Sweating Customs
Noel Laflin
8-1-14
The Zambian customs agent flipped through my passport one more
time and frowned.
"This is not properly stamped," she said in very precise, crisp English. "How long have you been in our country and what have you been doing?" she asked accusingly.
I wiped a clammy hand across a sweating brow. I was burning up with fever and just wanted to make this flight home. Otherwise, I'd be stuck in Lusaka for another week. British Air only departed from here every Tuesday. The flight was already boarding.
Flipping open some much folded travel itinerary, I spread it across the counter. "I have been on a photo safari for the past ten days," I finally managed to say, wiping a stray bead of moisture about to make a run down my nose, pointing at the documents.
With the sweat glistening across my face, I must have appeared to have been lying. She smiled in cat-like fashion.
"According to the most recent stamp you entered our county fifteen days ago briefly and then departed that same day. How did you come to be here again without another entry noted? There is clearly no stamp.”
My mind scrambled to do the math.
"Well," I began slowly, "I suppose that was when our river rafting party did cross over, briefly as you say, from Zimbabwe. It was only to resupply. We crossed back over the river that same day in order to complete our trip. I am guessing that my passport was overlooked when they were all being stamped again.” I spread more documents across the counter regarding the ten-day river rafting expedition. It was with a well-known, British-based organization.
"So you did not leave our country legally?" she said, leaning over the counter, ignoring the papers spread before her and waving my passport in the air.
"Not intentionally," I said. "It was a day filled with high drama. We had to portage a nasty waterfall, remain deathly still for half the day as we crossed through hippo alley and then save Todd," I pleaded.
"Portage, hippo alley, saving Todd?" she slowly repeated, as if trying to make sense of my rambling. "What do mean by all of this?
Two Americans in line behind me leaned in a little closer.
"This ought to be good," the man said to his wife.
"Well, there was a really tough spot on the Zambezi that is impossible to raft. It's a craggy thirty-foot drop. We had to disassemble all of the rafts and carefully walk them, along with all the gear, around this treacherous obstacle. That was the portage - it started the day."
"Wow," the man behind me said. "How long did that take? he asked.
"If you please, sir," the custom agent in the dark blue uniform scolded, "I will ask the questions here."
She turned to me once again, tugging her dark blue blazer smartly and asked, "How long did this take?" She looked at the man behind me with an air of smugness.
I gave the matter little thought as I was starting to feel a chill take hold of me. I was definitely ill. It had started two days earlier. I was hoping that all of those malaria pills had truly done their job for the past thirty days. If not, I was in for a rough time. Hopefully, it was just weariness finally catching up with me. A few days of sleep – in my own bed at home – ought to cure it, I hoped.
"About two hours," I said. "Would have been faster but Betty-Lou got wedged between two rocks while carrying the camp latrine bucket. It took us a while to free them both. It was no simple task as Betty-Lou is a big old Texas gal. With all of the pulling and prying, we lost the lid to the bucket unfortunately. And let me tell you, old Betty-Lou didn't smell any too great after that episode. It's just a good thing that she fell into the river once we got her unstuck. It cleaned her up considerably."
"Oh my goodness!" the wife behind me gasped. "Was she hurt? Did she nearly drown? Did the rapids take her over the falls?"
"Please, Miss," the agent across the counter reprimanded, "I'll do the interrogation."
The slender official, with skin the color of highly polished ebony, leaned in a little closer. She had the brightest, whitest teeth I’d ever seen. "What became of the large woman from Texas?" she asked.
"Well," I continued, “fortunately for her, she was wearing a life vest. We all were, just in case of a fall-in. A couple of us scrambled pretty quickly and lent her a hand. With considerable effort we were able to haul her soggy butt back onto the rocks. It all ended well - and her with nary a scratch – just a bit of a stench, you know.”
"This is not properly stamped," she said in very precise, crisp English. "How long have you been in our country and what have you been doing?" she asked accusingly.
I wiped a clammy hand across a sweating brow. I was burning up with fever and just wanted to make this flight home. Otherwise, I'd be stuck in Lusaka for another week. British Air only departed from here every Tuesday. The flight was already boarding.
