Kenya, July 22, 2008
I bet a smart thief knows the smallest bag has the most valuables, I mused, rearranging my luggage so my smallest bag wasn’t within snatching distance from anyone who might sneak up behind me. In it was my computer, camera, and canvas case where I carried my passport, e-ticket, credit cards, licenses and other important documents.
I wasn’t even supposed to be at the airport, except that I had misread my itinerary, thinking my flight was in the morning. I was so eager to be on my way, so looking forward to seeing my family and spending a long-awaited annersary on the coast with Jose. Now I was waiting for our driver to take me back to the guest house to await my evening flight.
I leaned my head against the back of the bus-stop for just a second, and then checked my luggage again. A man in a nice suit and a purple tie came and sat next to me. “Excuse me, is the bus coming this morning?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, wondering why he was asking me such a silly question. “I’m not waiting for the bus, I have a driver coming for me.”
We chit-chatted, and after a pause the man go up to leave. “Excuse me, I have to go check something,” he said.
Those simple, absurd parting words will forever be lodged in my mind. At the moment, however, I just leaned my head against the backboard again. It had been a very short night, and now I felt like all the excitement of getting somewhere was paused. I opened my eyes again and checked my luggage. Where I expected to see my smallest bag was NOTHING!!!
“My bag is gone!” I gasped out loud, hardly believing what I was seeing. “My bag is gone,” I stood staring at the spot, then looked around me pathetically. Two gentlemen at the far end of the bench looked on with concern. I looked around the back of the bus stop, hoping to see someone carrying it. I put my hands on my head and fought back tears. “My bag is gone! My passport!” I was stuck! Like a flash I remembered the name of a friend's son who worked in the embassy. I would have to stay until I could get a new passport. I would miss my anniversary. “Oh no no noooooo!”
What should I do? Run around looking? If I left the other two bags, they’d disappear, too. There were no police or security in sight. One of the gentlemen at the end of the bench got up and looked around, as helpless as myself. He asked me if I had known the man with the purple tie. That’s it! My heart sunk. How many times had I been told, if someone comes up to talk to you, they’re probably working with someone who will rob you while you're distracted. Oh why had I been so foolish? So trusting? Even now I just could hardly believe anyone could be so mean to me!
Then, quite inadvertantly I touched my pocket and felt the most wonderful thing in the world: my passport! I can’t explain the extent of my relief, even as I took inventory and realized that my precious computer and camera were gone. Still, I could go HOME!
The gentleman from the end of the bench led me across the street to where a man in uniform stood. He directed us to another bus stop at the airport exit. The instructed me to get on the bus and see if I could recognise anyone. It was awkward with all my luggage on my shoulders, and I didn’t see a purple tie anywhere. From there we were sent to the police station over the underpass, down a hill, under the underpass, across the street…. The gentleman who was helping me offered to carry one of my bags. I hesitated only for a millisecond before handing it to him. I felt the foolhardiness of the act, at such a moment, and yet I had to do it, just like a rider has to get back in the saddle after being bucked off. In every country I have traveled there have been moments of helplessness, moments when I had to risk trusting someone who could take advantage me. Moments like those have shown me goodness in the hearts of complete strangers, the absence of which would have made progress impossible. And just like all the other times, I realized, as I watched that stranger carrying my bag, that people need people.
Besides, I thought grimly, fingering my passport again, other than this, I don’t have anymore valuables to steal!
At the police station we were taken to a back room and seated around a table with half a dozen staff. They seemed completely at a loss to know what to do about the situation. I had to tell the story several times, and then the man across from me asked, “Can you identify the man who spoke to you?”
“He had a nice suit and a purple tie…” I faltered, too embarrassed to tell him that everyone looked alike to me.
“You should know,” said a guy leaning back with his arms crossed, “You need to
take care of your bags.”
Thanks. Dude. You're so helpful!
I tried to talk, but my words got stuck. I couldn’t keep the tears in check anymore as I thought about all that had gone with my computer. I felt so humiliated and ludicrous, unable to talk or hold back my crying in that room full of strangers.
“Tek it easy, sista’,” I heard several voices attempt to comfort.
The police asked the other gentleman a few questions, but I knew except for a miracle, my bag was gone forever. “Excuse me,” I ventured, trying to dry my eyes. “Would you mind if I said a prayer?” I looked around and they nodded. We all bowed our heads and I asked God, if it was His will, to please return my valuables.
Then I started thinking about James who would be looking for me. “I have to go,” I told them, promising to come back.
The other gentleman, who’s name I finally learned was Boniface, helped me carry my things back to the bus bench in front of the terminal. I found James, who drove me back to the police department, where they wrote up a report. Since I had only the 1200 shilings (about $17) that Darryl had given me, it made no sense to try to go back to the guest house, so I found a seat at an outdoor restaurant, and passed the long cold hours militantly guarding the rest of my luggage, which, I reminded myself were not half as valuable as what I had already lost.
