The comedy of disasters: delays, dysfunction, and days without showers (Part 3)

It was 9:00am on St. Patrick’s when I finally arrived at Tampa International airport. I’d been wearing the same clothes for 3 days. No matter how many showers at luxury hotels you take, you can’t help but feel dirty again when you put on the exact same outfit…the same one you traveled in and slept in 2 nights in a row while your checked baggage was being held hostage at the airport. I’d spent a few hours of the very short night before at yet another hotel in Atlanta. Our flight out of Lagos hadn’t left until 4pm in the afternoon—meaning we didn’t arrive in Atlanta until well after midnight. Customs graciously stayed open an extra few hours to accommodate us. Otherwise, we would have had to wait on the plane until it reopened at 5am. I didn’t actually get to the hotel Delta had booked for me until 2 am and my flight to Tampa was leaving at 7:00am—which amounted to 3 hours of sleep. 

I was a zombie. Everything seemed to be moving in a surreal kind of slow motion and my mind was having a tough time catching up with the fact that I, indeed had arrived on US soil. As I sat waiting for my sister to pick me up, my mind drifted back over the events of the past few days and my detour to Lagos. I can’t deny it was quite an interesting experience and, in retrospect, I cannot say that I regret having had the experience.  Lagos itself is an intriguing place. The hotel I had been placed at was across town from the beach in the tourist section and the hour long bus ride took us through the heart of the city and offered a good sampling of its diverse and paradoxical elements. It is a coastal metropolis crammed with an awkward mixture of poverty and affluence, modern architecture and the crumbling facades of outdated structures. It bustled with life. Informal settlements blooming between more developed sections of the city, like weeds in fractured pavement. On the waters of a small inlet I saw what I can only describe as the Venice of shanty towns: a forest of zinc shacks built on stilts in the shallow water. Not unlike Venice, its inhabitants navigated its “streets” in gondolas. Further out towards the ocean I could see the fishing grounds—obviously the main livelihood of shanty town dwellers. Shattered about were innumerable fish traps fashioned of long curving rows of narrow roughly hewn wooden posts placed inches apart. As we passed I could see men on their canoes hauling in their catch. It seemed like such a different world—even from South Africa. It looked and felt different from anything I’ve experienced...desperation and hope juxtaposed. People seemed to be living among the ruins of what was once another life. 

All the Nigerian people I had met had seemed so positive…resilient. Even when spoke about the difficulties of life in their country they seemed to have a quite sort of peace. The negativity one might expect seemed absent. This was a stark contrast to South Africa, where, despite their relative affluence, people are often apt to complain about their circumstances.  Nigerians, despite their reputation for fraud and thievery (which they themselves confirm) turned out to be very friendly and generous people. My two day airport fiasco won me about 10 new friends. One of them --who I shall call Annie—was a gorgeous lady of about my age. She was slender in frame with wide expressive eyes and perfectly bowed lips that tease upwards in the corners in a pleasant way…as if she were constantly thinking of something amusing. She worked for the Nigerian version of TSA, and after seeing me pass through the security check at least 4 times on the first night I was there, began to wonder what misfortune in my travel arrangements had led to the frantic back and forth. She stopped me and asked me. When I told her she laughed. She said there was no way I would be getting out of Nigeria that night and I might as well accept that id be sleeping in the airport. That didn’t improve my mood. Yet somehow her calm about it all took off a bit of the edge. The next thing she asked me if I had any money or any food. I hadn’t thought about it up to that point but when she mentioned it my stomach growled on cue. To my surprise she wasted no time in taking me to the cafeteria and buying me some food. Then she gave me the change to buy something later as well! I was quite taken aback! That she would show me such kindness seemed uncanny. We talked for a while as I ate but then duty called and she had to return to her post. My heart sank a little after she disappeared around the corner. Her company had kept me from worrying too much or feeling sorry for myself. With her departure, however, the weight sank back down on my shoulders. 

In fact, I was busy feeling quite sorry for myself when a round, smiling, gap-toothed face filled my view. It was another member of airport security, Immanuel I shall call him. He was a man of about 50, cheerful and upbeat…more so than one would expect past midnight. He promptly introduced himself and ask where I was from and how id gotten stuck in the airport. As is the typically the case for me when I’m in a sulky mood, I did not mind repeating the tale for him. He declared it to be quite awful and with a smile said I shouldn’t worry and that I could get another flight the next day at 10pm. (That felt like a punch in the gut….What would I do all day in the airport?!) However, his positive spirit lifted me out of the slump. Before long we were involved in an engaging conversation about the politics and conflicts in Nigeria and about the relations between the various religious groups. It was intellectually stimulating and diverting all at once. It was 2 am when our conversation finally ended and I decided to try to get some sleep. He vowed that he would be sure to come and keep me company on his shift the next evening. Talking to him gave me enough peace of mind to sleep like a rock until 6 am…not a bad deal.

