Those stubborn grass stains...

It is standard with NZ's island ecosphere that anyone entering is strictly checked for any foreign matter that they may be carrying on their person. My trekking shoes always get pulled out and inspected and this time it was no different. The last checker before the arrivals lounge. Eh aisle 5 there, she says, they'll have a look at your boots. Grand, I say, relieved to be within an hour of a bed after 60 hours without.

There seems to be a lot of police in aisle 5 and they're taking their time with the people ahead of me, emptying entire suitcases. Turns out aisle 5 is not the quarantine people at all, its customs, those lovely folks with the stern faces and the rubber gloves. Apparently my hasty route down from Indonesia through small out-of-the-way airports has set some rubber clad fingers flexing. Someone's been behaving like a drug mule. I'm ok though, I don't think I'm smuggling any narcotics. Ha bloody ha.

A lady thoroughly roots through my bag, emptying every little thing. I apologise for the dirty clothes that have built up at the bottom of my bag and go to help her take them out but am told in no uncertain terms to sit down and not touch anything for the duration. Behind the lady is a two way mirror. Occasionally she disappears inside for ten, twenty minutes at a time. I'm starting to feel a little uncomfortable. At another counter a short-tempered model (or so she declares), is giving them all sorts of shit about how exhausting her day has been and that this is bullshit and etc. She is screaming guilt at them and its getting on my already shaky nerves, like listening to a baby crying.

The officer returns and the questions start.

Have you been in contact with any illegal drugs recently?
Eh...... no.
Please be aware that we have some highly sensitive machinery here that can pick up traces you aren't even aware of.
Riiiiiiight.

The thing is I might maybe just have once been in contact with a fella, our neighbour on one island, who had some locally grown medicinal plants on him which he wanted to share. And we did. Just the once. I'm honestly not a fan of the stuff (ask my dealer, not funny, sorry ma n pa). But we were drunk and there were no police on the island so we said what the hey. Anyway.

So I tell her about this once off. She promptly does some sort of smear test on my phone. Sticks it in a machine which beeps loudly (so loudly) and comes back to me with a print out.

See this line. That's marijuana.
On my phone?
Yes.
Shit.

I hadn't even used my phone on the island. She wanders off and I am sweating bricks. My stomach is rumbling ominously but I fear if I ask to use the bathroom they'll make me bring a sieve. She comes back and starts telling me my rights. I feel the situation sliding out of control.

Then I realise she is just talking about my rights with regards a strip search and I breathlessly agree to anything which will prove I am not smuggling drugs.

I am brought into a small room by two burly uniformed men. They run through the procedure, one of them dons some gloves. I strip slowly, and only as requested by an officer who thoroughly checks each item. I am strangely beyond shame, just seeking closure now. In no time I am standing naked before them.

Raise your balls.
I raise my balls.
Spread your cheeks.
I spread my cheeks.

Grand.

And thats that, suddenly they're all smiles. You can get dressed now, they say. That was painless eh? says one, like a dentist.

And I am free to go.