In Transit

I have finally learned to work the Tanzanian airline system. Well...sort of.

Having already paid TZS 70000 to bring both of my suitcases on the flight to Arusha, I decided to try to trade one of my suitcases for a carry-on-sized one from my colleagues. That way, I could check one suitcase to Dar and carry on my backpack and their suitcase. Foolproof, right?

When I arrived at the check-in counter, I found that my bag was slightly overweight. Not a big deal, I could just rearrange a few things or pay the extra TZS 5000/kilo. Once I got all of that nearly sorted out, the woman behind the counter looked at my carry-on.

“That’s too big.”

Oof. I was hoping to avoid this struggle. I’d had my friend take out enough stuff such that the carry-on didn’t stick out at all. I knew it would fit in the overhead bin, because it was smaller than my backpack. I didn’t want to bring this last point to her attention, however.

After trying to reassure her that it would fit, while also trying to cover up the size of my bulging backpack, she had me weigh it. Her coworkers stationed at other counters, as well as the shuttle driver began to crowd around where she was standing. This was probably the most action they’d seen all day. They all gasped a unison, Ayyahhh! when my carry-on came in at 12 kilos.

“The weight limit is 7 kilos for a carry-on.”

I had been traveling alone for the past 3 years with all sorts of overweight luggage, over-sized carry-ons and the like. That TZS 70000 I’d had to pay had been a blow to my pride and I refused to let it happen again. I dropped to my knees. No, no in defeat, but in full on offense—I was going to rearrange like a master. I pulled out the small duffle bag that I had purchased for just this sort of situation and began puling things out of the carry-on. If I was going to have to pay an excess luggage fee, I was going to make sure I at least had as much in something I could put on the plane as possible.

They all eyed the duffel bag like spectators watching en extra handful of passengers attempting to squeeze into an already overstuffed Daladala. Everyone knew it couldn’t be good. Weight: 11 kilos. I sighed, beginning to accept defeat. Having been satisfied to see the Daladala overturn and begin to burn, the shuttle driver began making his way back to his station. The others followed suit.

“So what should I do?” I asked, “in America you can have two carry-ons—one to put above and one to put under your seat. Can I not do that?”

She thought for a moment. She looked left, she looked right. “Put a few things into there,” she said, pointing at the carry-on. I reluctantly moved my friend’s GRE books—the heaviest load in the suitcase—back into the suitcase. With each book, I watched the total weight go up by one kilo. “Okay, when you get on the plane, put the bag under your seat and put your backpack on the top.”

She was letting me go... free. I looked at the scale, and then at her. “Is there nothing else?”

“You can go.”

“Asante sana, dada! Asante sana,” I just managed to breathe out before gathering up all of my things and scampering off before she could change her mind.

So now here I sit in Zanzibar—yes, Zanzibar—reminiscing on this happy moment while I wait for our plane to be fixed. Don’t worry, just your typical case of deplaning for engine problems. I’ll still arrive hours before my friends and it’s nice to have the time to sit and reflect. It’s also a bit of foreshadowing of what Zanzibar will be like for our trip next week!