Flipping open some much folded travel itinerary, I spread it across the counter. "I have been on a photo safari for the past ten days," I finally managed to say, wiping a stray bead of moisture about to make a run down my nose, pointing at the documents.
With the sweat glistening across my face, I must have appeared to have been lying. She smiled in cat-like fashion.
"According to the most recent stamp you entered our county fifteen days ago briefly and then departed that same day. How did you come to be here again without another entry noted? There is clearly no stamp.”
My mind scrambled to do the math.
"Well," I began slowly, "I suppose that was when our river rafting party did cross over, briefly as you say, from Zimbabwe. It was only to resupply. We crossed back over the river that same day in order to complete our trip. I am guessing that my passport was overlooked when they were all being stamped again.” I spread more documents across the counter regarding the ten-day river rafting expedition. It was with a well-known, British-based organization.
"So you did not leave our country legally?" she said, leaning over the counter, ignoring the papers spread before her and waving my passport in the air.
"Not intentionally," I said. "It was a day filled with high drama. We had to portage a nasty waterfall, remain deathly still for half the day as we crossed through hippo alley and then save Todd," I pleaded.
"Portage, hippo alley, saving Todd?" she slowly repeated, as if trying to make sense of my rambling. "What do mean by all of this?
Two Americans in line behind me leaned in a little closer.
"This ought to be good," the man said to his wife.
"Well, there was a really tough spot on the Zambezi that is impossible to raft. It's a craggy thirty-foot drop. We had to disassemble all of the rafts and carefully walk them, along with all the gear, around this treacherous obstacle. That was the portage - it started the day."
"Wow," the man behind me said. "How long did that take? he asked.
"If you please, sir," the custom agent in the dark blue uniform scolded, "I will ask the questions here."
She turned to me once again, tugging her dark blue blazer smartly and asked, "How long did this take?" She looked at the man behind me with an air of smugness.
I gave the matter little thought as I was starting to feel a chill take hold of me. I was definitely ill. It had started two days earlier. I was hoping that all of those malaria pills had truly done their job for the past thirty days. If not, I was in for a rough time. Hopefully, it was just weariness finally catching up with me. A few days of sleep – in my own bed at home – ought to cure it, I hoped.
"About two hours," I said. "Would have been faster but Betty-Lou got wedged between two rocks while carrying the camp latrine bucket. It took us a while to free them both. It was no simple task as Betty-Lou is a big old Texas gal. With all of the pulling and prying, we lost the lid to the bucket unfortunately. And let me tell you, old Betty-Lou didn't smell any too great after that episode. It's just a good thing that she fell into the river once we got her unstuck. It cleaned her up considerably."
"Oh my goodness!" the wife behind me gasped. "Was she hurt? Did she nearly drown? Did the rapids take her over the falls?"
"Please, Miss," the agent across the counter reprimanded, "I'll do the interrogation."
The slender official, with skin the color of highly polished ebony, leaned in a little closer. She had the brightest, whitest teeth I’d ever seen. "What became of the large woman from Texas?" she asked.
"Well," I continued, “fortunately for her, she was wearing a life vest. We all were, just in case of a fall-in. A couple of us scrambled pretty quickly and lent her a hand. With considerable effort we were able to haul her soggy butt back onto the rocks. It all ended well - and her with nary a scratch – just a bit of a stench, you know.”
“Oh, thank heavens!” the wife exclaimed.
“Way to go, kid,” the husband chimed in.
The custom agent cleared her throat, attempting to regain control
of the investigation.
“And what precisely is ‘hippo alley?” she enquired.
“That,” I answered, “was a creepy experience. After the portage we entered a very slow
section of the river, totally devoid of rapids.
It was also filled with hundreds of hippos. The boatmen said we had to be totally silent
as we rowed on through. Seems they, the
hippos that is, don’t take kindly to anything baring their way. They’ll walk across the bottom of the river
in order to cross to the other side, you see, and if they notice anything
foreign floating above them, they become aggressive. They are a little near-sighted, I am told –
and not too bright either.”
