The Penalty for Drug Smuggling is Death | Singapore City, Singapore

The Singapore entry clearance card states in bold red letters, "The penalty for drug smuggling is death". A bead of sweat rolled down my cheek as I read it. Partly due to the heat, but predominantly due to the fervent paranoia that consumes me whenever I cross a border.

Ahead of us in the customs clearance queue at Singapore's World Trade Centre was a petite Muslim woman, a Singaporian businessman and a youngish fellah whose entire essence cried out "cavity search me, just be careful". Dreadlocked, unkempt, stereotypically speaking everything a drug user should be. Come to think of it had been a few days since a razor had seen my cheeks and my hair was far from short back and sides. Paranoia, paranoia.

You must understand, in reality I had nothing to fear. Just the night before I had unpacked my backpack, given the contents a vigorous shake and repacked it with a disposition bordering on the anal. Not that I'd dream of smuggling drugs into Singapore. Shrewdly I stick to those countries with large shorelines, limited customs officials and police officers that know the color of money. Call it personal preference.

The reincarnation of Kurt Cobain passed unchallenged, the Muslim woman however had her share of problems. Covered from toe to tip in black, with a rectangular square cut from her headwear, she bluntly refused to show her face in public. I tried desperately to get a glimpse of her passport photograph, but to no avail. After a minor altercation she was led away by a butch customs official packing heat to be either shot in cold blood or show her face in the privacy of a back room. The odds were fifty-fifty.

Shit! The washing powder. Like a bolt of lightning it hit me. Why, in the name of all things sacred I had opted to travel for six weeks through Indonesia with a fine white powder in a plastic bag on the remotest of chances I may actually use it. In the comfort of my own home I'd rather masturbate with a cheese grater than hit play on the washing machine, so the idea when packing my bags of hand washing anything was at best a whiskey driven fantasy. For the price of a Mars Bar, Joan Collins could get her entire wardrobe scrubbed, pressed and smelling lemon fresh. What the hell was I thinking? Should I declare the OMO and quite possibly have rubber gloved fingers reach depths of my anatomy that I'd only witnessed on late night SBS movies or should I play it cool and saunter past with a flash of the passport and an over exaggerated smile? What the hell, I've sold real estate, lying was second nature. I went for it.

And to my sheer delight it worked. Just to reinforce my innocence I spent several minutes browsing brochures and maps and checking the buckles on my backpack metres from the customs officials. I mean, what sort of smuggler worth his salt would hang around. God, I'm messed up.

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