Then there was Ken the French Canadian….a kind, but slightly awkward sort of fellow (which I suppose is part of being French Canadian.) He was in his late forties, of above average height, had a healthy build, and a hairline quickly making for the hills. I met him in the immigration office where I went to pick up my documents in the morning. He had a layover of several hours himself and so we decided to spend the morning together. We got to chatting as we sat in the office and after about 10 minute he invited me to eat breakfast with him in the airport restaurant. As we sat at the bar over-looking the tarmac crunching on toast and eggs, we talked about all the great mysteries of the world: life, love, family and God’s will. (The discussion was made twice as entertaining given the “French slur” in his speech!) As one can imagine it ended up being quite a long talk! Before we knew it 5 hours had gone by—quite a welcome eventuality given the circumstances. Needless to say the morning was passed in good company and before he left to board his plane he vowed to visit me in South Africa and insisted I must visit him in Canada as well…and I just might take him up on that offer.

Around 4 pm the Delta ticket office finally opened. Id been eagerly waiting the whole day and, accompanied by another of my new friends amongst the airport security, I hurried upstairs to rebook my flight. Before I even reached the office door I heard an oh-so-familiar twang echoing down the hall. If that didn’t give him away, the boots definitely did….In fact they were the first thing I noticed when I saw him. Big brown leather boots under cuffs of dark denim. Yes sir-ee! The was a Texan in the house. It was Sam. He was tall, maybe 6’3’’, lanky of build, looked to be about forty, and reminded me very much of another Texan I know. He was leaning over the counter speaking in a rather animated way with the clerk—in that way which, for a Texan, still constitutes a civil tone but for others may seem like yelling given the degree of passion. Like the rest of us, he was frustrated at their incompetence. I had to smile when I saw him. I’d never been gladder to see another American. I greeted him and remarked on how chaotic things can be when in Africa. He agreed heartily and we got to chatting while we waited for the clerk to sort things out. What was a Texan doing in Nigeria? I wanted to know. He answered that he was on business…something about drilling oil as I recall. He asked me how I had landed there and when I told him he shook his head and laughed heartily. In the meantime the clerk had printed his new boarding pass and another opened up for me. Of course fixing my issue also became a trying ordeal for them. As a stood there mustering all the patience left in me Sam suggested we assuage our grievances with an old friend of his: a good scotch. They had been friends for a long time I can tell because he loudly declared he was going to get one for us to share! Yes he was quite the character.  I had such fun the next evening watching him being large and in charge (which seems to be a typically Texan thing) an demand answers from the airport staff on behalf of the whole group about how they were going to handle the fiasco of the cancelled flight, lodging, and visa issues. A welcome bit of flavor to the evening’s events. Long live Texas I thought.

That second evening in Lagos I had the fortune of meeting yet another interesting fellow. Will…a Nigerian living in the US and running a business producing and installing environmentally friendly water processors. He must have been about 50, stout, and stocky in build. He carried himself with the air of one who has won one over on the world. On could see from a mile that the man had overcome some serious odds and arrived at a place of contentment in life. For one reason or another he decided to make my well-being that evening his personal responsibility. In the chaos that ensued after the flight was cancelled, he made sure to find out what hotel I was going to, made sure I got on the right bus, made sure I was informed about the next day’s plans. I didn’t mind a bit. He was very much a go getter type and interestingly enough quickly became friends with Sam the scotch lover. As it was, I welcomed his attentiveness, I had other things to worry my mind and having a kind gentleman deal with the chaos for me was more than I could have asked for. 

So as a sat in Tampa in the wake of that storm I felt deep relief and, strangely enough, I also felt that I had been fortunate in my misfortune. This is the kind of story one could never make-up. A kind of adventure no one would believe. When I looked up I saw my sister pulling up to the curb in her car. I smiled broadly. Murphy may have won a few battles, but in the end it is I who won the war. Take that Murphy! I thought, and loaded my suitcase into the trunk.