Welcome Home

The seats are crowded in front of my gate, I look up to the gate monitor it reads Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. I check my watch, when I came to Africa it had a crisp white band now it is a grayish brown. My clock shows 30 minutes until my board time. “Is this the gate for Conakry?” I ask the lady at the desk, hoping she speaks English. She shakes her head yes then looks up at the monitor and runs off… apparently they forgot to change it. Soon an announcement comes over the loud speaker, it’s in French but I gather by the crowd rushing towards our gate that my flight has arrived. I stand in line perplexed by the mass of people pushing towards the gate entrance. “Don’t these people have tickets? What’s the rush?” I wonder, as I too begin to feel the panic in the room and push forward in the crowed. We all take a bus to the runway where we board the plane; the same mob mentality takes over on the tar mat as people push in towards the plane. Some Asians and I stand towards the back a little ruffled by the chaos.

Soon I am in my seat and the stewardesses are cramming bags in every space possible. There is no space for my bag in the overheads nearby me. “Madame” I say as sweetly as possible to the stewardess and then gesture towards my bag. She takes my bag but also my ticket stub. When the stewardess passes my seat I say “Pardon? Ticket?” She looks confused “I did not return the ticket?” she asks in broken English. “No” I reply trying to be as friendly as possible.  After waiting a long while, she returns with my ticket I smile and say “Merci.” There is a man dressed in a white robe and circular hat sitting beside me. Just after take off the plane groans loudly as the wheels pull into their place. An older woman dressed in an African out fit with a head wrap sitting across the aisle clutches her armrest and looks distressed, the young man sitting beside her looks at me and we both smile and laugh at little. Africa is funny. Sometimes I feel like I’ve walked into a comic strip, there are brightly dressed people walking down every street, many of them doing things that seem silly to me.

When the plane lands in Conakry, we all rush off much as we rushed on and heard into a room to fill out entry papers. As I fill out the paper a young man asks for my pen. I had been guarding my pens like they were gold for the past month and had kept up with the four I carried with me all throughout 40/40 which seemed like a giant feat to me. I wanted to say “no get your own” but that would have been too complicated to say in French so I begrudgingly handed it over to him.  In the Senegal Airport, I had been met by dozens of men with little laminated blue cards speaking in French and flashing the card like it should mean something to me. “Your friend sent me to pick you up,” one of them said. “Oh did he?” I asked, “Then what is my name?” I got a blank stare in return. “You don’t know me.” I was wary that the same scene awaited me behind the fence beyond the passport check.

In line at the passport check I see a small bat is flying inside the building. He is diving and swooping above us. I laugh at the creature and look around at the other airport visitors, no else is as amused with him. I can also see gnats have gathered around the heads of the two Asian girls in front of me. I half wish that the bats would dive down for those gnats and add more fun to the chaos. When it is my turn at the passport check line, the man asks me for an address. I have none to give him, “A friend is picking me up. He said he would be out in baggage claim.” The man does not say anything he just motions me to the side and does not give me back my passport. “Well this is annoying,” I think as I pull out my computer to see if I saved anything with any address at all. “Madame! Madame!” A man is waving at me, my first instinct is to ignore him as one of the mass of men waiting to take advantage of me but then I can see him waving a sign with my name on it. I am afraid to leave the guard-stand at the passport line but he doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to me so I walk over to the gate. “Is this you?” demands the guard standing at the fence as he takes the sign from the man calling me. “Yes that is me. But they won’t let me though.” The man with the sign gives it to me, there is a note on the back introducing Mr. Conde as a friend who will help me through baggage claim. Mr. Conde passes through the gate and argues with the man at the passport check in French until I can see them scratch out and rewrite a few lines, he then grabs my passport and we are on our way to another world of chaos known as the baggage claim.

 Mr. Conde and I stand and wait for each of my trunks and bags to come around the conveyer belt. I am startled by a young man who taps me on the shoulder and hands me my pen. “Merci” he says as he smiles and leaves. I had already forgotten the pen after waiting in line for 25 minutes. I felt sheepish taking the pen back, he had searched for me in the baggage area to return such a small thing; that would never happen in America. I am happy to see all three of my checked bags made it but worried for my guitar which has not turned up yet. “Is this? Is this?” Mr. Conde asks of each bag passing. “No, we are looking for a guitar.” “Oh okay… Is this?” he asks pointing to a large duffle bag. “No a guitar. Guitare?” I try with my best French accent. He still looks at me confused. So I mime an air guitar. “Oh Guitare!” he exclaims and then runs off to his friends at the conveyer belt. We have my guitar in just a few moments and are again cramming into a mass of people. There are no lines in West Africa but apparently there is some sort of order because the guard yells at a man ahead of us and sends him to the back. Mr. Conde is on his best behavior and we are soon through the mess and headed up the ramp. Mr. Conde is motioning towards the crowd, “There are our friends” he says. I am looking but I do not spot them, finally the crowd opens and I can see my new friends and team mates, finally home.