my passport. Those were exciting times for me.
Another one of my fond memories about my United States passport stamp occurred in Singapore. The logic of the US policy at that time has escaped me over the years, but for decades it was in effect. To get a US passport one needed to apply in San Francisco, but for some unexplained reason one could add pages to an existing passport at the US embassy in Singapore. On one of our trips, we realized that we had only a page or two empty and decided to take advantage of this opportunity. The US Embassy was close to our hotel, so we walked to the fortress-like structure – surrounded by a huge iron fence. The spit and polish marine allowed us to pass, and another marched us to the head of the line, while others awaited an audience. The lady behind the desk was helpful, and in a short time we had a fatter passport, with twenty four new pages. When we got back to the United States, the immigration officer noticed the added pages and jokingly said “Let me christen your new pages with a good old solid US passport stamp.” I have heard that Singapore no longer does this – so the experience will remain unique.
It’s apparent that over the years the use of passports has changed. Back in the late 1960s and early 1970s we visited relatives back in Michigan. We used to drive across the Ambassador Bridge or through the Windsor Tunnel from the US to Canada. Back then, no one seemed to care a great deal about a passport. In fact, during a number of those years, I didn’t even own a passport much less get a stamp. Little did I know at the time that not getting a stamp in my passport would become such a big deal in my life. Missing that experience would mar a record of years of travel in and out of our most joyous and prosperous country. God bless you, America!
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