Kano

So I arrive safe and sound in Kano.  As we exit the plane we are delivered onto the airport tarmac.   It’s hazy outside and the air smells of campfire.  We walk across the way to a white, adobe like building and enter a dimly lit doorway, outside of which is labeled “Arrivals” in black paint.  When we get inside I line up in front of a podium labeled with the placard “Other”.  Across from me a line forms in front of another podium labeled “Nigerians”.  Even though there’s a booth behind the podiums, fortified with glass, complete with immigration officers policing the modest crowd with their gaze, there’s an air of familiarity about as each person shows their passport and banters with acquaintances and officials.  Fanisa, my country advisor, and the program officer, Sophia, are some of them.  They send someone over to my side (of immigration) to assist and interpret if need be.  He’s very nice;0) 

When I approach the podium, my passport is inspected and everything is written down on a blue slip of paper.  I guess these papers don’t get lost.  I have a whole manilla envelope declaring my “legality” to the Nigerian Immigration Service…so I guess it doesn’t matter.   Once I’m allowed entrance my helper guy directs others to get my luggage, and I have to stand in front of a table while two immigration officers, or police, or military…I can’t really tell, demand that I open my bags. 

These guys are intimidating.  They don’t really smile and they look stern  (as I’m sure they’re supposed to).  They are dressed in khaki fatigues, wear berets, and have rifles with long, narrow barrels slung over their shoulders.  (I wonder what would have happened if I had asked to take my picture with them.)  When they aske me to open my first bag, which is locked with the airline’s lock, I ask for scissors to cut it.  One of the officers disappears and comes back with a knife.  This knife is unlike anything I have scene before.  It curves from the hilt, and then curves again…akin to something you might see in Arabian Knights, but much more discreet.  Part of the blade is lined with red.  It’s not blood; maybe it’s there so you’ll think it is.

My next bag is inspected by another officer.  He takes out index cards, holds them in the air and then close to his face.  I’m not sure if he has never seen index cards before or thinks that they are some sort of weapon in disguise.  After some contemplation and digging, he puts them back.  I try opening the third bag in a timely fashion, but because I forget the combination I am waived through.  Sophia, says it’s because the fact that I am willing to open it shows I have nothing to hide.  Phew. 

I am staying at the Bayecu Guest Palace; an establishment you’re invited to “test” and then “testify” to…really…it says so on their sign.  As we check-in I am quickly realizing there are people to do everything here for you.  I was so worried about managing my bags, but there are three young gentlemen who handle them for me.  They graciously carry my things, which are at least more than half their body weight, up the three flights of stairs to my room.  I say good night to Fanisa and Sophia, who remind me to be ready bright and early  (they even arrange for a wake up call for me).

My room is austere, simple yet functional, and I am welcome by a cricket serenade.  Exhausted, I decide to wash the last eight hours away.  What I don’t know is that there is a switch to turn on your water heater.  I also don’t know that if you’d like a hot shower, or bath as they refer to it here, you need to turn that switch on at least an hour beforehand.  Not to mention that the water pressure is weak…hence the hose like attachments, and a bucket, to douse where you need.  End result: a cold, yet refreshing, shower in a bucket.

As I get ready to plop into bed, I inspect the sheets.  They look clean, but upon closer inspection, there are some bugs and mosquitoes.  I should not be surprised, as this is Africa, right? Still, I’m glad I brought my own blanket.  I curl up on the settee with every limb covered when I hear something hit the floor.  It sounds like a soft thump.  I look up and see a giant brown blob on the wall.   I put on my shoes…not to smash it but to avoid it touching my feet in anyway.  I look again to the wall, but it’s gone…and then I see a big brown thing jump in the air and hit the ground again with that same soft thump…probably because it can’t fly due to its heavy bug body weight.  This, my friends, is my first encounter with a giant flying cockroach.  Thank God I did not have my glasses on to measure in clear detail all its giant abnormal cockroachiness.  With lights on  (except during power outages, which happen anywhere from five to ten times a day), blanket and clothes covering head to toe, I do not sleep a wink. 

Getting Here, Pt. 1

I'm in Africa now.  Or on the African continent, specifically in Nigeria.  It seems like it took forever to get here, a constant waiting game.  Waiting to be accepted into the IFESH volunteer program.  Waiting to tell others.   Waiting for my VISA.  Waiting for my final destination.  During this waiting period life went on.  I took a leave of absence from work, sublet my apartment, found a temporary, loving home for my birdie, fell in love, and experienced the trials and tribulations that happen as one tries to maintain balance in separating from one way of life and opening up and embracing another.

Part of my waiting involved three weeks sharing a teeny, tiny room with my brother, his huge TV and the contents of bags of luggage at my parents’ house.  While extremely grateful for having a rent-free place to live, the three weeks offered an uninvited flashback to adolescence.  Mother daughter competition.  Being in trouble.  Blame in the interrogative form.  “Amy,  what happened to ______________?” or “Why did you ____________________?” or “Who ate ______________________?” or “Where’s the/my ______________________?”  All minus the grounding AND the lectures  (save for one…and it was a little well-deserved).  After about two weeks, things sorted themselves out and we parted ways in a cum-ba-ya sort of way.

