I live a charmed life, punctuated with adventure and undeserved joy and delight. No, I don’t yearn for or seek out hazards, perils or any kind of jeopardy. Never even tried extreme sports, for example. But somehow, through the mysterious confluence of planets, extraordinary events come my way.
I’m not complaining, since each time I’ve been in peril, I’ve also … undeservedly but mercifully … survived each of them, intact. I’ve learned to embrace each incident and then relish the memory once I’m back in the safety of my home. That’s what makes it “Home, Sweet Home”.
I recall – now fondly, after the balm of time – how I once found myself stranded penniless in Madrid, having been pick-pocketed of all of my cash, credit cards and lifelines. Or when I stood helpless on a Himalayan mountain pass at the very moment the ledge I was standing on was being dynamited by a road-construction crew oblivious of my presence on the precipice. Had my smart phone stolen late one evening in Bilbao and then negotiated with a druggie through the night for its return. Got chased by a knife-wielding lunatic through the darkened streets of Badrinath, the holiest of holies where Hindus go in search of salvation. Attacked in a 24-hour eatery in Northern Ontario by a lumberman who envisioned me, a bearded and turbaned apparition, as the devil incarnate through the fog of his drug-crazed brain. Cornered by machine-gun toting border-guards on a Slovenian mountain highway at three in the morning, convinced that the bottle of Tylenol pills they had dug out of my backpack was no less than a cache of illegal drugs.
Well. Things continue thus, unabated. Who would’ve thought I’d have to live through any such event again, now that I sport only salt and no more pepper in my beard and live a correspondingly sedated life?
Encouraged by the deep freeze of the current Canadian winter, I recently charted out a 2-week trip through Mexico, my second in several decades, but this one a bit more ambitious in that I would start with Mexico City, explore its environs for 4 days; then fly into the deep south to hike in Chiapas for 5 days; head north-west to Oaxaca for a few days; and then bus to the Mexico City airport for a final flight home.
* * * * *
Late at night on the 13th of January, 2026, I arrived in Mexico City. Everything went smoothly. Just as at the Toronto airport and many other places on the planet today, I was greeted at the Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez by a host of computers at about 1:30 am (Toronto time), unmanned by humans. The hi-tech machines scrutinized my passport, asked me a load of questions and then, pleased with what they had gleaned, let me through into the midnight.
I checked into an Airbnb, hosted by a charming former Shakespearean actress who, despite the late hour, welcomed me into her lovely home. Early next morning, beckoned by the brave new world awaiting me, I bounced out of bed and headed out into the city to meet up with a Mexican friend, a native of the city.
I had met him 16 months earlier during my 400 km walk along the Via Francigena starting from Lucca in the north to Rome in the south. Rodrigo and I had become friends as we walked together for the first couple of days before we parted company when I was slowed down by a flare-up of plantar fasciitis in my left foot.
Rodrigo proved to be a masterful guide in Mexico city. An anthropological research scholar, he is also a priest-like figure steeped in ancient Mexican spirituality who leads his community not only in rites and rituals but also in traditional dances and ceremonies. He was generous with his time and insights during the three days I scoured through the city and its environs.
I loved the city. Its people proved friendly beyond expectations. The food was good for the soul. The architecture and archaeology was mind-boggling. The museums and galleries delicious. My hosts – my amigo Rodrigo, and Surya at the Airbnb – incredibly gracious.
* * * * *
On Saturday around 11:00 am, I arrived at Terminal Two of Mexico City’s airport for a domestic flight to begin the next leg of my journey through the country. I checked in with Aeromexico for my 2:00 pm flight to Chiapas, and sailed through security without incident.
With a couple of hours to kill – given the state of air travel today, I routinely arrive for a flight with time to spare – I checked out a few stores in the airport mall, picked up a coffee, and then settled down in a seat around the corner from my designated gate of departure. I sent out a few texts, including one to Mary, my host at the Airbnb in San Cristobal de las Casas in Chiapas, informing her that I was on my way and expected to arrive in a few hours.
I heard a voice: “Pasaporte”.
I looked up. Two guys in khaki uniforms were standing in front of me. Each wore a vest with an insignia on it, and an acronym. “Immigración,” one of them said. “Pasaporte,” repeated the other.
They were staring at me. I stood up and slid my hand into my sling-bag and pulled out my passport and handed it to one of them.
They flipped through it for a while, and then one of them queried: “Estampa? No estampa,” and explained by showing me an empty page and softly hitting it with a fist.
I must’ve looked puzzled. The other one said in broken English: “No stamp on the passport. Immigration stamp. When you come to Mexico? Where?”
I gave him the precise details.
“But no stamp! Where is immigration stamp?”
I explained to him that there were no immigration officers at the airport, only computers. One of them processed me by scanning my passport, asked a few questions, I punched in my answers, and it let me through. No stamp because there was no one there to stamp anything and the machine does not stamp your passport anymore. Just like in Toronto and many other airports.
