I am Tony’s baggage.
Usually, I just hang around on the floor in his apartment, being kept company by his clothes, underwear and socks. But two Saturdays ago, he said: “Amigo, we’re going to Spain.” So I packed in a hurry, off to airport.
My problems began at Bole Airport in Addis Ababa.
As Tony animatedly chatted with some Ethiopian woman about a ‘missed flight,’ I was packed into the cargo hold, and we left Tony behind with the Ethiopian. And I am thinking, whatever happened to “the trolleys before the hoes?”
The piece of luggage next to me seemed to have more problems than myself, though. It said its Pakistani owner, Moulef, had told it to “go to paradise” (which in his coded way of speaking was ‘go to hell!’).
“I am going to blow myself up,” she threatened. I told her no relationship in the world is worth killing yourself over. By the time we landed in Madrid on Sunday morning, she seemed fine.
But I was not.
I sat in circles in the incoming baggage section of the airport, and watched as other luggage was lovingly picked up by its owners. Until I was the only one left! It reminded me of boarding school, one visiting day, when my folks forgot to come. And I was left bereft and devastated as other luggage happily chatted with their parents.
Anyway, they took me from Terminal I to Terminal IV. Which is sort of like being transferred from the General Ward to the High Dependency Unit in hospital.
And locked me up that Sunday night alone in a security room, like I was in ‘solitary’ or something in prison.
I sang resistance songs to keep my spirits up (which I had been taught by a South African luggage on a long haul to Cape Town once). Would I be transferred to Guantanamo Bay?
Next day, I am taken to Terminal III. We are going to a city called Santiago de Compostella, and I am so excited about my new-found freedom, I try to chat up other luggage, but they turn away. Yet I know I have a ‘nice package.’ Then I realize what it is. I have cell breath (and I vow to buy Colgate up ahead).
We land in Santiago, and again, I am left alone in the baggage section.
I want to kill myself! Luckily I am taken to the ‘Lost Luggage’ section, and find I am not the only one abandoned. Unity is strength! We speak of the callousness of those who have left us, and find closure. We accept our new status – from Baggage to Garbage! We cry, and drink lots of rum for comfort.
Baggage blacks out!
When I wake up, it is Tuesday noon and I am being roughly rolled along the airport floor by a man in overalls.
‘Help,’ I shout to bypassing luggage, ‘I am been bag-napped.’ But the other baggage, secure in their rightful owners’ hands, ignore me and roll on.
An announcement comes over the intercom: ‘Unaccompanied luggage will be taken away and destroyed!’ ‘So this is how it ends?’ I think sadly. I will never take another trip again. I will never chat with Tony’s lost sock (it is always one) and giggle under the bed as he looks for it, and curses it.’
But turns out my ‘bag-napper’ is actually a delivery dude.
We head out in a van to a hotel called ‘Hesperia’ and I am dumped at the reception.
Tony dashes out of the elevator, as I stand there, cold and stiff.
But he is so delighted to see me, he actually hugs me, even as I take note he is still in Saturday’s clothes.
And I wonder – ‘does he really love me outside, or only for what’s inside?’
But I am the kind of luggage that does not carry baggage forward to my new destination.
Hand in hand, we roll to the lifts.