I didn’t realize how much this journey scares some people.  The response I get when I tell people what I’m doing can be boiled down to disgust, curiosity, enthusiasm, fear, support.  Some people view being sent to Nigeria as indentured service in Hell, while others can’t be excited enough for you and wish they were doing it themselves. My parents fall into the category of fear, mostly.  They fear I’m going to turn into a Muslim  (God forbid!), be kidnapped, killed, or persecuted in someway.  While some fears are understandable, all can be devastatingly consuming.  This is not to say that I don’t have fear. Today, while waiting for my connecting flight to Kano I became very anxious.  "What am I doing?" "What am I thinking?"  I had these same thoughts on the flight to S. Korea years ago when I last ventured abroad for work.  "What am I doing going to a place that I know nothing about?"  "How am I going to get around?"  "I am alone."  Those thoughts caused me to whip out my Fodor’s guide and learn as much as I can.  That probably lasted about an hour.  This time around I don’t have a Fodor’s guide…yet I do have the support of those around me to guide me.  I’m counting on their help of others and my sharp wit and wily ways to make a memorable, growing life experience. 

Getting Here, Pt. 2

It’s Oct. 23, the day I’m officially to begin a new journey.  Finally!  I am so excited!  No more waiting!  No more living in limbo!  I have my VISA and passport in hand, the luggage thing is all sorted out, and everything seems to be in its place.  We have a safe, uneventful journey to SFO, arrive before the countering agents and are even the first in line…only to find that there’s a change in plans.  My scheduled flight to has an eight hour delay.   This means that I will miss my connecting flight in Amsterdam to Kano.  Okay.  Not a problem.  I invite Resolve to permeate me and affect an aura of calm.  I will make some phone calls and see what the solution should be.  I try to call my country advisor, the IFESH office, and the travel agency.  Nothing.  It’s Sunday and all offices are closed.  It’s the wee hours of the morning in Kano.  Freak Out is starting to creep in.  I approach the ticketing counter once again; by now there are 50+ people crowded in line.  (It is not a fun day at KLM, who has now issued out a memo apologizing for the inconvenience.)  I let the agent know that I’ll take my flight out and go from Amsterdam to Kano the following day…only to find out that there are no connecting flights to Kano the following day.  Flight 577 is scheduled only several times a week.  Grrrrreeeeeeaaaatttttt…..I take it.  I’m trying to keep my inner Freak Out in check.  I send out mass emails and voicemails to my country advisor, colleagues, and the IFESH staff noting them of my new itinerary along with pleas to PLEASE have someone pick me up in Kano.  By now my Inner Freak Out has made her way into the public’s view, with brief appearances here and there…saying hello to all my colleagues, program officers, and Delta and KLM staff.  To get her out of the limelight I ground my time in Amsterdam and look forward to it as a time to recoup…if it weren’t for all my damned luggage.  How am I supposed to get around with four bags at the airport…half of which are half my weight?  F***!

While other like, back and forth, airline dramas occurred during the time of my delayed departure, I found solace in the knowing that this is all a great exercise in letting go.  So, I let go as much as I could, got on the plane, and got ready for Amsterdam.  

Amsterdam

Amsterdam was good.  Luggage was not a problem;0) And what I liked best was that I think it set the tone of my journey.  Case in point is my van driver.  Unfortunately I don’t know his name, but he goes by the initials H.V.  He is an enthusiastic Dutchman, with a keen sparkle in his blue eyes.  He’s 63, married to his “very young wife”  (whom I assume is at least half his age) and has two five year old sons…twins.  He’s termed being a shuttle driver as a “crap job”, yet plans to retire in a year to go sailing around the world…as soon as he finishes building his new boat.  This will be his second sail around the globe.  The only difference is this time he’ll bring along his “very young wife” and two sons and sail for an indefinite period…10 years or more. 

H.V. is a unique individual…the kind I find most fascinating.  He grew up son to a sailor.  That sailor, adamant that his son should have a better, more prestigious life than he, discouraged boating and sailing of any kind.  That discouragement only piqued H.V.’s interest.  At 18 he gained acceptance into a maritime academy.  All that was needed for admission was his father’s signature, which he refused to give.  Dejected and infuriated, H.V. became an engineer, and after a while, began pursuing maritime courses on the side.  By the time he was thirty he had built himself a boat and took off for a five year venture around the world.  During that time he encountered many wonders and experiences, some of which include seeing a dolphin funeral and sailing alongside breeching whales. 

This is one thing I love about traveling; the people you meet and the stories they have to share.  H.V. is living his life on his own terms.  He refused to give up on his dreams and passions, and because of this, is living a life he loves.  He is completely happy…not to mention personable, enthusiastic, philanthropic, and funny.  And I got to know all of this in a matter of 25 minutes.  H.V.’s life validates my own choices.  Most people think I’m exceptionally crazy or brave or both for doing what I’m doing.  Others might feel sorry for me because I’m still single, and because I don’t have a family of my own, have to do these things.  I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I do know that H.V. changed his life in a big way with his first journey around the world.  And now I am changing mine.