I am a television producer. Primarily I make

informational programs for the US Department of Defense. In

February of 1993, I was headed for the island of Crete as

the first leg of a three week European shooting trip.

Due to a tight budget, there would only be two people

going on this shoot: myself and my colleague Ray. Ray is an

audio genius with a developing talent for videography. I am

a producer who can shoot and light. Together, we would have

to do it all. Trouble began as soon as we touched Greek

soil.

In Athens we claimed our luggage in order to clear

customs before continuing on to Crete. We had three large

anvil cases of television equipment, two personal suitcases,

and two small carry-on bags.

The first obstacle we faced was the two of us

maneuvering this bulky assortment of unwieldy stuff through

airports.

Clumsily, we deposited ourselves and our pile of

belongings in front of the customs desk. Eying me over

carefully was Customs Agent #1 (CA 1). We would encounter

so many Customs Agents over the next three days, it made my

hometown Department of Motor Vehicles look like a one-stop

shop.

CA 1 rapidly asked me a series of questions in Greek,

causing me to stare blankly and turn my head slightly to the

side, like Nipper the RCA dog that hears his master's voice.

Snapping back to reality takes a half a second longer

after you've just crossed eight time zones. Quickly

catching myself, I tried to look cooperative. I launched

into an impromptu game of Charades, pointing to the luggage

and acting out the word "television". We gathered the

attention of the other Customs Agents and, looking around,

realized that we were the only people in the airport being

detained. Soon there were no other passengers in the

Arrivals Terminal to divert their distrustful gaze.

Convincing Customs Agent #1 that our final destination

was Crete seemed like the kind of information she desired.

Sternly she indicated for me to wait.

CA 1 handed me off to Customs Agent #2, a tall, dark

young Greek. He directed an old man, Customs Agent #3, to

wrap up our production gear with blue plastic straps and

clamp them on tightly with metal fasteners. He also affixed

large, red and white, unreadable labels over all of our

equipment cases. Hustling us along like unwanted sheep, CA

2 herded us away from the customs desk and out of the

terminal. His Charades suggested that he was hailing a taxi

for us. If I understood him correctly, we would all take a

short trip somewhere that I would pay for. I was confused

but exasperated. Anything, I thought, to get out of here.

Most of the cabbies slowed down, took a look at our

pile of gear and continued past us to easier prey. Finally,

with the help of a cop, CA 2 wrestled one down. I don't

think the cab driver realized that Ray and I were with the

Customs Agent. The bewildered cabbie looked at the three of

us with all of our luggage and scratched his head. CA 2

yabbered to him in Greek and the poor quarter snatcher

reluctantly began to load the three large cases into the

trunk of his cab. As if fate directed this fiasco, the

camera case wound up on top of the pile, sticking out of the

trunk. The driver secured it with a single bungie cord.

Then Ray, myself, Customs Agent #2 and the carefree cabbie

climbed into the little cab with our suitcases and carry-ons.

Like a man late for dinner, the cab driver hit the gas.

The cases in the trunk lurched toward the road. As we sped

around curves toward the airport exit, I shouted "Slow

down!" Of course the Greek Al Unser might have thought I

said "Hurry up," for all I know. In my mind I saw the

destruction of a forty five thousand dollar camera, strewn

across an Athens highway, before we'd even rolled an inch of

tape. Frantically fingering at the pages of my Greek guide

I found the word "argoss", meaning "slow". "Ahh," exclaimed

the Customs Agent and the cabbie peeled off into the night

with new contempt.

It turned out that our destination was an air freight

terminal where we would ship the containers via air freight

to Crete. Hoisting the three 90 pound cases up onto a

six-foot-high loading dock, we wheeled them into the

building and the waiting hands of a shipping agent.

I paid another 50 bucks for them to be shipped to

Crete.

We hopped back into the waiting cab and whisked CA 2

back to his lair. Ray and I and our suitcases continued on

with the cab to yet another building, the Domestic Air

Terminal. It was there that the cabbie performed his

careful ballet of extortion. Straightfaced, he asked me for

80,000 drachmas. The exchange rate was only hours old to me

but I knew something was wrong. Surely he meant 8,000. I

offered five. After hemming awhile he accepted the 5,000

then begged for a tip. I threw him another thousand. We

found out later that the correct amount for this task should

have been only 1,000 drachmas in total, fifteen hundred at

the most. Welcome to Greece.

