I frowned into my coffee at 7 am. Somehow, the thought that my next cup would probably be at Starbucks in the US offered little comfort in the light of all that was going on. I’d been dreaming of Starbucks and walks along Brandon Parkway (near my parents place in Tampa) for weeks, but now that it had become—most unexpectedly—a very realistic prospect, it had lost its appeal. How could this be happening? Would he even be alive when I arrived? It all seemed so unreal.
Within the next 30 minutes a Peace Corps car picked me up and chauffeured me to the office where I took care of some last minute formalities before heading to the airport. I couldn’t wait to get on the plane and have numerous ours to in which to be alone with my thoughts. Id had enough of the travel drama. I didn’t really have the emotional bandwidth to process so much at once.
I checked in without much hassle and headed to the gate. When I had boarded the plane and settled into my seat, however, I realized something: who was there to meet me? None other than MURPHY! I it was 40 minutes after our departure time when the announcement came. Murphy had struck again—this time in the form of mechanical malfunction in one of the wings of the plane. They spent close to 2 ½ hours fumbling around trying to identify exactly what the problem was. The contemplated switching planes but 30 minutes later scrapped that idea after having finally discovered the source of the issue by this time I am sure had formed a sizable bald spot in the area in which I’d been pulling out my hair. As we finally took of I said a quick prayer. Life in Africa has taught me that dysfunction of any and every kind—especially when it comes to vehicles—is so common it approaches the realm mathematical certainty. I was nervous about whether or not id make my connecting flight in Lagos, but more terrifying was the prospect of our plane crashing somewhere in the Congo. The way this trip was turning out up to that point made it seem like a very real possibility!
But to my relief our wheels touched down in Lagos some 7 hours later and I hustled off the plane as fast as I could…meaning I waited for what seemed like five hours waiting for the 1,000 people in front of me to inch there ways out of the rows and haul down their suitcases from over-head bins. I have never been able to figure out why it is that when it’s time to disembark people always seem to grow 10 left thumbs and move at half their normal speed. It always provokes in me a type of fury akin to the rage some people develop while in their vehicles on the highway. They always seem like normal human beings until they are behind the wheel. At any rate, I hustled inch by inch out of the plane and down to customs. After fuming in line for perhaps 20 minutes a customs officer approached and asked if there were any transit passengers. I immediately piped up. We were waaaay late but there was still a chance a faint and fading chance that I might make the connection. The officer took my passport glanced at it and asked me where I was going and what time the flight was supposed to be. Lucky for me, I’m a child of the E-Ticket age and hadn’t printed my itinerary—thus I could tell him neither exactly. He scowled at me and handed my document off to a lady officer who was as intimidating looking as anything off of your typical Nigerian war film: She was thick; she was dark; she was 5 foot 3 inches of condensed bad-ass in her brown uniform and half-cocked beret. .. I wouldn’t have wanted to run into her in a dark alley! I confess thoughts of crumbling prison cells, torture, robbery, and extortion did briefly enter my mind when she took my passport, but I had no choice but to follow. With my suitcase in tow we hustled through the labyrinth of construction going on in the terminal, out to the parking lot and into the next terminal. She was shouting and all but bucking people out of the way as we ran through the passage. We sped through security, drawing bewildered glances and arrived sweating and panting at the gate. The attendant seated there looked up at us, eyes still bearing the glaze of boredom and casually told us id long missed my flight.
My already sagging heart sank a few more inches. We asked if there was another flight that night I could take…the attendant smirked and said no…there’s only one flight per day that goes to the US from Lagos. Only one?! I wanted to cry. I didn’t want to believe it. 1 per day…meaning id have to wait until 10pm the next day for the next flight. I harassed various employees to find out if there was an indirect way to get there still available. By the 10 time I asked they were quite fed up and told me to accept that I wouldn’t be able to leave Lagos that night. So there I was stuck in Lagos… no money, no visa, no connections. I’d be sleeping in the airport. The only upside was that the ruckus Id caused made me a celebrity amongst the airport security guards and my pathetic plight managed to win me some friends. (There is much to be said about those fine folk, as well as the other colorful characters I met along the way, but they shall have to be the subject for a later blog post.) Needless to say they kept me from starving and provided entertaining company in to the wee hours. At about 2am I finally stretched out on some benches pulled together and laid down feeling quite sorry for myself. Within 30 minutes I was out like a light.
It was 5:30 Thursday morning. I should no longer sleep so I got up and went to the restroom to freshen up. (Aside: I found it both bizarre and intriguing that each toilet stall came equipped with shower head and the bathroom also had a foot washing station…apparently hygiene in the lower half of the body is of utmost importance in Nigeria) I had a long day ahead. Thanks to Ken the French Canadian, Sam the scotch loving Texan, and Will the water processor builder, the hours passed quickly. Before I knew it I had in my hand a crisp, freshly printed ticket to the US. Never was I ever more glad to see that mundane strip of paper, I couldn’t get on board fast enough. As it turns out, however, it only looked like a ticket to the US when in actual fact it was a free pass for something else entirely…
The last thing I had wanted to hear was that tell-tale “Ladies and gentleman…” speech from the captain—yet AGAIN. It turned out they had over fuelled the plane and we too heavy to take off. Conveniently enough there was no defueling equipment available (“At an international airport?” You ask? Yep…but this is Africa, and when you think about it, it fits right in with a Taxi driver not having a jack.) I couldn’t believe it was really happening. Plan A was to take off all of the luggage. That turned into plan B, which was to take off all the luggage and 40 passengers. If you ask me, they should have kicked the 40 fattest people off the plane and given them $600 voucher and an evening in a fancy hotel for their trouble. Another option would have been letting everyone disembark and taken to plane for an hour long joy ride around Nigerian airspace to burn off some fuel. Of course, no one asked me. One has to wonder why don’t they ever do what is practical and an obvious solution. But no… plan C was cancel the entire flight and put us all in a hotel. In the end I suppose it wasn’t a bad deal since my ticket turned into a free pass for a stay at a luxury hotel on the beach in Lagos. Given, under other circumstances such a thing could be considered a dream vacation (and I definitely couldn’t complain about the accommodations—in fact I quite enjoyed them…especially the breakfast spread!)….but this was THESE circumstances and all the palm trees and sunshine in the world couldn’t compensate for my desire to just get back to the US already.
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