Well, I’m here. Ghana, that is. Sans baggage. As those of you who know me can attest, I travel light. The airlines obviously think that my anorexic bags are more than they can handle because they always leave them behind. This time for five days. Normally I wouldn’t be miffed. It happens everytime I fly. But this time, I was carrying contraband; medicine for a rural clinic some of which needed to be refridgerated. Nor could I slip through customs undetected. Everything was searched by the hypervigilant, exceptionally bored customs agent sitting in the lost bag centre. I mean everything down to my choice of toiletries. One conversation went like this:
“What’s this?”
(He can’t be serious! I cast a glance at the female customs agent to the side.) “A tampon”
Turning to the female customs agent, he asks for confirmation in Twi. He still doesn’t seem to understand.
(Has this man never been with a woman!)
I explain the nitty gritty in detail. He practically launches the tampon across the room. A smidgen of my explosive laughter escapes before I contain myself because I don’t want to be thrown in jail for smuggling. They let me through after doing an ear, nose and throat exam on one of the customs agents and providing ample entertainment with feminine hygiene products.
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