We flew into the night and arrived on Crete around

8:30PM, local time.

After an exhausting full day of traveling, we were

delighted to see our Point Of Contact meet us at the

airport. He set us up for the evening and confirmed that

the Customs Office on Crete was closed until morning. We

would have to pick up the gear the next day. In our stupor,

that suited me fine.

Getting through Athens was unusual, but in Crete, the

circus was about to begin.

Our first stop after breakfast was the downtown office

of Olympic Air Freight. Finding their tiny, backwater

office required the expertise of the locals and, luckily, we

spotted it without major difficulty. From the freight

office's counter, I could see our gear through a window,

lying haphazardly on a broken curb beside a beat-up old

black step van. Even though we couldn't have it given to

us, it was comforting to see that it had made it to Crete.

After getting our paperwork signed, we were instructed

to follow the step van down to the waterfront office of

Greek Customs, Crete. A grey, stone, prison-like structure,

we watched our three equipment cases hauled inside the dank

building and placed next to a battered wooden desk. Looking

around inside, Greek Customs Crete turned out to be a large

filthy warehouse with cars parked tightly inside against the

walls. One of the cars was a sleek mid-70's Jaguar XJ6.

Like the rest of the automobiles in there, it had a heavy

layer of dust on it so thick that the original paint color

was indistinguishable. The side window of the Jag had been

rubbed clean at some point so a person could peer into its

interior. The car had been there so long that the spot on

the window had been again covered over with a thick new

layer of dust. I silently hoped I had better luck with

these customs people than the owners of these cars.

The van driver motioned for me to go upstairs. At this

point I would be separated for the rest of the morning from

Ray and the others who had accompanied us. I was escorted

through dirty, dusty back offices to sit down at a cluttered

little table with Customs Agent #4, a fidgety man who was

slightly hyperactive. I was on my own. I was only going to

be in Greece for a few days, I hadn't bothered to study the

language. Unfortunately, this guy didn't know my language

and I didn't know his.

I handed him my equipment list, a cover letter stating

that I was on official business, and my signed receipt for

the air freight. CA 4 grimaced and shook his head. His

questions became another series of Charades. He left the

table twice. Each time he returned, the scenario seemed to

look bleaker. The third time he left, I found myself

sitting alone for about twenty minutes. The room was

freezing cold. I could see my breath. The same dust from

the warehouse below had dulled every flat surface in the

tiny, squalid office. I rose and stood in the hallway.

Normally I consider myself well-versed enough to BS my way

out of situations like this. But in Greece, I'm illiterate.

I got the feeling that things were going on and I

didn't know what they were. I was antsy and a little

frightened. I was confident in myself but somewhere trouble

loomed. It turned out that I had just made a terrible

mistake. It would take me two days to realize it.

CA 4 had apparently done all he could. At least that

was the expression on his face when he turned me over to CA

5. Customs Agent #5 was a serious man. His steely black

eyes gazed down on me like the sheriff who, after a ten year

search, had finally captured the serial killer. He was a

big man and, due to the coldness of the room, wore a big

maroon winter coat that made him look even bigger.

Cigarette smoke steamed through his clenched teeth as he

beckoned me to follow him.

We sat down at his desk. Slowly and methodically, he

generated a four page Official Greek Customs Document that

included my equipment list. My list was stapled into the

document and an official-looking stamp was put across the

edges of paper where the equipment list met the rest of the

form. CA 5 spoke a little English but we still had a lot of

difficulty communicating. He was very concerned with

exactly when I was leaving Greece. He fought hard to be

clear on this point.

He totaled up the value of my equipment in US dollars:

$ 75,000. This seemed important to him. "Very expensive,"

he said.

