The passport official sighed as I handed over my documents. His top button was undone, his tie skewwhiff and there were dirty fingerprints on his collar. He looked at my passport and tapped at his keyboard.
“English?” he said, he smoothed down his unruly moustache.
“Yes, well British.” I didn't think I would trouble him with the political map of the UK.
“Imperialist pig,” he said.
“Imperialist pig,” he repeated. “You and your country are the reason God gave us middle fingers.”
“Right,” I said.
He read my passport like he was examining a porn magazine. I stood watching him, trying not to tap my fingers on the counter.
“How long you here?” He said.
“Just three days,” I replied.
“Three days?” he looked at me, I swear I shrank three inches. I nodded. He turned his attention back to the passport.
“Why are you here?”
“A conference,” I said.
He leaned forward so his nose was practically touching the glass.
“You listen to me you capitalist pig. You are not welcome in my country.” His spittle was hitting the screen between us. “We will be watching you. You make one false move, drop one piece of litter, put your toe on the road away from a crossing, anything, not matter how small and we will find you and deal with you.”
He stamped my passport and threw it back to me.
“Pig,” he said as I walked past him.
“Prick,” I mumbled under my breath, but only once I was sure I was well out of earshot.