There are few things more unnerving than a snag when trying to return home from a foreign country.

I was at Narita returning from my first visit to Japan earlier this year. I presented my reservation information and passport to the young woman at the JAL counter, who typed a few characters, then frowned a little, then typed some more, then frowned more, then beckoned over another woman, clearly her supervisor. I asked if something was wrong, and she smiled and assured me, in broken English, that everything was fine. The supervisor arrived, typed something, frowned, typed something else, then had a brief conversation with the agent before stepping over to a desk and picking up a phone. I again asked if everything was okay, trying to hide the tremor in my voice. Oh, yes, yes, everything is fine, she replied. I asked what was wrong. Everything is fine. Big smile. The supervisor came back over, had another conversation with the agent, then walked back to the desk to continue the phone call. Then that happened again. And again.

This went on for about 15 minutes, giving me time to plan my new life as a refugee in Tokyo in some detail. Then suddenly, and with no explanation, I was handed my boarding pass and directed to the customs and immigration area, where I sailed through without further incident. I still have no idea whatsoever what happened at the JAL counter.

On Mon, Oct 31, 2016 at 12:11 PM, Timothy Collinson <xxxxxx@port.ac.uk> wrote:

On 31 Oct 2016 17:12, "Ethan McKinney" <xxxxxx@gmail.com> wrote:
>
> Shows how this actually works and adds flavor, including additional complications. A must-read before running Stranded on Arden: http://www.latimes.com/travel/deals/la-tr-india-20160906-snap-story.html
>

Oooh, thanks for that. Will definitely save it for when we get there.

Closest I ever came was my arrival in Kano, Nigeria where a friend sailed through passport control and I seemed to hit a snag. I wasnt getting my passport back. After a little while of not understanding what I was being told (in supposed English) and with a bunch of taxidrivers sticking their oars in so they could tout for business, I was finally taken into a back office. Convinced that it was a "so this is it, we're going to die" (or at least be locked up) Arthur Dent moment, I got a long rambling explanation that essentially amounted to "oh, he's new on the job and doesn't know the system, here's your passport". (He had of course been after a 'dash' or bribe which I'd failed to understand).

tc
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