Landing in India

I think I lost two days. I think there was a Wednesday morning where I wandered down the driveway proudly pulling a small suitcase on wheels. Then there was a flight to Amsterdam. And a shower and a cheese and cucumber sandwich grabbed at the Schipol airport lounge. There was a flight to Mumbai, a long wait through immigration. Two hours spent in an airport hotel where you book it by the hour like an illicit affair. Then another flight down the western coast of India to Kochin and now it’s Friday.

I think I also lost my mind. And that all started in India. The wait at immigration was inbetween annoying and silly. But I think you can hurl that at almost anything in India. It was an hour and a half of watching men and women in their glass topped booths take forever, call people forward with no sense of logic, suddenly get up and walk away just because they can. I checked my bag in for the upcoming flight at 1.55 am. And had another shower in my hourly hotel room. My alarm went off at 3.50 and I headed off to departures. What I found at every checkpoint was at least four people looking very polished and proud in uniforms doing the job of one. Four separate young men looked at my boarding pass as if there was a code within that only they could decipher. The security checkpoint was manned by four men in camouflage uniforms who were basically strutting around trying to look as if they had been to war and the line just wasn’t moving. Nobody knew what items to take off, the conveyor belt was jammed because coats and strollers were wider than the opening on the scanner, bells were going off and everyone was waiting in line to be patted down, but the “soldiers” were milling around as if someone had given them a special task and it was your job to guess what it was. So 30 minutes later,when I got to the next barrier where another four young men were waiting, it all became a bit of a panic. “Go to Gate 86.” “ Yes, she must go to 86” then the third got on his walkie talkie and said “ She’s coming now.” So I set off at a brisk pace and found gate 85 but was blowed if I could find it’s neighbour. Eventually the fourth one with his own walkie talkie in hand came running after me. “ It’s this way Ma’am. This way.” And he led me to Gate 86 which was hidden behind a distant pillar. The five people clustered there gave me a form and explained to me that my case had been taken off the plane because it contained something bad. Murmurs of a power pack. I spluttered something about not wanting to leave my case but one of the five, a uniformed woman said “ Madam, we need you to board the plane right now.” And they all looked away as if the conversation was over. So I grumped my way down the walkway and found my seat. When I landed in Kochin I went to the baggage desk, where a pretty young woman in a blue sari and braces on her teeth, went and got a woman in a blue trouser suit and then the blue sari girls multiplied and none of them did anything other than tolerate me as I tried to find out about my missing suitcase. I didn’t handle it well. It is why I am an amateur traveler. When things go wrong, nothing is remotely humorous. It is the world against well-meaning wendy. All is pear shaped and demoralisation is at every turn. I was now a world traveler in a foreign land with just the one blue backpack for a five week trip and the only thing I had in the way of being prepared for a crisis was one pair of Marks and Spencers knickers. Swear to God. The cocky person wheeling her rolling bag full of neat packets of clothing , all divided up into uses and textures, was now a crushed person with a water bottle, every kind of cable and one pair of knickers. The crushed person got her bag back dear reader. At almost midnight that evening. She now had alternatives to the slumpy, salty no-longer white cotton shirt that she had been wearing round half the world. She could explore Kerala as if everything had gone to plan.

The crushed person got her bag back dear reader. At almost midnight that evening. She now had alternatives to the slumpy, salty no-longer white cotton shirt that she had been wearing round half the world. She could explore Kerala as if everything had gone to plan.