Let the chaos begin!
Claiming luggage at Robersfield in Monrovia, Liberia.

  Arriving in Liberia always is an adventure. Someday I might hire a film crew to capture the whole ordeal. Or, I could cajole a film maker to join me on a trip.
  All passengers must walk off the plane, down the movable stairs, to the tarmac. The first blast of Liberian humidity, followed by the heat, is the first evidence that one has arrived.
  The immigration windows are reminiscent of ticket booths outside the rides at the county fair, except that they are glassed in. For 300 or so passengers there are three windows for non-Liberians and non-diplomats. The ques form quickly.
  Squeeze past the growing crowd outside of baggage claim and let the chaos begin. Depending upon which side you stand, the belt is a low "d" or "p" (with the rounded part exag-gerated.) The luggage removal and claim process is furious. Travelers are anxious to be reunited with their bags. Airline employees want to move things along as quickly as possible. And . . . and, then there are the men who make a living assisting passengers at journey's end.
  These porters are a shrewd and industrious bunch. Some have keen memories that allow them to pick out frequent fliers. Doing so and doing a good job of retrieval ensures good tips and good service. Often one man will try to engage as many passengers as possible, resulting in something akin to a postmodern ballet of twists, turns, and lifts, all accompanied with nods, glances, and an occasional shout out from a passenger. "No, a RED ribbon!" "Oh, there it is!"

Not an empty hat.

  On this day I had two porters who thought they were "working" for me. Indeed, I recognized one from an earlier visit and we greeted with the traditional Liberian greeting, "Welcome, welcome!" and the elaborate handshake that ends with finger snapping--one finger of one person against one finger of another. "Hello, Doc!" he shouted, "you came back!" "What bags you have?" I pointed to my hat, with its orange bandanna as a hatband. "Three like this," I said.
  Soon I had my bags, but not until a short-but-animated conversation between the two porters who thought they were working for me. The first one--who had greeted me in a snappy way--won the argument. The second, whom I did not "hire," had merely told me to look for my bags and let him know when they arrived.
  In a matter of minutes I was whisked through customs (my porter did most of the talking) and found myself on the curb with a luggage trolley. Another snappy handshake, this one with folded bills included, and I was back home in Liberia.