Permethrin-treated mosquito nets are not allowed in Canada, even though the chemical is harmless to humans, the travel doctor said.Kim Rosen/The Globe and Mail
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It all began when my youngest daughter was accepted as an intern with a well-known aid organization in a Third World country that has a large share of mosquito-borne diseases.
Darling Daughter had been advised to bring impregnated mosquito nets, as the ones available locally were not good. Did you notice the word "impregnated?" With insect repellant, that is.
But the permethrin-treated nets we wanted are not allowed in Canada, I discovered to my horror – even though the travel doctor we consulted said the chemical is harmless to humans.
So, I ordered three mosquito nets, two pairs of pants, one long-sleeved T-shirt and two short-sleeved Ts, all impregnated with the insecticide, from a company in the United States. That way, Darling Daughter would not have to coat her skin with DEET every evening for four months.
I had the items sent to a drop box across the U.S. border and began plotting how to smuggle them in. Friends said the border guards wouldn't even know these goods were a no-no. Yes they would, I thought. It's what they do! I didn't like the idea of smuggling: I don't like lying and deceiving. But I had to.
I borrowed my husband's car because its heater works. I wore my sunglasses despite the grey nasty weather so that my eyes wouldn't give me away.
"Could you take off your sunglasses?" the U.S. border guard asked. "Could you pop open your trunk, please?
"What do you do for a living?" he asked after looking in the trunk.
"I'm your basic housewife," I replied.
"What does your husband do?"
"He's a lawyer."
"What is the tube in your trunk that contains earth?" he asked accusingly.
"I have no idea," I replied, puzzled and not pleased.
After a frightening time with U.S. customs, and the discovery that the tube of earth was for my husband's golf divots, I drove into the tearing wind and snow to collect the nets, pants and shirts. I was rattled, and the day had just begun.
The contraband was in a box more than a cubic foot in size. How was I going to smuggle it home? I drove to an outlet mall, took everything out of the box and pulled the tags off the mosquito nets. There would be no evidence of insect repellant besides the odour. I was sure sniffer dogs would get them. The clothes were another matter, as their unique quality was embroidered into the fabric in plain English. I headed into the mall to look for bulky things.
A down-filled coat in a big bag from a sports store would hide the nets. Some thick turtlenecks from another sporty store would cover the pants. I had the brilliant (and hardly original) idea of wearing one of the shirts across the border. That way, if everything was confiscated, Darling Daughter would at least have one piece of helpful clothing. I went into a washroom cubicle, pulled the tags off the long-sleeved T and put my sweatshirt on over top. But I couldn't get the plastic tag thingy off the label at the back of the neck. So there it was: incriminating evidence. I felt like a thief.
I needed more big bags. I checked out a couple of stores, and bingo: an adorable waxed raincoat for my great-niece (thank you, three-year-old Charlotte, for your collusion). I asked the charming young man at the cash if he had scissors. I reached behind and cut off the plastic tag at my neck. He looked at me but said nothing.
I was so rattled that I decided to throw out the two impregnated short-sleeved T-shirts. Less to hide.
My mind was in full fret. For sure I was being watched, and for sure there were cameras trained on the stores, the parking lot and even the washroom cubicles! The border guards would arrest me and my husband would be disgraced! It would be so annoying because we're so honest: My husband made me declare unsent postcards when we returned from our honeymoon, for Pete's sake!
I was prepared to confess, to say I'd do anything to protect my daughter, and surely they'd understand and let me go. But they'd still confiscate the mosquito nets, and then what would she do?
At the Canadian border, there were no cars in front of me. I pulled in to the gate and handed the guard my passport. I whipped off my sunglasses and presented him my smiling deceitful face. When he asked how much I had to declare, I told him I'd been expecting a lineup and hadn't added it up yet. Doing so took a bit of time – I hoped he would be bored and distracted by my stupidity. Maybe he was, because there was no problem. I drove away in a hurry, too upset to rejoice.
Two days later, Darling Daughter tried on the pants. One pair fit; the other, which was supposed to be size 2, didn't. The U.S. company had sent a size 20.
No way was I smuggling another pair of pants into Canada. I called the manufacturer. They're sending a size 2 right to our house, even though it's not allowed.
"What if the pants get confiscated?" I asked. They said they wouldn't. They had better not. That's all I can say.
S. J. Wright lives in Toronto.