As he asked me another series of questions, I began to

wonder what my friends downstairs were doing. Hours were

passing and they had no idea where I was. While my mind

wandered, CA 5 asked Customs Agent #6 across the room a

series of questions in Greek. I knew that they were talking

about me but I had no idea what they were saying. Points

were being argued and seemingly important decisions were

made. It became increasing frustrating because I understood

none of it. My focus fell to my body language: look

friendly and cooperative, you'll eventually get out of this.

CA 5 took the documents across the room to Customs Agent #7

who put a few more official stamps on them before Customs

Agent #8 initialed them.

CA 5 returned and asked for my passport. I stood and

put my foot on the chair, rolling up my pant leg. Taking

the passport out of the money belt velcroed securely to my

left leg, I gave it over to him. He wrote a lengthy note in

my passport that, to the best of my translating ability,

meant something like I had 12 million drachmas worth of

stuff.

CA 5 painstakingly xeroxed everything, including my

passport. He then walked me down the hall and introduced me

to the "Assistant Director", a short, scrappy but well

dressed woman with fire in her eyes. She reluctantly signed

my documents. Then the three of us went in to see "The

Director", an old man in the only decent office in the

building. As we entered, CA 5 cautioned me to treat The Director with respect. The Director asked CA 5 a few

questions in Greek then signed the document and waved his

hand at me as a mock blessing/get-out-of-my-office type of

gesture. Bending and scraping in thanks, I tried to leave.

At this point something happened that would come back to

haunt me later. The Assistant Director physically cornered

me. She picked up the document off of The Director's desk,

got right up in my face and waved the document under my nose.

"You must turn this in to Customs at the airport in

Athens when you leave Greece. Do you understand? You must

turn this document in to Customs when you leave!" she

shouted. "If you don't, we will come and find you at..."

she looked down at the paperwork... "Department of Defense,

Washington D.C. We will find you."

For what seemed an eternity, she silently stared me in

the eye. Her face was barely an inch from mine. I can

still see the broken blood vessels in her hardened eyes.

She was putting on a show for The Director. He was

unimpressed. I was.

Finally breaking off, she motioned to CA 5 and said

something along the lines of "Get him out of here" in Greek.

Finally reunited in the hallway with my friends, they

were exasperated. They had no idea where I'd been for the

last few hours or what was going on. CA 5 led me past them

to see Customs Agent #9 who took my air freight receipt. He

wrote up a new receipt, asking me to pay him another 3,000

drachmas. On top of this he whispered he wanted another 200

drachmas for "the stamp". The extra 200 was not on the

receipt and clearly a shakedown. It was the equivalent of

two dollars and I gave it to him to avoid the hassle of

another argument. I felt too close to leaving.

We all trampled back down the dusty, ramshackle stairs.

We had to travel down them one at a time because the steps

were so old and decrepit they swayed on the verge of

collapse.

Back in the squalid downstairs warehouse, the equipment

was opened and inspected. A tenth Customs Agent surveyed

this operation and he asked to see the first item on my

equipment list. It was the front end of the Betacam camera,

complete with serial number. Remembering at that moment

that I had brought a colleague's equipment list and not

generated one myself, I thought that I might be in for

another round of first rate trouble. I was relieved when

the serial numbers matched. Thank God I had taken the same

camera as the guy whose equipment list I'd borrowed. CA 10

was satisfied with this test and we were finally able to

leave with our equipment.

The ordeal at the Customs House had taken over four

hours. The loss of time threw our shoot schedule into a

tailspin but we were able to complete two days worth of work

in a day and a half.

It was a relief to finally get something on tape.

Caught up with the shoot, I hadn't realized my big mistake

yet.

In two short days, it came time to leave Crete. We

planned to depart very early on Saturday morning. The cases

still bore the bold stickers that the Customs Officials in

Athens had plastered all over them. Wheeling our belongings

out of the hotel and toward the car for the airport, I

paused a moment to ask our hotel manager if he could tell me

exactly what the stickers translated out to read.

"Warning: Items Subject To Greek Customs Control And

Search," he said.

"Well, were not stuck in Customs anymore. I'm going to

rip these stickers off," I decided.

"You'd better not do that," he said, cautioning me

against the wrath of authority. He looked worried.

