Identity Crisis

As many of you will remember from my previous posts, I have recently moved house, down the coast to a lovely little village where we are settling in nicely. As part of the moving process, I have been coming across bits and pieces that I’d squirrelled away and completely forgotten about for years. Looking back through this collection of dust-covered objects has been a big hit of nostalgia as well as being quite funny in some cases.

Case in point; various passes and IDs that I’ve held in different countries throughout the years. While there is the almost comical visible timeline of watching my hairline recede from year to year, each pass or badge brings back a flood of memories in the way that a familiar song will transport the listener back to the time and place where it holds the most relevance. For me, these IDs take me back to the time and place where a memory has been locked in because of an activity or event that the pass or badge reminds me of. For example;

The first time I realised that my official, government-issued, ‘all access’ badge meant nothing to the terrified conscripts manning checkpoints in a Middle Eastern city as I was dragged from the car and given a sound beating. For nothing more than pointing out the very clear writing on the pass that stated ‘do not stop or search’. Confidence and humour partnered with the sharing of a packet of cigarettes defused the situation and stopped the car being searched and my guns and comms being discovered. And me being hustled away to a filthy jail cell in one of the city’s many police stations for some seriously enthusiastic interrogations. As I looked at the photo on the pass of the younger me with an enviable hairline, I smiled at the memory of passing out cigarettes to a bunch of scared conscripts who seconds before had inflicted the lumps and bruises on my face and body. Chuckled as I recalled my attempts at jokes at my own expense, my pidgin Arabic causing as much mirth to my captors as the content itself.

Or another time, approaching a coalition checkpoint in a different city, adhering to the rules and processes as I had done dozens of times before; vehicle pass prominently displayed on the dashboard, personal passes held high out the window as my car crawled towards the armed American guards. Only to be opened up on by one of the soldiers, his rounds tearing through the soft skin of the car bonnet and pinging off the hardened components of the engine below. His colleagues bellowed for him to stop and I waited until the situation was under control before I slowly opened my door, hands high in the air still holding my passes, and walked over to the soldiers.

‘WHAT THE ACTUAL F**K GUYS? YOU CAN SEE I’M BRITISH!’

There was a brief pause as the sheepish looking soldiers turned to the shooter in a manner that demanded he explain the situation. With a shrug and a nod of his head towards my car, he simply said, ‘Sorry dude, but we were told to watch out for a suspicious, black BMW.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘With British vehicle pass and personal access passes?’

He paused and inclined his head to one side while he gave my question some thought. ‘Nah . . . just the car, man.’

Some years later, I recounted this incident to a friend of mine who had also carried out some clandestine work in that area and he laughed and told me that an entire checkpoint had opened up on him and his colleagues and that even as they’d de-bussed and taken cover and yelled ‘WE’RE BRITISH, WE’RE BRITISH!’ They’d been answered with an American drawl from behind the Hesco Bastion fortifications, ‘WE DON’T CARE!’

Or the time in Mozambique where, tired of the standard Friday shakedown from local Traffic Police, I created a simple Word Doc with the insignias of the Interior Minister, my company, and a small form below these motifs. When pulled over for the regular ‘pay the bribe or go to jail’ on Friday afternoon, I smiled, nodded, and produced the document from the glove compartment of my pick up truck, explaining that the Interior Minister had decreed that all police officers had to complete this form with their name, rank, department, details of offence, and punishment given. As the Interior Minister had direct oversight for the safety and security of my company’s contract, he needed to be fully informed of every interaction with local law enforcement. It was, of course, a massive bluff capitalising on 2 main elements; Firstly, the poor literacy rate among rank and file law enforcement, and second, the traditional fear of those in power in an autocratic administration. Within weeks my trusty white Toyota Hi-Lux was being waved through every checkpoint with a sneer of disgust from the disgruntled cops.

My favourite though, is the last pass I came across. It was some years ago when I was on a NATO project, advising and mentoring senior brigade staff deploying to hostile countries. The individual in charge of creating and issuing the access badges for one of the exercises was, unfortunately, a good friend of mine. And in the spirit of good friends seeking any opportunity to get one over on their oppo, this was the badge I had to wear, and answer to, for the two-week duration at every meeting and briefing during the exercise.

As I say, unfortunate that he was a good friend in a position to get one over on me. However, had the roles been reversed, I have no doubt that I would have chortled with pleasure as I created the new access pass for Mr Hugh Jass or something similar . . .

Anyway, a short and sweet post, just fired out as I came across a box of old passes and name badges from various corners of the world and thought I’d share a few of the stories behind them.