Look! Look!

When I had first visited Bona-Bona I had had to laugh. I wondered how it was that a place called “look look”(…or see-see, which are both “bona” in Setswana) could have so little to actually look at in it! As I stood outside my small brick house on that morning of mid-July, however, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It had only returned from vacationing during June break a few days earlier. I spent those few days lying low…to recoup from all the hard-core socializing id been doing for one, and to stay out of the path of what looked to the onset of another community demonstration. I wasn’t surprised. At the beginning of every term since I first arrived in the village there had been demonstrations. “Demonstration,” however, is a term that can only be used loosely here in South Africa. In reality, it is often the equivalent of a riot. Typical activities include the disruption and closing of schools, the burning of tires, automobiles, trash bins, and public buildings, and most importantly, the heartfelt stomping dances and singing of chants (that has earned the activity the affectionate nickname of “leg up” in certain regions of the country.) The people of my village were angry. Many had said they felt betrayed by the government, which at the time of transition to democracy had promised to deliver services and life altering improvements in infrastructure. Now, eighteen years later, they still had to travel 25 km to reach the nearest paved road (when would it finally be paved?), and struggled with constant water shortage--which, when it was available, was bad quality. Rumors had spread that the good water was being delivered to the outlying farms of the Afrikaners while the village was being bypassed. These were the initial complaints that had been voiced. As discontent grew however, new demands were added. They demanded that the local clinic be staffed so to be opened 24 hours a day. (After all, at the time of the first strike, three stabbings occurred and the victims had gone 24 hours without treatment.) Also, the fact that our secondary school only went to 10^th grade meant that most students became forced drop outs. Few could afford to rent property in the next village over in order to complete grades 11 and 12.

With each successive school term their anger had grown and the protests had become more agressive. Municipal leaders would come, make more promises and give more deadlines by which certain developments would be made. But these were never met.  I knew things were taking a turn for the worse. During the first strike, they had locked down the high school and refused to allow classes to be held for over a week. They began burning tires in the street.  By the second they had locked both schools down for two weeks as well as the clinic and threatened to burn things. By the third strike they actually burned a section of the Tribal Hall as well as the community center. In that last week of school vacation before term 3 they had begun protesting yet again. As I had entered the village on my way back from Limpopo I had seen the tell-tale black stains on the white gravel and knew they had been at it again.

I had sat at my desk preparing lessons for the up-coming school week and listening to the ruckus outside. All day long I could see the black plumes from burning tired stretching their dark fingers out over the crossing not far from my house and in the distance near the tribal hall. On that Wednesday morning, however, there was a strange sort of feeling in the air. I was sitting at my desk working when suddenly the strange scents of burning wood, paper and gasoline filled my room. At first I thought my host mother was burning the trash, but then I began to hear raised voices. I recognized the voice of neighbor across the way, shouting something in Setswana I couldn’t make out. I perked up and listened. Only a few seconds later there was a loud knock at my door. “Rethabile! Tla kwano! Bona!” (Rethabile come here!! Look!) It was my host mom yelling. I rushed outside. “Eng?!” (What is it?!) As soon as I stepped outside, I stopped dead in my tracks. A huge cloud of smoke and flame was billowing up from the horizon. It looked intimidating...and almost close enough to touch.  “Ke Tlotlang-Thuto!” my host mom exclaimed, gesturing wildly in the direction of the cloud. My heart nearly skipped a beat. Tlotlang- Thuto, the high school, was engulfed in flames. I stood and watched the blackness spread out over the village. I couldn’t help but think I’ve just watched the already uncertain future of several hundred village kids go up in smoke. Not only their futures but also everything I had spent the past year working towards. I stood watching for a good long while, taken aback. What would happen now? How would they be able to finish the year? Would I be able to keep living and working here? It had been the last straw. I heard via the village gossip network that they were calling this war against the government…for all their empty promises, all the corruption and wastage of money that went on while the people suffered…it made me want to cry. I couldn’t explain to them that they had achieved nothing other than to deprive their already underserved community and their own children of a few much needed resources. They didn’t seem to understand the gravity of what they’d done and the magnitude of the consequences they would reap. I called my Peace Corps supervisor to report the incident. Deep down I knew what this would mean. It was going to mean id be evacuated from Bona-Bona. I hoped beyond hope that is somehow would work out.

Crossing the Threshold (part1)

I still remember it like it was yesterday. It must have been about 6 in the evening but already quite dark. It felt like midnight. My heart was fluttering in my chest as we stood waiting to have our passports checked at OR Tambo. I was filled with some strange and very strong sensation—some conglomeration of excitement, uncertainty and sheer dread. I had no clue what I was getting myself into—no clue even about who exactly would be waiting for myself and the others on the opposite side of the glass wall. Up to that point the Peace Corps staff had been no more than names printed in black ink on the bottom of endless numbers letters id received over the 2 years course of the my application process. It was all quite surreal. Yet there we were—after 3 days orientation and 22 hours of flying or feet were finally gracing South African soil. In the lobby we were greeted by numerous Peace Corps staff and the then Country Director McGrath Jean Thomas…all of whom were indistinguishable amidst the throng of locals. The disorientation of my jet lagged and emotionally heightened state did not help my ability to sort through the crowd as I emerged from customs. I had first envisioned—given the name—that the country director was a white male. As it turned out she was neither white nor male and I had no need to bother search. As soon as parked my suitcases in the lobby long enough to glance around, some staff were already headed my direction.  There were 57 of us in those first days…a number that would thin a bit in the months to come. I remember they lead us out in a great throng to the bus stop. I remember thinking that it could have just as easily been New York’s JFK airport or Frankfurt International. The lights, the noise, the glistening façade of the Airport and the skyline of Johannesburg filled my view. Had we even left the US? Some two hours later, however, we got off the bus in what—by American standards—would classify as the middle of nowhere to the sound of rich Tswana voices raised in song and I knew for sure—we were in AFRICA! It was my first encounter with South African culture and I was mesmerized. I knew from that very moment that this was bound to be the adventure of a lifetime.

