Quickly found our bags on the luggage carousal and proceeded to the exit ramp of the airport, where the customary custom officer (aka, custom leeches) stood idly, waiting to pounce on the poor ‘rich money laden’ unsuspecting expats that have been flooding into Conakry these past few months. In the past, these fine official government gate keepers have just waved Madeleine and I through as soon as we flashed our Passports and assertively said ‘Ambassade’. This time, it would be different.
A rather rotund custom officer lady stopped us and directed us to the luggage inspection table. We willingly obliged (well, at least I did) and laid out our bags on the table. Madeleine, in a futile attempt, tried to convince the lady that this was totally unnecessary and that this was the first time since we lived here that this had happened and that we actually worked here and that we were teachers and that we worked with children and that...well, like I said, it was a futile attempt.
I, on the other hand, was pumped. The game was on. I was actually looking forward to this. Don’t know why. I looked at it as a sport...like boxing. Mind you, I’ve always wondered why guys would deliberately engage in a game where they were confined to a ring to get punched out until blue in the face and unwillingly dispense with a couple of teeth (when does the fun start?). I’ve never been able to figure it out. Perhaps its again this male predator domineering competitive testosterone driven living on the edge syndrome that us guys are so famous for and victim of. Anyways, I digress, back to the rotund customs lady.
I had for some odd reason anticipated this inspection, which explains why I had purposely laid out my dirty laundry (ei - t-shirts and underwear...let us not forget that we were coming from 14 days in Senegal where the temperature had basically hovered around the +40 degrees everyday) at the top of my suitcase. I always knew that eventually those “Born to be Wild” red boxer shorts that Madeleine had given me a few years back would one day come in handy. The rotund customs lady was completely ignoring Madeleine and her attention was directed to my unzipping of my suitcase. She appeared to be a bit unnerved by my hasty willingness to proceed with the inspection. She put her right hand on my suitcase, and then with her left hand made that infamous hand gesture that anyone who has ever passed through an African airport would readily recognize as the ‘a bit of money will make this all go away’ hand signal. Ah ha! The puck was dropped and the game was on!
I momentarily stopped unzipping my bag and calmly and slowly said as to make sure that I was understood not only by my inspector but also by all of her colleagues, “Madame, I insist on opening up my suitcase so that you may inspect the contents. I realize that it is your job to make sure that I do not bring anything illegal or dangerous in this country of yours, and if you are being paid by your government to inspect the contents of my suitcase, by all means, that is what we shall do.”
Needless to say, my little monologue appeared to make an impact on the other customs officers as they took their hands out of their pockets and slowly made their way closer to our ring, make that customs table. Madeleine, obviously worried by my unusual assertive, quasi-pompous stance towards customs people, continued to babble on about us working in Conakry as teachers and caregivers and leading citizens and...anyways, she really wasn’t getting through to these people. The contrast between my play and hers was flagrant. However, what Madeleine wasn’t aware of was my secret weapon...my Born to be Wild Boxers, just laying there, at the very top of my suitcase, guard and keeper to all the other smelly stuff in my suitcase like Saint Peter is guard and keeper of the Gates of Heaven.
The rotund customs lady leaned on my suitcase making it impossible for me to open it, all the while continuing with the hand signal soliciting some cash to make this all go away. Again, I reiterated my willingness and my insistence in letting her do her job until, with a resigned and disappointed look on her face, she produced a white chalk, scribbled DT (probably meaning 'Get this pompous ass out of my sight' in customs talk) on my suitcase, and gestured for us to go.
Game over. I guess my red boxers will have to wait another day....
DAMNIT!
ReplyDelete