MILITARY SEND-OFF
I'm standing in a queue at Colombia's international airport. I've gone through emmigration and had my bags screened. Now they want to search me thoroughly.

A soldier, his camouflage-coloured cap failing to hide the fact that he only finished school a year ago, beckons me over. I open my bag. He tells me to remove everything, one half at a time.

My crumpled shirts and Next underwear fail to excite him. He feels thoroughly around and underneath the case, searching for a false bottom (and drugs). I return my belongings and begin unpacking the other side.

"What's this?" he asks, fingering my leather-bound prayer-book.

"It's a prayer-book," I explain.

He opens the book and looks inside. "It's written backwards," he exclaims.

"That's how Hebrew's written."

He then points to my Tefillin. "What does this say?"

"Tefillin," I reply.

"They're made of leather and worn during morning prayers," I say, the Spanish word for phylactery escaping me and probably useless even if my memory hadn't failed.

"You can't open them," I add, in case El Capitan thought I'd stashed an ounce or two inside.

Next on the soldier's list was my Paul Smith washbag. He pulled out a Boots condom (one of several that I'd optimistically taken away with me but had failed to use). He held it between his fingers for several seconds longer than necessary, no doubt wondering what a strange religion these Hebrew-reading, leather-box wearing Jews have.