Double Duffle Snaffoo

A very pleasant and uneventful journey after the initial panic at the Portland airport. Made a point of talking to strangers along the way just to make myself get used to the experience. Two retired nurses from the Bronx ready to experience the African outback, a solo traveler from Perth who was amazed at the friendliness of the airport staff in Johannesburg. A two hour layover at the beautiful airport in “Joberg” (listen to me, talking like a world traveler) allowed me to peek at the current culture of South Africa: lots of white travelers, no white workers (none that I could see) in any position outside of a few pilots.

I was struck by the contrast of the attitude of the workers here as opposed to the typical airport working staff in the US. Here, there was no holding back. Black pride was manifested everywhere. Groups of workers could be seen everywhere laughing, singing, shouting and having fun. By the time I landed after a short flight to Livingstone, I was already feeling like I was settling in and getting used to being a minority in the beautiful sea of black faces around me.

My friend Pricilla would be waiting to pick me up. She had warned me to proceed through the airport tarmac with haste so I wouldn’t get stuck behind a crowd of people at customs. Struggling with my 50 lb backpack and bumbag, I congratulated  myself for being second in line. Clearing customs, I was able to pick two of my three duffle bags off the carrousel and begin to breathe a sigh of relief that it had all gone so smoothly.

For the next half hour I watched the carousel start and stop, start and stop. While the rest of the passengers came to claim their things…no third bag. Damn. So close. Finally, when all the bags had been pulled off the line, an airport guard came to ask me if that bag over on the table was mine. It was.
“Well, there is a problem. What is the black stuff leaking out of the bottom?”
“Oh, s**t…I think that’s ink. I had a bottle wrapped, and it must have gotten punctured.”
“Why ink?”
“I’m going to be teaching art at WayiWayi," and yadayada.
“You’ll need to step over here. And let's see that passport again.”
Uh-oh, looked like I was in trouble now.

Then Pricilla poked her head around the corner to see what was taking so long and more or less came to the rescue. Explaining the situation and giving me a little cred. Off I went to the bathroom to get a load of paper towels to sop up the mess only to find the first of my Zambian realities. The towel rack was empty. OK…I borrowed a rag. The automatic water spigot didn't work. I decided to put any other appropriate bathroom functions on hold.

Finally, with a little help from my friends, we found a plastic bag (no small task) to contain the offending duffle and clear the airport. Pricilla was sure to capture my predicament on camera, and I walked into the Zambian sun. With a load of tools and art supplies, minus a half bottle of ink.

Finally free from Customs

I would give you a hug, but...