It took me roughly an hour to get from Canary Wharf to Heathrow via the London Underground. It was a rather unpleasant experience having to lug my 24kg bag all the way to the station, and then from one jam packed carriage to the next. The sardines were not to impressed with me attempting this stunt during rush hour.
After finding my way to the Qatar desk at Terminal 3 I learnt that my travel agent never properly submitted the date change on my return ticket to Cape Town. This unfortunate mishap cost me £34 to rectify. After reluctantly parting with my sterling I joined the rest of the monkeys in a queue that lead to a circus that was Heathrow Security Check. I had to take of my shoes and had them x-rayed.
From here on everything went pretty smoothly. Except of course the part when the airhostess abruptly jumped up from her chair to fold away my screen as if I was a naughty kid and made me understand that there shall be no TV during takeoff. Oh, and the part where my dad called me during take off in Johannesburg and phone rang nokia style for about a minute before I could kill it. Other than that, the flight was mellow.
Now one thing you should probably know is that before heading to the airport I had laced my luggage with all kinds of merchandise that I bought for myself and the folks back home. So naturally after landing in Cape Town I was faced with a bit of a dilemma when confronted with customs. During the flight in my mind I tried hard to avoid the subject. The way I saw it my options were to either go straight to customs and explain to them that I had been a bit of a consumer whore. After doing this they would surely have some reason for wanting my money. Or I could go the alternative less ethical route and risk customs singling me out and discovering the contraband. The problem with the latter approach was that if they did end up busting me, my original plan was to claim ignorance. As I walked into the baggage area that excuse became a little less plausible. The place was littered with information on what might happen to me if caught evading the tax man. Amongst the possible consequences was the possibility of attestation and the confiscation of my stuff.
I contemplated my situation a little more as I waited for my bag at the carousel. I eventually decided that its better to risk going to jail than doing the “right thing”. I figured that if I could some how let customs see that I was South Afican, relaxed but also preoccupied all at the same time, the odds of them singling me out would be relatively slim. So I relaxed my shoulders, put a smile on my face (I’m relaxed), picked up the phone to dailed my mother (I’m preoccupied) and spoke to her in a loud Afrikaans (I’m South African) voice while walking past the scrutinising eyes of Local custom officials. They ended up singling out the poor Arab schmuck infront of me and let me and my loot out the door. 