Figuring that we were only flying to Athens and staying

overnight there, and the stickers may confuse the domestic

airline baggage handlers, I ripped them off. Just to be

safe, I saved them so I could put them back on later if

necessary.

Everything went well in Athens. We claimed our luggage

and stored it all in the hotel. Early the next morning I

arose, ready to leave Greece for good. That's when it hit

me. It was a realization that shook me down to my socks. I

had made a mistake.

The Official Greek Customs Document that I helped to

generate contained all of the items that I had brought into

Greece. Thinking back on it all, it seems their fear was

that I would sell my gear on the black market and avoid

import tax and the like. If I was going to sell anything,

they wanted their cut. Wherever we went in Greece it would

be the same. They would look at us and say to themselves:

"How can we get money out of these guys?" Customs was so

adamant that I take everything back out of Greece or pay

taxes on it. The problem was with the equipment list. It

wasn't really mine.

One of my last chores before leaving on this trip was

to make a list of the equipment I was taking. This was

admittedly a low priority task because no one aside from a

television professional would know one item from another. I

grabbed an existing equipment list on my way out of the

door. That list was now a part of an Official Greek Customs

Document. I reached into my bag, pulled out the customs

document and looked at the list inside. My fears were

confirmed.

The list had on it six items that I had not brought

with me: a tripod, a color monitor, monitor batteries, a

charger, and two other items. If a Customs Official asked

to see any of these items, I could not produce them. The

official document that I helped to create said that I, in

fact, had brought them all in. Now I must prove I'm taking

them all out. I couldn't.

I knew that these customs people didn't know a monitor

battery from a camera battery but this particular list was

very carefully put together. Each of the items were listed

and numbered. What worried me the most was the color

monitor; it had a serial number on the list. If asked about

it, there was no way I could produce that.

I took a deep breath and thought about my dilemma.

Dawn was cresting outside my window. I'd just realized the

mistake I'd made. My heart sank. Exactly how was I going

to get out of it?

I tried to be rational. As far as I could see, there

were two possible courses of action. I didn't like either

of them.

One: I could alter the Official Greek Customs Document

to accurately reflect the things in my equipment package. I

could just scratch things off the list. No, this would be a

bad idea because seeing items scratched off the list would

look suspicious. The last thing I wanted was to look

suspicious.

I wasn't even thinking that they had made xerox copies

of everything. If I didn't like option number one, I hated

number two.

Two: I could just hand over the list and hope the

Customs Officials at the airport are lazy.

This was not a comforting option. If caught it would

look like I was trying to pull a fast one. I knew that if

it came to me having to explain the situation, I was sunk.

I had a lot of difficulty communicating with the Greeks.

And my banking on them being lazy was not likely considering

they had been so methodical while letting us into the

country. My throat turned to chalk and my stomach knotted.

A chill shot through me and I noticed my hand was shaking.

Customs people don't like games.

With time running out and no other options coming to

mind, I decided to go with option two: bank on the laziness.

While showering, my mind filled with possibilities. I

had visions of being handcuffed and taken to jail because I

didn't have the money to pay import tariffs on the missing

items. I envisioned Ray getting on the plane that I was

unable to board. Our equipment would be confiscated. The

whole rest of the European shoot would be blown. I would

have to call the American Embassy who would contact my

office. I recalled tales of Greek prisons that don't feed

the inmates, they have to be supplied by their own families

with food. My family was 5,000 miles away. My head spun.

An international incident was brewing and there was no one

to blame but me. I had so many details to deal with before

this trip. Could it be that I'd be sunk by something as

mundane as an equipment list? I put my hand on the shower

wall to brace myself. My stomach began to feel queasy. I'd

better wash well, it might be my last hot shower for awhile.

As I toweled off, I thought about who I could turn to

for help. Ray, my partner, had no clue what was going on.

I could fill him in but that might upset him as much as me.

I decided not to tell him. I wanted him to look perfectly

unnerved in front of the customs people and, if memory

served well, he could not act. I kept my plight to myself.

I dressed silently as the new day's sun crept into the

room. I carefully selected my clothes that morning, ones

that would be durable for prison, just in case.

