Smuggling Bombil and the Art of Pusch-in

It seems quite sensible to the rational man that an airplane has a finite carrying capacity, and excess weight is not a good idea, in a Newtonian sense at least. Perhaps it is because our forefathers travelled for months by steamship that a tradition of overpacking has been maintained over decades, despite progress in baggage materials and the shelf-life of food. Seasoned white travellers with their ultra-lite Samsonite are scoffed at, we prefer the family pethi, the trunk still marked with the signs of that first journey on the Truro, kept at the end of the bed ready for the next grand trek. The smell of Bombil (dried fish, known as Bombay duck in English) fills the air when it is opened, as much an insect-repellant as it is a deterrant to any customs officer who would dare open it for inspection. "Aaah", cries the matriarch with a pang of nostalgia, her turmeric-stained hands clasped to her bosom. "The smell of the motherland"

The art of Pusch-in is passed down through the generations, and is characterised by the systematic disregard for the basical principle that no two objects may occupy the same space at the same time, with specific reference to luggage. Relatives, aware of an impending journey, traditionally try to get the most impractical object to challenge the Puscher, and points are given for not only the number of extra objects, but also their size and the potential for incurring a fine or establishing alien vegetation at the country of destination. Failure to include an object is seen as a personal insult to the party bearing the gift, resulting in an honour-deficit which may take years to resolve. Teams of specialist Puschers have been established, and may be seen packing with fervour accompanied by the call of "Pusch-in, Pusch-in", and hence the name.