The sun had just set as the plane lowered its landing gear and started its final approach. Out the window, I could see the sprawling city in ruins below me. The dying light cast deepening shadows over a warren of rubble and tarp shelters. Palm trees swayed peacefully by the shimmering bay on one side, and slums clung precariously to the towering mountains on the other.
“Oh my goodness,” a woman in the row behind me gasp in disbelief, “It looks like something from World War Two, just shells of buildings. And why is it so dark? There are no lights on anywhere”
“That’s the government,” the woman in the next seat over replied, “they turn off the power at sunset anytime the there is unrest. Keeps people off the streets at night.” We landed and bounced twice before finally settling down onto the tarmac. My stomach flipped inside me, not from the flight but from knowing what I had to do next. During the eternal wait that is leaving a crowded airplane, I stared anxiously out the window to where the luggage was being unloaded in hopes of spotting my bag. My bag, that worn and faded thing. My bag, the reason I was here. My bag, stuffed to the gills with fifty pounds of drugs that I now had to smuggle past customs and into the country.
When an eon had passed and it was my turn to go, I grabbed the backpack that held all of my things from under the seat in front of me and made my way to the door. The jetway deposited me into the cavernous cinder block room that made up the entirety of the terminal building. The first thing that struck me about the place on entering was not the churning sea of humanity or the impossibly stagnant and humid air, or even the fact that the lights were still on in the building, but the overwhelming number of heavily armed men. They were everywhere, covering all the exits and looking over people as they moved about. Local paramilitary leaning relaxed against walls and UN peacekeepers watchfully patrolling.
It’s going to be ok, I thought in an attempt to calm my nerves, just check in, grab your bag, smile at the customs guy and walk out the door. You have done this before. It will be fine. You aren’t going to go to sleep in a third world jail tonight. I rocked my left foot back and forth, trying and failing to feel the bribe money I had hidden there as a last resort. Screwing a hollow smile on my face and attempting to exude confidence, I got in the immigration line and worked my way to the counter. In the larger half of the room beyond immigration was baggage claim. Great heaps of luggage sat in numerous piles on the floor with no regard whatsoever for flight number or owner. I peered around the people in front of me and was relieved to see my faded red duffle half buried in a pyramid-shaped stack. Then, in the very next moment, my gaze fell on a sight that froze my blood.
On the other side of baggage claim, a german shepherd the size of a wolf prowled about sniffing suitcases and people. The massive dog was held in check by a redheaded Canadian in bright green camo with a sky blue cover on one sleeve. He looked as stout as an oak, and half as tall. Easily able to handle the dog’s short leash while having a rifle slung across his chest.
No no no, I yelled in my head as the dog circled around the back wall. I had to get going, I had to get through this line, get my bag, and escape before the dog got too close. The line moved ahead and it was my turn. I handed over my passport with a small joke and answered a couple of questions. All the while casting sideways glances at the beast that could take me down. The woman stamped my passport and handed it back. I thanked her and moved cautiously deeper into the room. To my left just past the lone customs desk waited the door and for a heartbeat, I considered abandoning the drugs and making a break for it. But no, the pay off was too great to simply give up now. With my heart thundering so loudly I was sure everyone in the building could hear it, I strode to the pile and wrenched my bag free. When I looked up the dog was staring right at me. It did not move towards me, but it did not look away either. The handler was preoccupied by a pair of distraught french women and did not notice when the dog started to whimper. I didn’t hesitate, I lifted the bag and started towards customs with a singular focus. There was no line in front of the frumpy and bored man sitting behind a battered desk so I walked right up and handed over my papers. He looked them over with disinterest at first, asking a few shallow questions. However, something must have piqued his interest because the inquiry grew deeper and his eyes narrowed. I smiled, but not too much, and bluffed the best I knew how. He continued to look at me and I could see the contemplation in his eyes. Time froze. The noise and bustle vanished as I waited for this underpaid bureaucrat to decide my fate. Just when I knew that I must surely be doomed, he shrugged his shoulders and stamped my papers. I wanted to leap with joy but forced myself to remain casual. I picked up my bag and got moving. Ahead lay the door, a glass portal into darkness and safety. With measured steps, I pressed forward, not daring to look back and fearing that each new moment would bring shouts and barks. The last few feet seemed like miles. When the doors finally pulled open with a swoosh, a flood of slightly cooler air brought the tropical smells of salt water, spicy food, and raw sewage. I inhaled deeply as the UN soldiers and gaggles of local men wanting to carry my bag passed into my wake. My pace quickened as I zigzagged around cars in the parking lot, endeavoring to break line of sight with anyone who might be watching from the terminal and fade away. At the very back of the lot, a short American woman with a dour expression and a rail-thin local man leaned against an ancient pickup truck. They didn’t move a muscle as I approached and dropped the bag on the ground.
“I trust things went well,” She said in a neutral tone, “Did you get it?”
“Yep,” I replied, nudging the bag with my foot “Fifty pounds of the good stuff, everything that you wanted.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” she said her voice betraying a hidden excitement.
“Oh, oh that. You want that now?” I grinned as the tension of the last few hours started to melt away and took off my backpack, undoing the main compartment before holding it open to her.
“Oh thank God, I’ve needed this so badly.” she exclaimed reaching in and plucking out the red and white bag of Chik-Filet I purchased for her in the Atlanta airport. She opened it like a kid on christmas, and shoved three cold waffle fries into her mouth. She savored every chew with a smile before saying, “Well hop in, we have a long way to go and the bridge is out again so we will have to wait in line to ford the river.” I tossed my bags in the truck bed and climbed up after them. Before I was even settled, the truck growled to life and lurched forward. Starting me down the long road to the clinic.
Just One Quick Story 