London on a Budget

London can be an expensive city to be a tourist in if you don’t know the right places to stay, the right places to eat, and the right things to do to really stretch your budget. I had the occasion to visit this historic city for a short time, and didn’t spend a pound. My resort of choice was the deportation holding facilities in London Gatwick airport.

I arrived early in the morning, US Passport held confidently in hand, sure I could waltz through border control without any trouble. Our two great nations were friends, after all, despite that messy business 250 years ago. I stepped up to the border control agent, handed in my passport. She asked me a few general questions: why I was traveling, what I was going to do, and whether I would be bringing any other smelly Irishmen back into their country once I was done there. I told her honestly that I was in their lovely country to change planes, and was on my way to Ireland to meet up with a host I had found via Workaway. I would stay with him in exchange for helping him out around the house.

Rather than let me through, her queries continued, becoming sharper and more specific: how much money did I have? Who was this person I was meeting? How long, exactly, was I going to be in Ireland? Where was I staying? Was I employed? Married? Any children? I answered her questions honestly, trying to hurry things along so I could go wait in the airport. Rather than pass me through, she led me to a little area positioned shamefully in the middle of the room where everyone can look at you at wonder what you did. I was deposited there with the other hardened criminals they had sussed out: a Canadian PhD student visiting her friend, and a Granadan trying to visit his family. We waited there, bonding, united by the injustice we faced.

After some time an agent came to collect me. She led me through a security exit, and we collected my belongings. She proceeded to search through everything, asking pointed questions about the contents, each new query coming with a kind of triumphant resolve as though she'd just uncovered the instrument of my undoing at each turn.

"And what is THIS?"
"It's a razor?"
She leans forward, smiling conspiratorially. "And what is it for?"
"Shaving."
"Is that all?"
"It's for taking the captain hostage when I board my next plane." Is what I'm sure she wanted me to say, but I didn't.

After making me count my change up (some 250 Icelandic Krona in mostly 10 Krona coins) she took me down to what they called an interview room. The kind of interviews that take places here are not the kind where you get a job at the end, it's the kind where you don't get to leave if they don't like the answers you've given, as was indicated to me by a piece of paper saying something to the effect of "You've been given this form because you have been arrested or detained and we need to decide whether to let you go or not." I was left to stew alone with this friendly piece of paper for some twenty minutes.

They told me I would have my photograph taken and be fingerprinted. I could hear the person in the interview room next to me, and she was adamant about not going through this process. I recalled that she was a PhD student. At the time I didn't know what her degree was going to be in, and I started to wonder: what does she know that I don't? I was happily following an agent to the processing room where I would comply with being documenting as something I didn't understand yet.

After putting me in the system I was searched again, and a cheerful British agent asked me if I'd like to "ring your mum and tell her you're going to the Tower of London?"
"Isn't that where prisoners have historically been sent?"
"That's the one."
He explained that at this point they wanted to be sure that I wasn't meeting anyone suspect when I got to Ireland.

They deposited me into the "waiting room" to do just that. It was a room about fifteen feet by fifty with a few tables, benches, pillows, and one lone picture of a tropical beach in the corner like some kind of existentialist escape rope. I was told that an immigration agent would review my case and decide what to do with me. There were five of us all told. They did give us food (for free), and there was a magazine with word puzzles in it. That's all I've got for suggestions for things to do around London. Their cook leaves much to be desired though, and the view from the room is not the historic London skyline, but mid-level bureaucrats working.

One by one we were called out to have our interviews with immigration, who would pass sentence on our fates. The rest of us stewed, wishing we could just go home. We exchanged such sentiments amongst each other in front of the security cameras. One by one the others fell, receiving news that they would be deported back to their own countries. Finally my turn came, and I went into the interview room. The immigration official asked me similar questions as the ones before, writing down everything I said in explanation. I signed each page verifying that it was correct, then they took me back to await the decision.

The official came back about an hour later.
"I'm afraid that the Irish immigration has said that you would not be able to enter the country if we sent you on, and we have also made the decision to deny you entry."
"Ha! There's that famous British dry humor."
"I'm serious, that's our decision."

They denied me entry on two major grounds: the workaway program in the UK and Ireland is considered employment for which you need a work Visa, even though I would not officially be hired, employed, or even paid anything, simply helping someone out around his house. Most countries do not require a work Visa for this (or so I'm told). Secondly, neither country is keen on unemployed, unmarried people coming to their nations without a specific plan to leave: i.e., a flight already booked and paid for, with documentation proving it. I had 90 days of visa free travel and intended to make the most of it. I didn't yet know exactly when I was leaving, or where I was going after that.

I was escorted onto a plane two hours later. The law is that they send you back to where you last came from, so I was sent back to Iceland. I'm not at all upset about having a few more days in Reykjavik, but on my next trip I'd like to get further into the UK than detention holding.