My Secret History as a Travel Criminal

Recalling the missteps of my first trip overseas

Exhibit A

We weren’t a family that could afford vacations. In summer, we drove the length of Britain, connecting scattered dots of family on our way to spend a couple of weeks on the south coast with my mother’s parents. It didn’t feel like ‘real travel’ and the long days in the car made me throw up.

My first real trip—traveling alone to a foreign country, was to France in 1979. It didn’t go well.

I met a foreign student at my waitressing job and he connected me with friends of his parents who wanted a nice Scottish au pair. It was clear from the moment we met, that my face didn’t fit. Looking back, I guess he didn’t think to tell them that I was a Scot who came with curls and brown skin inherited from a Kenyan, immigrant father.

The job evaporated without explanation. I didn’t have enough money to get home but I had the fare for a ferry to the Channel Islands, midway between Normandy and the English coast. I was soon packed and my supposed-to-be hosts happily dumped me at the docks with a salami baguette and barely a wave of Bon Voyage.

From Frying Pan to Fire

The Channel Islands are British Crown Dependencies but not strictly part of the UK. Even with a British passport, I didn’t have an automatic right to be there.

When I arrived on the main island, Jersey, a customs officer checked my passport and asked casual questions about why I was visiting and if I knew anyone on the islands.

I’ve never been very good at curating my appearance or seeing myself as others see me. That day, I was a 17-year-old dwarfed by a secondhand rucksack and wearing a tatty denim jacket. But I felt like one of the legendary explorers, Margaret Mead perhaps.

I was an open book and told the official I was hoping to find a restaurant job—did he know of any openings? He didn’t and as he handed back my passport, a plain-clothes policeman who had been watching over his shoulder, stepped forward to greet me.

Locked In

The policeman was professional and didn’t scoff when I admitted that I had only 23 pence (about 40 US cents) and the remains of my sandwich. I was pretty sure I could find a job with housing before nightfall but he wasn’t willing to turn a blind eye only to find me sleeping on the beach and stealing milk off Jersey residents’ doorsteps—as happened all too often with young visitors from the mainland, he told me.

I was taken to the police station on ‘suspicion of destitution’ and, after a very gentle body search, was locked in a cell. It was clean and quiet and they let me bring my book. Plastic mugs of tea scooped from a bucket appeared through a hatch in the door at regular intervals, along with slices of cheap white bread spread with margarine.

I have learned that there are two types of people who come towards you in times of trouble; kind people who offer help and unhelpful people who offer kindness as a means for their own ends.

The cop on the night watch gave me the creeps. He came after lights out with sugared tea in a pretty china cup. He left the cell door open allowing light to spill in from the hallway, then sat on the edge of my bunk and watched me.

He told me how an Asian girl who’d been in the same cell had prowled around it like a tiger. I felt sick to my stomach though I couldn’t have said why at the time.

I know now though. I’ve been around men like him since and they don’t show up to be kind or helpful.

Tripping On

Deportation from the Islands was my only option. The only question was if my fare would be paid as part of a criminal proceeding or if someone from my family would pay on my behalf. My older brother came through for me and, after two nights in lock-up, the police drove me back to the port.

It happened to be the day of an inter-island soccer tournament and the boat was packed. Mothers scowled at me and pulled their children close as if I might throw them overboard for the fun of it.

One of the crew nodded at me without meeting my eyes and directed me towards a crew-only area. I thought it was due to my pariah status but after the docklines were pulled aboard he came over with a soda and a sandwich.

“You’re not the first”, he said. “We had a whip round—here’s some cash to keep you going for a day or two.” Then he left me to the sunshine and the seagulls wheeling free overhead.

I disembarked at Weymouth on the south coast, not far from where I had spent those long ago summers with my grandparents.

It was several years before I made it overseas again but my travels had begun and I was on my way.

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