Transit Trauma
My little reflector teddy-bear—the one that I had for over twenty years, taken to India and Venezuela and had transferred to the new backpack when I’d dug out and discarded the old frame-pack—had been decapitated. It had been lashed tight with the boot strap and could not have snagged without ripping the strap as well. Something with sharp edges must have been dropped on it from a great height.
That something had also bust open my bottle of duty free gin which I had transferred to the backpack after being made to go through emigration and customs in Barbados. The gin had wetted through the cover material and the entire pack was reeking of it. A nice first impression this would make on the immigration officials here.
*
As usual, I had been among the last off the plane, but it didn’t worry me as I strolled to the transit desk at Bridgetown Airport. There was plenty of time.
“You have to check your bag,” the woman at the desk said.
“Pardon? It should have been put through to Port of Spain.”
She shook her head. “You’re not flying with British Airways?”
“Virgin Atlantic.” I thought I had made a smart move by avoiding Baggage Armageddon. Apparently not.
“Caribbean Airways has no agreement with Virgin Atlantic,” the woman said, handing me back my printout and passport. “You have to go through immigration.”
As I went to join the immigration queue in the adjacent hall, I saw that it filled the entire space, curling back on itself six times. I checked my watch: one hour and forty nine minutes remaining until departure.
What if my bag had been checked through after all? It clearly said PoS on my baggage label.
I turned back to the transit desk and wasted a further five minutes trying to argue my case. The woman kept shaking her head. My bag had been dumped right here in Bridgewater. VA had no understanding with Caribbean Airlines.
Thankfully, about half an hour later, somebody came and fast-tracked us. I like to think it was because I wasn’t the only transit passenger and they were rounding us up, but that proved incorrect. Some people grumbled that the last in the queue were now being let past them. I growled at them that they didn’t have a plane to catch, they had arrived.
There was luggage piled up everywhere in the arrivals’ hall, but my backpack wasn’t among it. The VA carousel had only just started rolling. For forty-five minutes I stood there and watched bags emerge, one—after a long break—after another, until something snagged and the thing ground to a prolongued hold. Twice.
When no more bags emerged, I asked one of the plentiful but uncommunicative staff and was told to check the floor, which I did for the fourth time. I fluttered frantically from one official to another muttering “transit, transit!”, pecking my watch with my finger. Forty minutes remained.
Eventually, somebody pointed at the back of the hall where my backpack was circling on a mini conveyorbelt all on its own.
I ripped it towards me and joined the queue at customs, more or less pressing past it. I didn’t care if customs decided to restrain me; I would probably have tried to box my way out of it.
Then I was free. I ran through the tropical heat to the departure hall, sliding on the rain-slicked tiles and queued up behind one other person who took five precious minutes over arguing a point with the check-in staff.
When I was finally waved forward, the flight had closed.
“I can put you on the next one,” the guy said, “but I don’t know whether there is room.”
Dazed, I nodded. I had more-or-less resigned myself to spending the night at Bridgetown airport. It was raining, but I didn’t mind. It was warm, and the air was fecund with the smell of greenery.
When I returned two hours later, the nice man had a boarding pass ready for me, and after I located the gate I thought my troubles were over.
A scant hour later, we touched down at Piarco International Airport.
*
To my surprise I wasn’t waved over by customs. That only left immigration, the last hurdle between me and Trinidad & Tobago. I was close, so close that I could almost smell it over the gin.
The queue was short, but the immigration officer took her time. I wasn’t encouraged when she talked at length to the woman in front of me, also a solo traveller, older than me. She was asked something and pulled out some papers from her bag, pushing them over the counter. That was not encouraging.
I put on my sweetest smile and cursed the smell of gin as I was waved up. The IO raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything.
“Where are you staying in Trinidad?”
“Pearl Guesthouse.” (I think.)
“what is the purpose of your visit.”
“Holiday.”
“How long is your stay?”
All these questions were already on the form I filled out. Was the IO testing my memory or something? “Seven weeks—forty-nine days.”
That earned me another pair of raised eyebrows. Suddenly I felt sweat trickling down my spine. This woman could bar my entry into the country. If she wanted to, she could put me on the next plane home. It happens to enough people coming to the UK.
“And what do you intend to do in all that time?”
“Dunno, travelling around Trinidad and Tobago.” Think! “I like diving and bird watching.”
“Can I see your itinerary?”
Itinerary? Itinerary? I fumbled for my ticket-printout. The IO studied it for a while, even though all it listed were my flight details and dates of arrival and departure.
She went back to my passport and leaved through it. “You’ve got many stamps in here.”
“I like travelling.”
At that, her mood suddenly changed. I thought I saw a little nod, even the shadow of a smile. Then she picked up a stamp of her own and added the TT immigration seal to my growing collection.
“Have a good time. You be careful now!”
I smiled. “I’m always careful.”
A soft chorus of tropical frogs greeted me as I stepped out of the arrivals’ hall and walked straight up to a taxi. I had earned that ride.
Tags: Americas, Bridgetown, BWIA, Transfer, Travel, Virgin Atlantic, Tag Index
Denni
January 12th, 2009 at 16:06
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