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.