It wouldn’t have been proper to leave Nepal without an exciting tale to tell. Symmetry seems to be fundamental in the art and architecture of this place—therefore our bookend had to be as interesting as our opening. Our time in this destination has been characterized by surprise, and the beginning effort of our passage onward was no different—for the first time in our journey, Jeannie was actually on time for our taxi to the airport, a clear indication she wasn’t going to spend an extra minute in Kathmandu.
Upon arrival at the airport, we were prompted to send our bags through an archaic structure of rusted steel and corroded plastic. The local security force has disguised this heap of decomposing materials as an x-ray machine. Where it should light up, it has gone dark. When it should beep, it has fallen silent. Come to think of it, there isn’t even a monitor behind it for examining what passes through its tired bowels. Its place in the airport is solely symbolic. It serves no other purpose. And its cousin, the metal detector, is no more functional. I walked through it with my watch, my belt, and the metal carabineer from my hiking pack just to prove a point. Not a peep.
When security is an issue (in this decade, a plane of 180 people was held hostage at this airport), government funds are nil, and infrastructure is nonexistent, you have the recipe for a good old fashioned firm-hand frisk. My pat down was abusive. After being squeezed in places I don’t let Jeannie touch, I was incredibly relieved to see that she had been funneled behind me to a line for women only. She became familiar with an open-palmed officer who looked much gentler than the brute who ordered me to spread. From the body search, the segregated lines continued to a row of luggage check desks.
We had our carry-on bags in tow, and as is usually the case during our airport shuffles, I was carrying the heaviest bag of the bunch, which naturally belongs to Jeannie. It is a pink and white duffle bag, decorated with a hundred tiny hearts. It makes a great accessory to my beard. I hadn’t personally seen the contents of this bag in weeks, but I knew it served as her supplemental luggage—whatever doesn’t fit in “the crate” finds a home in this satchel. I knew she had been collecting “treasures” from backwater merchants for weeks, and I could only assume they had all been accumulated in this bag I was about to present to an armed and ominous guard. Had that necklace she bought in Thailand been made from smuggled ivory? Was that strange bag she bought in China really just tea leaves? While I knew she would never intentionally buy or pack anything illegal, had she picked up anything questionable in one of the thousand smoky markets we’ve tramped through in the last six weeks? Whatever belonged to her was now mine, and I owned all of it alone, as she was now being inspected in the female line, forty feet across the packed and chaotic passenger terminal.
With a wide smile, I placed the pink-hearted bag on the desk, and met the squinted eyes of the man I would bare my belongings to. Our relationship got off to an awkward start when he unzipped the top pocket and a fluffy purple elephant popped out onto the table. He looked at the plush pachyderm, now flopped over with all fours to the ceiling, and then stared through me with immense distrust, and I think a little discomfort. He spent a long while examining that stuffed animal. Surely it was packed and restitched with some powdery substance. He’d come back to it, there were more questionable things to investigate. He pulled out a blow dryer. I yanked on the hair on my chin and said, “For my beard,” trying to lighten the mood. My joke was a flop. He set it down and produced a jewelry bag. He unbuttoned it and pounds of gold and silver came flying out. Necklaces and earrings and bracelets and rings went crashing to the table in a heap of pearls and stones and gems. There was enough for me to open my own shop. He added “pickpocket” to “drug smuggler” as his list of my identities continued to grow.
I could now sense in him a rising unease. He started to swivel his head from side to side, looking for backup, or someone to validate what he was discovering. I did my best to explain the situation. I told him the bag belonged to my wife. I told him that the items were not mine. The words I chose only dug deeper at my sinking hole, and I appeared now to be blubbering. I should have just kept quiet. What was lost in translation now had the guard agitated. The elephant, the blow dryer, the jewelry, and a laundry list of other feminine items were spread widely across the table between us. He started asking questions I did not understand. His accent was coarse and his mustache was distracting. I couldn’t produce any suitable answers. He began to reach boiling point.
He was about to come across the table when I sensed a presence behind me. It was Jeannie. “Oh my god!” she exclaimed at the site of her jewelry splayed out in twisted knots. She was dismayed. She set out collecting it, repackaging all of her prized items in the bag. Her disregard for the security officer was so swift, and committed with such strength, I think the bully had no idea how to react. She threw the elephant in the bag with such intent he actually helped her to reclose the zipper. The tables had been turned. His menacing look had been replaced with what I think was remorse. It was almost as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Jeannie looked at him in disgust and he nodded as if to apologize. I stood by, trying to disguise my amazement. My backup was stronger than his, and there was nothing he could do about it.
No comments:
Post a Comment