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In January 2008, I returned to Japan from a brief visit to see my family in the UK. It was my first time to enter Japan since the government passed anti-terror legislation which required foreigners to submit their fingerprints at immigration, and despite an outcry from some corners that this would create all sorts of delays in the procedures for getting into the country, it had, in fact all gone rather smoothly. I certainly made my way through customs and immigration far more quickly than I had on my first visit to Japan, some twelve years earlier.
On that occasion, I had the misfortune to be stopped by a customs officer with the annoying traits of having both atrocious English and a seemingly strong determination to prove it. He smiled and asked where my country was. I resisted the temptation to tell him it was still just above France, and said that I was British. Then he asked if I had any drugs. I thought that only a very poor smuggler would have been caught out by such a direct question, but I assured him I didn’t. He didn’t look convinced as he said, “No drug?”
“No drugs,” I confirmed.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Again, I wondered what sort of a person might have answered, “Well, no, I’m not sure, but I don’t think I’ve got any.”
“I’m sure,” I said. And then he took a small book from under his counter, and said, “Please.” Maybe he had a target to reach and was desperate for me to admit I was carrying contraband.
He opened the book to a page with illustrations of pills and plants and said, “Please, you have these?” as if expecting me to suddenly realize that why, yes, I did have some white powder that looked like that, and one of those pretty plants!
“No,” I said again.
He asked me to open my bag and had a good rummage, taking out some photographs of my family and friends, having a good look through them, and singling out one of a female friend asked, “Your girlfriend?”
“No,” I said. “A friend.”
“Do you like Japanese girls?”
I didn’t know how to answer. I’d never actually met one, but to say “yes” would have him thinking I was some kind of sex tourist here to try my luck with the locals, and to say “no” would have just looked rude. In the end I laughed nervously and probably looked like a pervert giggling at the mere thought of Japanese girls.
“Do you have porno?” asked the man.
“Sorry?” I thought I’d heard him correctly, but customs officers are supposed to ask if you are carrying any “obscene publications” or perhaps “some materials that could be deemed pornographic in nature”. This chap asked as if he was a friend hoping to borrow some.
“No,” I said.
“Are you sure?” he asked again and I rather hoped he had another book under his counter to help me understand fully what exactly he was looking for this time. Unfortunately he didn’t, though, and after another quick rummage through my case and after another quick flick through my photos and telling me that my female friend was very pretty, he sent me on my way.
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