Meeting Ray as we checked out of the hotel, I didn't

know if he realized that I was preoccupied in thought. We

took a cab to the airport in silence.

Arriving at the airport, the two of us shoved the three

large anvil cases, two suitcases and two carry-on bags up to

the ticketing area. We cleared easily through the airline

security people and made our way up to the ticket counter.

The ticket agent was all ready to check our bags through

without question. Then the image of the Assistant Director

threatening me came back into my head. I looked at Ray.

Shrugging my shoulders, I opened my bag and gave the ticket

agent the Official Document. He looked at it carefully.

Then he picked up the telephone. His face drew long.

Cupping the receiver, he grew solemn.

"You must leave this building. Take your bags down to

the Arrivals Terminal. The Customs Officials will meet you

there." He handed me back the document while pointing

toward the door.

I glanced again at Ray. Ray had that `What is this

bull----' look on him. Once again we gathered up our

voluminous belongings and shoved them back into the chilly

morning. Traveling with all of the production gear is a

very unglamorous part of the television business. By the

look on Ray's face he was starting to get ring burns from

all of the hoops we'd been jumping through. But my mind was

far away. "Please don't look carefully," was all I could

think.

The walk to the next building was not a long one but

for me it felt like it took a lifetime.

The automatic door of the Arrivals Building swooshed

open like the jaws of the valley of death. We pushed our

packages inside. A big, beefy woman with wiry black hair

came around a corner to meet us. She would turn out to be

the 11th Customs Official we would deal with on this trip.

Customs Agent #11 had a demeanor that suggested we had

imposed seriously upon her nap time; however, now that she

was up, she would make us pay for that transgression.

CA 11 quickly took charge of the situation. She

gestured for us to lay the cases down flat. Reluctantly, I

handed her the Official Greek Customs Document, the one that

said I should have things that I did not possess. Taking a

firm hold of the document, she eyed it carefully. My throat

was as dry as on old dog bone in the sun. I looked at Ray.

He was calm. My mouth was very dry now. CA 11 drew her

finger down the equipment list. At random, she pointed to

an item.

"Show me this," she said.

Anxiously I looked at the list where she was pointing.

She had picked out the back end of the Betacam camera.

I unlocked the case. Pulling it out I remembered that we

had checked the front end earlier and the numbers matched

but I had no idea if the back end would. We had recently

been experimenting with different camera parts. "Please,

God, let the serial number be right." I searched for the

elusive number. There it was. It matched.

"What is in the other two cases," she asked. Ray

smoothly opened one for her while I tore at the clasps of

the other. My heart felt like it would pound through my

chest. Looking into one of the open cases, she asked to see

into the audio bag. Ray opened it for her. She nodded.

She looked at Ray's face. He was just another perturbed

passenger dealing with an inquisitive Customs Agent. He

looked fine. She looked down into my case and eyed the list

again.

"Is this everything?" she asked. Ray and I nodded that

it was. She glanced over the document in her hand and

looked me straight in the eye. At that moment, I stopped

breathing. I forced a smile. It was too early in the

morning. She looked tired. I took a breath.

"Wait here," she said, walking into the little room.

We waited for fifteen minutes during which time my mind

flooded with possibilities. Could it be that we managed to

get through customs? Were they waiting for someone else to

rummage through our things? Will I ever see my pregnant

wife again? Is it time to find another profession?

Finally yet another official, Customs Agent #12, showed

up. The Official Document was not in his hand. CA 12 asked

us to follow him with our gear. He escorted us and our

equipment back to the ticket counter where he watched our

bags be loaded onto the airline's conveyor belt. Then he

turned on his heel and left. When he finally walked through

the door, I let out a big deep breath of air. We were on

our way out of Greece.

The relief I felt on the plane was immeasurable.

Compared to Greece, the rest of our European tour was a

breeze. Upon landing in Germany, we walked through German

Customs with barely a nod; the same in Spain. When we

finally cleared US Customs two weeks later in New York, we

felt we were truly home free. I don't ever want to be in a

situation like that again.

Photo: Ray and I hoist one to celebrate our safe arrival in Germany.

(I had just told him what happened...)