Jamaica was fantastic, though it’s rather depressing to be home again in the dreariness of Amsterdam. There will be loads of photos and stories soon. The first story involves Ting, Jamaica’s favourite soft drink. I don’t know whether it was the drink or what, but somehow I got profiled on the trip back.

When we arrived at Montego Bay airport we checked in and then headed towards the passport check/customs thing. Two women checked our boarding passes and let us pass to the x-ray. M. went through first. I put my stuff (a messenger bag with laptop and a separate bag for my camera) after her and walked through the gate. Nothing beeped, but I was stopped by the woman behind the gate. She wanded my pockets, which were bulging a bit due to a large bottle of Ting being in the right pocket.
    ’What’s that in your pocket?‘
    ’Ting!‘, I say with a smile, as I pull out the bottle.

She doesn’t smile. Hm.
    ’What’s in your other pocket?‘
    ’Just some papers…‘
I pull out the papers and hold them out. She inspects me some more. Further wanding. Three other officials, all women, are looking on and starting to giggle. I’m pretty amused myself, since I know they’re not going to find anything on me.
    ’Pull up your pants.‘
I fumble a bit with the papers in my hand to be able to grab the top of my pants and pull them way up, granny style. More giggling.
    ’OK, please step around the table.‘
I figure they want to search my stuff now, so I walk around the table and leave my bags. Another woman walks up and tells me to take my bags and follow her. Now I’m really confused. I look around at M. to make sure she’s following us. We walk to a corner of the room with three unmarked blue doors. The woman opens one door and tells me to go in. As I walk in I scan the room quickly: two mostly empty bookcases, a table with a world map on it. No box of rubber gloves. Phew.
M. is not allowed in but the official follows me in. She points at my crotch.
    ’Unzip your pants please.‘
I look down at them, then up at her. I smile and bite my lip. Better not be a smartass now. I unzip and pull my pants down far enough to show my boxers and look back at her.
    ’See? Nothing there.‘
I pat the front of my boxers to emphasize the point.
    ’What’s that?‘
She’s pointing at my crotch again. I’m starting to get serious doubts about the Jamaican educational system. They get basic biology, right?
    ’Sorry?‘, I say with a smile. I know where this is going but it’s so bizarre it’s making me laugh.
    ’Show me please.‘
Still no smile. What, my package is this interesting? I comply and watch her eyes. They dart down for a second and back up.
    ’OK, you can go.‘
I pull my pants back up and get the hell out of there while the rubber gloves are still nowhere to be seen.

As M. pointed out later, had the gender roles been reversed this would’ve caused a shitstorm. A bunch of guys asking a woman to show her privates while no devices beeped, even after wanding, etc.? As it was I was just amused, but I’m still wondering what the hell they thought they saw. Somehow I was profiled that day because when we got to Amsterdam I got picked out again, this time by an undercover customs guy. He only checked my passport and let me go. When we got our luggage we found that our suitcase had been forced open and checked, too. All very bizarre…