They appeared confused. And kept on whispering “Estampa? Estampa?” to each other.
One of them pulled out a mini flashlight and studied the pages of and the markings in my passport. Checked out the watermarks. Scratched here and there. Ruffled a page or two.
This went on for about 10-15 minutes. I stood by silently. They appeared extremely diligent.
“Sin sello. No estampa!” One of them said again.
I went over it all over again: their airport uses computers now, and they do not stamp passports.
Then I received a barrage of requests. Show me when you came. So I dug through my iphone and showed him my boarding card for my Toronto Mexico City flight. One of them went into his own phone and within a couple of minutes found confirmation that I had indeed landed at such-and-such a time and date and location. From their own records.
One of them nodded his head. I thought I was free to go.
No, the other one said. Show me your return ticket to Toronto. I showed him that on my phone, for a flight on January 28, 2026
They mulled over that for a while. (It took about 10 minutes between each request.)
“ID!”
I pulled out a packet from my backpack and showed them my driver’s license, my health card, my credit cards.
They consulted with each other for a few minutes, going back and forth on their own phones.
“No stamp … no paper?” One said, tapping on my passport.
I explained all over again … very softly, very patiently. I should add that age and extensive travel have mellowed me … I was calm as a cucumber. If there was a paper – and I added that yes, I know that the airport computers usually spit out a paper – I would have handed it over to the guards at the exit gate. That’s what you routinely do in Toronto, I recall … but I have no precise memory from the 13th night … it was 1:30 am and I had by then been in transit for more than 10 hours!
By this time an hour had gone by since we’d started.
They beckoned another person in uniform, a woman who spoke fluent English. We went through the whole rigmarole with her. She pulled out her phone and rechecked everything from their computers, and then nodded: everything is here as he says, she muttered, and shrugged her shoulders.
After a lengthy exchange between the three of them, she turned to me red-faced and said: he says, you have to go back to Canada, come back from there to Mexico City, get a stamp on your passport, and then you can go to Chiapas and Oaxaca as planned.
She looked at me long and hard, apologetically. Shrugged her shoulders again and said …”He says …”
I looked at him. “You want me to go back … and ….and … ?”
She translated his response: “He says … you buy another ticket, go to Canada, buy a new ticket, come back to Mexico … or you stay in Immigration custody here.”
I had a sense of what they were getting at … I had been warned by a couple of ex-pats I had met in a cafe in the city two days earlier. But being a former lawyer, I know that even offering a bribe is a crime … and no way I was going to head in that direction.
It took me seconds to decide. I’ll go back, I said.
“You’ll buy a ticket … and then buy another ticket to come back?”
“Yes, I’ll go back to Toronto, but no, I don’t think I can afford another trip back to Mexico for a while. I’ll stay there.”
Another half-an-hour flew by, with them reminding me over and over again that I would have to buy more tickets to Toronto and back.
I simply sat down … they had custody of my passport and boarding pass throughout … and pulled out my iphone and within minutes bought a fresh ticket back to Toronto. The earliest flight I could get was 12 hours away.
I showed them the confirmation. They went into a lengthy exchange in Spanish between themselves. I used the time to text Mary in Chiapas to tell her I wasn’t coming, and to Airbnb that I wouldn’t be in Oaxaca next week either.
After another long wait, one of them asked me: “Okay, you go back to Canada?”
Yes, I said. I’m ready to go home.
The English speaking fellow was designated to transport me to the international terminal (Terminal One). He kept an eagle eye on me to ensure that I did not escape. I gathered early on that I wasn’t dealing with the brightest of lights. For the half-an-hour that it took en route, he argued with me incessantly that it was the 18th of January that day and not the 17th as it showed on our phones … it was important because he wanted to put the wrong date on the documents.
Once at the departure terminal, I was taken to an immigration office where my passport was stamped to indicate that I was ‘salida’ – exiting Mexico – on the 17th of January.
I was then ordered to stay put in the departure area until my flight … by now, 11 hours away.
My handler then left. Just like that. In the public area. I swung around. Right around the corner from me were the exit doors that led to the taxis, buses and Mexico City. I couldn’t have been much of a risk to Mexico if they left me there unattended, even before the entry point to the security area. Na-a-ah! I said to myself. I’m going home.
* * * * *
No matter what, it’s always sweet to be back home. Even the embracing cold and snow felt welcoming.
I’ve come back with another feather in my cap (turban?). Something new to brag about.
I was evicted as an illegal immigrant by a country which is the greatest exporter of illegals in the world … and actually deported to … Canada! It doesn’t get better than that! Really.
– 30 –
Please submit this to the Mexican embassy in Canada and to the Canadian embassy in Mexico. !
Country: Mexico