“Did they attack the rafts?” the wife asked, suddenly filled with
alarm.
The agent forgave the question apparently and waited for my reply.
“No,” I said, reaching for the checkered bandanna loosely tied
about my neck. I was sweating profusely
and starting to wonder when the questions would end. “We made it through without incident. But, I would not care to take on one of those
guys any time soon - big teeth and all..."
“And, what of this ‘saving of Todd’ business?" asked the agent. "Can you tell us – rather, tell me, what that means?”
“Well,” I began, after we got past all of those hippos, Todd broke
out his kayak and decided to paddle on ahead of us all. He was the photographer for the trip and was
always looking for new stuff to shoot.
He didn’t see the crocodile coming toward him until it was nearly too
late.”
“Oh, good lord!” the couple exclaimed in unison. They were now
standing to either side of me.
“No, no, it turned out all right,” I said, taking the wife’s hand
and gently patting it. “Todd heard our
yells and looked up in time to see that big old reptile making a beeline
straight for him. I am sure, in his
pea-brained way of thinking – the croc’s that is - Todd looked to be no more
than two feet tall, with his legs stretched out in the kayak and all. He probably just looked like a nice appetizer
to that big old guy. He had to have been
at least fifteen-sixteen feet long.”
“Well, anyway, once Todd caught sight of the crock, he set down
that camera and began to paddle like crazy.
He put some quick distance between him and his pursuer, that’s for
sure. But, just when he stopped
paddling, thinking he was in the clear, that crock put on the speed once
again. All we could see was a pair of
hungry eyes, a snout and a tail barreling down on poor young Todd like a
torpedo out of hell. Our yells got Todd’s attention once more and he laid into
those paddles pretty damn quick.”
I had to gently un-pry the wife’s grip on my hands.
“I don’t think that Todd would have made it out of that pickle had
the rafts not been as close as they were to him. By the time he zoomed in beside us, so that
we could haul both he and the kayak aboard, that crock was nearly upon him –
maybe just a foot of two away. He dived
under the raft once he saw the jig was up.
But, it was a close one. Todd
decided he had enough film footage for one day and stayed aboard the raft until
we all put ashore to get resupplied. And
that brings us around as to why we’d had a little drama that day and perhaps
why my passport was overlooked in the stamping process.”
There was an
announcement over the terminal loudspeaker. It was a last call for my flight.
"So, what do you say," I asked, more than a tad feverish.
For once the couple standing beside me held their thoughts to themselves
"This is highly unusual and probably Ill-advised of me," said the no-nonsense lady now holding my fate in her hand. But with the dexterity of one accustomed to the theatrical, she stamped my passport and passed it over.
"Have a safe journey home," she said with just the hint of a smile. “Next in line please!”
"Thank you," I replied gratefully, grabbing my back pack and duffel bag.The man beside me gave my hand a hearty shake; his wife embraced me. I turned and ran for the gate.
"So, what do you say," I asked, more than a tad feverish.
For once the couple standing beside me held their thoughts to themselves
"This is highly unusual and probably Ill-advised of me," said the no-nonsense lady now holding my fate in her hand. But with the dexterity of one accustomed to the theatrical, she stamped my passport and passed it over.
"Have a safe journey home," she said with just the hint of a smile. “Next in line please!”
"Thank you," I replied gratefully, grabbing my back pack and duffel bag.The man beside me gave my hand a hearty shake; his wife embraced me. I turned and ran for the gate.
I slid into the last seat on the plane. It was also in the last row, directly in front of the rear lavatories – cramped, claustrophobic and slightly-reeking coach accommodations. I felt as stuck as Betty-Lou. It also smelled as if she were not far away.
The thought of dropping into a cool river,
despite the peril of crushing falls, hippo alley or hungry crocs, was suddenly
quite appealing.
Instead, I
fell into a deep, fever-induced sleep.
It was my passport home.
great travel memories!! thank you for sharingt
ReplyDeleteThanks, as always, Dave!
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