As Usual

Goats make me laugh-
laughing is better than crying

As usual, the topic of this blog is “the joy of traveling on this blue planet.” (It feels unfair to assign all the blame to “Africa,” as these things have happened to me in Asia too.)

The other day I went to pick up our auditor flying in from Khartoum. The scanned ticket he had sent me listed “11:00am” as the arrival time. I arrived just a little bit after that time because—immigration, baggage claim, getting on and off a stupid bus to go 3 meters across the runway to the airport—these things take time.

We had just slid into a parking place near the crack in the fence (my favorite place to park to avoid pushing through a barrage of wanna-be porters and people selling various types of juice) when James, the auditor, pops up at the car window.

“You’re already out here!” I said, surprised (because usually I’m the only one who can navigate the turbid waters of immigration that fast using skills honed in over-populated Asian countries and years of airport experience, plus sharp elbows).

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been here for two hours. I realized when I got there that they wrote the arrival time in Sudanese time and not Chadian time.”

Some photos from my last trip

 Because of course they did. Naturally, though it is not the traditionally accepted way to note arrival time in the time zone of the departure city, Sudan doesn’t bow to convention. Sudanese time is the only time that matters, b*tches! (I’m going to try to remember to take that last asterixed word out before I publish this, but if I forget, I’m sorry, Mom.) I said to James, “Well, I did not expect that from what I read on the ticket, but I can’t say that I’m surprised that this happened.” And then I apologized profusely for the wait because somehow it felt like my fault—I should have anticipated something like this would happen. Then I recklessly drove him to the office, casually swearing at all the other stupid drivers. Denis (finance manager who is also currently helping us out in Chad and has been spending a lot of time with James) told me that James has gotten the idea that I am naturally very short-tempered. “She gets angry very quickly, doesn’t she?” he said. Denis laughed and said that I really don’t, but when the only time you’ve spent with me is in the car while I’m driving, I can see how you would get that idea. I took James and Denis out to lunch later, making sure to be extra-charming to try to atone for my bad reputation. And I toned down the language to PG (not super easy after spending a few days in proximity to some militarians), but I managed to keep it together until after I dropped them at the office. The trip back to my house was when the “stupid” drivers went back to being “!@#$%$^#!@#$” drivers, because apparently I can be nice only under the judgmental gaze of my passengers (and that’s no guarantee either).

Now, I know I was just blaming Sudan for their travel habits, but I have another complaint that I’m probably going to blame on Chad, though Togo is still in the running. This month is a month of traveling. A month when I’m glad I don’t have to worry about the well-being of a small, evil cat who resents being left behind while others go on adventures to the outer-world. A month where I leave my fridge mostly empty except for water bottles and essentials like chocolate and hot pepper sauce so that I don’t have to worry about food going bad while I’m gone. I hate wasting food. Good thing gummies and chips last for a long time.

So I get up at 4 to work out in anticipation of a long day on an airplane on my way to Mali, which I’m excited about because it is a new country for me. I’m already missing one day of meetings because I couldn’t get a good flight out of N’Djamena to arrive in the morning in Bamako, though Chad and Mali aren’t exactly on opposite ends of the continent. I get to the airport and wander through, not paying attention until I’m asking the guy at the desk for an aisle seat and he tells me he is actually trying to see if he can re-book my ticket. Awesome. I go out and try to find a way to re-book my ticket myself, but it is impossible. I have to trust Asky Airlines, the airline that screwed up this flight in the first place (which I believe is based in Togo, thus giving them some responsibility for upsetting my plans) to rebook, earliest tomorrow. Now I’m down to 2 days out of a 4 day trip. 

 Finally, I decided to take a taxi to the office, as it’s close to the airport. The little old taxi driver insisted on taking the full 5000CFA, as that is airport policy, though sometimes I can convince them to go cheaper, as our office is really 5 minutes away.

He creaked the door open, and I slid into the car and waited while he cranked and cranked the engine and nothing happened. “Oh, the battery!” he said, “it’s tired.” He elicits help from 10 of the afore-mentioned juice sellers and the car begins to move. I wonder if it will still move once they stop pushing.  

“I’m not going to pay if we break down and I have to walk.” I said (but laughing and he laughed too). Actually, I should have walked, but I have a backpack and a computer bag and I didn’t feel like fending off all of the comments. Some days I prefer to be a bit more inconspicuous. And it felt like a sign of defeat to trudge off down the street, backpack bouncing sadly behind me.

Since this conversation was in Arabic, he was excited to note that I speak his language, and we started on a conversation.

Goats climbing things makes me laugh

“Where are you from? What is your country?”

“I’m from America,” I said.

“America-America or Canada?”

“America-America.”

“What city?”

“Nashville,” I answered.

“Nashkash?”

“Sure.” I said.

As usual, this conversation makes me feel a bit dishonest because it leaves out some many details and inserts ones that aren’t 100% true for all they are so simple. Still, it is a conversation that is socially acceptable and slightly preferable to the “how-many-children-do-you-have-wait-no-you’re-not-married-how-about-being-my-second-wife” conversation that is the other frequent ice-breaker discussion.

Anyway, he decided to tell me about his sister who married an American and lives in Hawaii. During this conversation, I noted that I probably could have walked to the office faster than we were driving. But who cares about that? I have earned an extra, unnecessary day in N’Djamena. It's like the opposite of Day Light Savings, plus a day, or something like that, I'm still a bit hazy on that America-American tradition. Then we drove past our street because I overestimating the amount of time it would take our decrepit vehicle to putter past the road, while I was searching for money to pay the guy.

Buying ice in the desert

Arriving in front of our door, I tried to find a way out of the car, which had a metal piece in place of the handle that wouldn’t move.

“It’s automatic!” he said, as he reached over his seat, braced his full body weight against my door while clutching at the metal handle. The door fell open.

So here I am…writing blog posts about why this is funny to me so that I don’t get mad about missing Mali Tourism Day, which is what everyone else will be doing today.  As I told Leif, it doesn’t matter that much because they refused to let me go to Timbuktu, which is where I really wanted to go anyway. Of course, he’s afraid he is going to get in trouble with Mark, who is slightly sensitive about me going places where I’m going to be shot at, otherwise we all know Leif would be right there with me.

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In conclusion, Asky Airlines called and said they will book me on the same flight tomorrow. And what are the odds that this happens again? Well, if we’re going to be honest….but no. Let’s not be. Lightning never strikes twice in the same African airline. Impossible. Tomorrow I’m going to Mali.

Legend has it that this used to be an ocean.
I can kind of see it...if only it were culturally appropriate to sand surf in my bikini...