How not to cross a border
Sep. 18th, 2007 09:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sawylI heard a particularly amusing story about one my pater's proteges yesterday. The protege, an extremely honest and straight-laced individual, was visiting his in-laws in one of the former Soviet republics when his wife suggested that they should pay a call a relative who lives in a small, breakaway territory. When they got to the border they discovered that, as an EU citizen, the protege required a visa — not, of course that it was possible to get a visa from outside the territory, given that no other nations recognise it as independent — so his wife offered to go ahead and make any necessary arrangements.
After waiting at the border for some little time, a taxi arrived and the protege got in. It transpired that the taxi driver had come up with a way to get customs post without a visa: he was going to feint a u-turn to distract the guards, before turning and driving as fast as he could over the border. Needless to say, pater's pupil was somewhat alarmed, pointing out that the guards had tanks and kalashnikovs, but the driver, unperturbed by the potential for death, said that he thought it unlikely that the troops would chose to waste their petrol and bullets attempting to stop them. The taxi driver executed his plan and they crossed safely into the new country.
On the way back out, the wife again arranged for the same driver to take them to the border. This time, the wily cabbie took them along a smuggler's trail — a romantic sounding journey which, in reality, involved nothing more than cutting across a field to avoid a pillbox. Despite their precautions, they encountered a lone border guard, but instead of stopping and interrogating them, the guard snapped to attention and gave them a salute — a real, genuine, military salute and not the one fingered variety — allowing them to return home in unaccustomed style.
After waiting at the border for some little time, a taxi arrived and the protege got in. It transpired that the taxi driver had come up with a way to get customs post without a visa: he was going to feint a u-turn to distract the guards, before turning and driving as fast as he could over the border. Needless to say, pater's pupil was somewhat alarmed, pointing out that the guards had tanks and kalashnikovs, but the driver, unperturbed by the potential for death, said that he thought it unlikely that the troops would chose to waste their petrol and bullets attempting to stop them. The taxi driver executed his plan and they crossed safely into the new country.
On the way back out, the wife again arranged for the same driver to take them to the border. This time, the wily cabbie took them along a smuggler's trail — a romantic sounding journey which, in reality, involved nothing more than cutting across a field to avoid a pillbox. Despite their precautions, they encountered a lone border guard, but instead of stopping and interrogating them, the guard snapped to attention and gave them a salute — a real, genuine, military salute and not the one fingered variety — allowing them to return home in unaccustomed style.