During the next 40 hours I shed a few tears and thanked God countless times for the passport in my pocket and the rumble of a moving jet under my seat. At last I landed on U.S. soil and was met at the airport by my mother. It felt so unbelievably good to be wrapped in that a familiar embrace, and when we met Jose I knew that I still had my most valuable treasures, and I thanked God one more time.
“I don’t know,” I answered, wondering why he was asking me such a silly question. “I’m not waiting for the bus, I have a driver coming for me.”
We chit-chatted, and after a pause the man go up to leave. “Excuse me, I have to go check something,” he said.
Those simple, absurd parting words will forever be lodged in my mind. At the moment, however, I just leaned my head against the backboard again. It had been a very short night, and now I felt like all the excitement of getting somewhere was paused. I opened my eyes again and checked my luggage. Where I expected to see my smallest bag was NOTHING!!!
“My bag is gone!” I gasped out loud, hardly believing what I was seeing. “My bag is gone,” I stood staring at the spot, then looked around me pathetically. Two gentlemen at the far end of the bench looked on with concern. I looked around the back of the bus stop, hoping to see someone carrying it. I put my hands on my head and fought back tears. “My bag is gone! My passport!” I was stuck! Like a flash I remembered the name of a friend's son who worked in the embassy. I would have to stay until I could get a new passport. I would miss my anniversary. “Oh no no noooooo!”
What should I do? Run around looking? If I left the other two bags, they’d disappear, too. There were no police or security in sight. One of the gentlemen at the end of the bench got up and looked around, as helpless as myself. He asked me if I had known the man with the purple tie. That’s it! My heart sunk. How many times had I been told, if someone comes up to talk to you, they’re probably working with someone who will rob you while you're distracted. Oh why had I been so foolish? So trusting? Even now I just could hardly believe anyone could be so mean to me!
Then, quite inadvertantly I touched my pocket and felt the most wonderful thing in the world: my passport! I can’t explain the extent of my relief, even as I took inventory and realized that my precious computer and camera were gone. Still, I could go HOME!
The gentleman from the end of the bench led me across the street to where a man in uniform stood. He directed us to another bus stop at the airport exit. The instructed me to get on the bus and see if I could recognise anyone. It was awkward with all my luggage on my shoulders, and I didn’t see a purple tie anywhere. From there we were sent to the police station over the underpass, down a hill, under the underpass, across the street…. The gentleman who was helping me offered to carry one of my bags. I hesitated only for a millisecond before handing it to him. I felt the foolhardiness of the act, at such a moment, and yet I had to do it, just like a rider has to get back in the saddle after being bucked off. In every country I have traveled there have been moments of helplessness, moments when I had to risk trusting someone who could take advantage me. Moments like those have shown me goodness in the hearts of complete strangers, the absence of which would have made progress impossible. And just like all the other times, I realized, as I watched that stranger carrying my bag, that people need people.
Besides, I thought grimly, fingering my passport again, other than this, I don’t have anymore valuables to steal!
At the police station we were taken to a back room and seated around a table with half a dozen staff. They seemed completely at a loss to know what to do about the situation. I had to tell the story several times, and then the man across from me asked, “Can you identify the man who spoke to you?”
“He had a nice suit and a purple tie…” I faltered, too embarrassed to tell him that everyone looked alike to me.
“You should know,” said a guy leaning back with his arms crossed, “You need to
take care of your bags.”
Thanks. Dude. You're so helpful!
I tried to talk, but my words got stuck. I couldn’t keep the tears in check anymore as I thought about all that had gone with my computer. I felt so humiliated and ludicrous, unable to talk or hold back my crying in that room full of strangers.
“Tek it easy, sista’,” I heard several voices attempt to comfort.
The police asked the other gentleman a few questions, but I knew except for a miracle, my bag was gone forever. “Excuse me,” I ventured, trying to dry my eyes. “Would you mind if I said a prayer?” I looked around and they nodded. We all bowed our heads and I asked God, if it was His will, to please return my valuables.
Then I started thinking about James who would be looking for me. “I have to go,” I told them, promising to come back.
The other gentleman, who’s name I finally learned was Boniface, helped me carry my things back to the bus bench in front of the terminal. I found James, who drove me back to the police department, where they wrote up a report. Since I had only the 1200 shilings (about $17) that Darryl had given me, it made no sense to try to go back to the guest house, so I found a seat at an outdoor restaurant, and passed the long cold hours militantly guarding the rest of my luggage, which, I reminded myself were not half as valuable as what I had already lost.
During the next 40 hours I shed a few tears and thanked God countless times for the passport in my pocket and the rumble of a moving jet under my seat. At last I landed on U.S. soil and was met at the airport by my mother. It felt so unbelievably good to be wrapped in that a familiar embrace, and when we met Jose I knew that I still had my most valuable treasures, and I thanked God one more time.