The Dearly Deported

Reprinted from European Vibe Magazine ( http://www.europeanvibe.com/ )


A tale of warning to Americans without papers

Let’s face it, Spain has hardly been like Fort Knox to get into for non-EU citizens without residence permits over the last few years. Among the countless people of different nationalities to be living in Spain less than 100% legally, many Americans could be found rather less worried about being apprehended than the average extra-comunitario. Whether racism or classism is to blame for the authorities’ discrepancy in treatment of US passport holders and, say, Chinese, Peruvian or Senegalese nationals, things are changing. Johnny found out about the crack down more suddenly than he would have hoped.

As difficult as it was returning to snowy Madrid after a three week hiatus in sunny Florida - grumpy with jetlag, disappointed that no one had rolled out the red carpet for me in welcome, and frustrated over my fruitless search for a new flat, it was certainly hard to complain given the circumstances of my two best madrileño mates.

While recovering from the 20-hour trip and shivering through layers of socks and sleeves, hopelessly browsing the disorganized Spanish apartment sites and cursing under my breath at the time-wasting Nigerian scam ads, my flatmate to be was facing a very different set of frustrations altogether, making my petty problems shrink to shreds of insignificance.

Most of you have probably noticed by now the lackadaisical lethargy which typifies the Barajas Airport staff (and come to think of it, characterizes Spanish people-facing services in general), and how easily one can get from point A (the terminal gate) to point B (the fresh air of chain smoking cabbies on the outside).

Well, instead of skipping merrily through customs like the rest of us after a quick passport glance, my flatmate had the misfortune to happen upon an atypically attentive Spanish immigration agent. Having taught English here like so many others without working papers for the entirety of the fall and using up his three month tourist time limit, the stamped dates on his passport sold him out as quickly as he could say cerveza. And with his broken, perhaps even shattered, grasp of the Spanish language, there was no possible way of talking himself out of the situation. The passport stamps spoke for themselves.

Now, first, let me say that I’ve come across many a teacher who’s overstayed their welcome here by a solid three years plus and have never even flirted with the danger of deportation. Going a step further, not one of these teachers, or even a ‘lifer’ expat for that matter has been able to recall a single one incident of an American teacher being deported or denied entry back into Spain resulting from passport issues. Not one. So then why my flatmate? Seriously? Well, after examining the situation a little more in depth, it seems that it was a combination of factors. First, he had decided to take the cheap route and fly standby on a buddy pass. And, with his flight date being at the tail end of the holiday season, waiting to catch an open seat on a flight to Madrid proved to be much more difficult than planned. Long story short, after six nights of sleeping on cardboard boxes in airport terminals without a shower or shave, he found himself drowsily handing over his passport at customs. It also didn’t help that he’d washed his passport accidentally on multiple occasions, leaving it wrinkled, faded, and suspicious enough to warrant an ill-fated second glance.

So there my shaggy-haired amigo was: sporting a week’s worth of scruff to rival Grizzly Adams; eyes red and puffy with exhaustion; funky, stale body odour from a week without washing wafting through the customs line; and handing over his battered passport to immigration.

The official’s eyebrows raised in suspicion of this human overload of senses and stench; eyes flicking from face to passport and back several times before turning the page to discover the incriminating August entry date. Silently, he did the math, counting in months on his fingers and moving his lips silently to be sure – five months! Without hesitation, he then called up his superior, telling my flatmate to wait.

So there he stood, heart fluttering with that nervous, “Oh-shit-I’m-busted” feeling for a few minutes before being summoned to another room for questioning – in Spanish. Through what I imagine was lots of animated body language and sentence fragments, the Spanish immigration officials managed to communicate one thing quite clearly: “You’re not getting in.” What followed was a 24-hour drama that involved my friend hiring an abogado, heated arguments from his Spanish-speaking British girlfriend, and yet another sleepless night in yet another airport. In the end, the authorities refused to budge, and promptly sent him back to the last airport he came from (apparently, if you get stopped at the airport, it doesn’t matter where you live or need to go, they just send you right back in the direction you came), and put him on a three-month European probation.

Of course, the weekend wasn’t over yet, and as the snow melted from crisp wintery white to coke-slushy brown the gato gods had one more trick left to play. I had just gotten into bed on Sunday night when I received a text from another good friend of mine: “Dude I just got arrested. I’m in jail and am getting deported.” I had just seen this guy an hour earlier, so how in the hell did this happen so quickly? Sceptically, I texted him back, “Not a good joke,” but received no response. I then called his flatmate as well, also to no avail.

Starting to worry once again, but feeling more concerned about my Monday morning alarm clock, I drifted into a restless sleep full of deportation nightmares. The next day when I awoke, I was pleased to find that my friend had been released from Spanish captivity. As it turns out, he was stopped in the Cuatro Caminos metro station by the police, who were looking for a fugitive in the area. When they asked my friend for some form of identification, he searched his vacant pockets, realizing with regret that he’d left both passport and driving licence at his flat. And unfortunately for him, it’s illegal to be in public without official identification over here (abonos don’t count either). So following their suspicions, the cops put my friend in cuffs, sat him in the back of a squad car, and drove him to a station with holding cells where he was repeatedly questioned, forced to stay the night, and issued an order to be deported pending trial within a six-month period.

The thing I don’t get and probably never will is that my friend was here illegally for six months, but instead of kicking him immediately to the curb; they’re letting him stay until if and when the papers go through. And even better is the fact that according to his lawyer (coincidentally, the same lawyer as my friend who was deported in the airport), if the paper work doesn’t go through within that six-month period due to Spanish disorganization/procrastination, then his case will be thrown out and he can stay. If the papers are processed however, then he’s banished from the European continent for six to nine years! Ouch.

So, for any of you who’ve exhausted your three-month visa here, be careful. Always say you’re a tourist, be sure to have ID on you at all times, avoid areas with a high number of immigrants, and if you’re flying direct to Madrid from the States, please take note of your personal hygiene and appearance (probably a good idea to keep your passport in mint condition, too). As for me? Well, with two friends less in the phone book, what else is a guy to do but sit back, sip a Mahou, and give the nearest wood a good knuckle knockin’ in the hopes that my luck won’t so soon run out.