So here I am one year later. Never in my wildest dreams could have imagined the types of adventures and challenges I have experienced in this past year of life in South Africa. This blog doesn’t even begin to capture the hundreds of beautiful moments nor the ways the challenges have grown me. I pause a moment to take stock of everything I’ve learned and gained along this journey and savor the things I have loved most:

The Natural Beauty

As I write this entry, I am sitting in Vryburg in the living room of one of my dearest friends in South Africa, just having returned from a few weeks tour of the gorgeous country side of northern Limpopo. It has been by far my favorite trip since arriving in South Africa. The journey up to Venda from the Kalahari was a two day affair: 8 hours’ drive from my village to Pretoria and almost equally as many from Pretoria to Thohoyando by bus…yet it was time well spent. There is nothing more calming and awe-inspiring to me than being able to sit back and soak in the sheer awesomeness of the South African landscapes filling my view as we pass. I would trade these road trips for anything in the world. In South Africa it truly pays to take the scenic route. The road from Pretoria to Thohoyando was particularly beautiful. The concrete and noise of the capital was peeled back to reveal flat uncultivated lands stretching on for what seemed like forever. As we travelled north the horizon was increasingly broken by distant hills and interspersed across the plain, sharp peaks jutting out of the grasslands that made them seem quite out of place.  North of Polokwane—the capital of Limpopo—these jagged elevations gave way to tall hills consisting of collections of enormous boulders. It looked very much as if some titan had brought a bag of rock to the middle of field and dumped them out any old place he liked. They were by far the most unusual geological formations I have ever seen. As we finally began to enter the territory of the Venda people in the far north the land rose into undulating hills clothed in fields of banana, mango and avocado trees. It was almost like arriving on another planet, so abrupt was the shift from flat dry land to these fertile hills with their deep red soil. The red soil is something specific to South/Southern Africa locals told me. It was such a contrast from the deep pale sands and flat, open “Veld” of my home on the border of the Kalahari. I spent my days their hiking through the Soutpansberg Mountains and visited the sacred lake Funduzi, which is hidden among the hills around Thohoyando—the waters of which are believed to have healing powers. It is just one of many irreplaceable experiences during my time here in South Africa.

I’ve always had a reverence for nature and love for wide open spaces. It has always been something that has the power to calm, energize, or inspire me. I can hide out in the open and have relished the unique and diverse beauty of this place… These days I have spent in Venda, my days hiking through the Blyde River Canyon in Mpumalanga; my evening walks through the Veld of the Kalahari, or wading in the salty tide at Durban are things I—even a few years ago—could never have imagined that I’d be doing. What can ever compare with viewing Elephants and Zebra grazing in the wild? Or watching the black clouds of a summer storm gather on the distant horizon, feeling the electricity of the flashes of lightning raise the hairs on the back of your neck, and listening to the sound of the down pour on the tin roof? Not to mention laying under a blanket of stars unlike anything one can dream of seeing on the East Coast of the US and seeing more breath-taking sunsets in one week than in two years of my life in DC?

The Diversity

Not only has South Africa offered the most awe inspiring displays of natural beauty, but it has all the best of the Western World as well with sprawling shopping malls and luxurious hotels, juxtaposed with traditional open markets and shanty towns. This contrast of life is at once challenging and unique. As a volunteer one may ease the strain of rural life with a short visit to the urban center where one may enjoy a small taste of home. It is something both comforting and disturbing at once, the obvious and blatant inequality in living conditions between rich and poor. It troubled me a lot at first, but after some time living amongst some of the poorest in South Africa in conditions hardly different from theirs, I have learned this: There is a certain level of acceptance of this way of life and somehow they make it work every day. Many I have met are mostly content with their status quo it would seem and go about their days, and seem to hardly give the inferiority of their situation a second thought. If it troubles them it does not necessarily trouble them enough to motivate them to action. What they know is the here and the now—and that they make the most of.  I find there is a strange kind of beauty in the contrast. Some South Africans seem to move seamlessly between the simplicity of the rural life and modern developed life in the urban centers. They mold themselves, they adapt. I believe this contrast gives South Africans a more complete understanding of the complexities of this life and this world with its inequalities than any who live in a predominately rich or overwhelmingly poor society. This understanding has value in and of itself.

"Diverse" is perhaps the one word that describes South Africa best….in landscape, in ways of life, and in culture. The fact that it has 11 official languages says a lot by the depth of that diversity. It is quite different from the “out of many, one” type of diversity we have in the US. Each people group has its own unique heritage and culture stretching back hundreds if not thousands of years. As for me I live in the North West Province, home to the Tswana people. It is also with these people that I made first contact with one of South Africa’s traditional cultures. I remember the first time I saw Tswana traditional dance. It was at our going away celebration at the end of our Pre-Service Training in September. We and the families who had hosted us for those first 3 months and all gathered at the college where we had spent most of our time. We had gone through all the obligatory speeches and “votes of thanks” as they call them, when suddenly the dance group entered the auditorium from the right singing a chorus in the “call and response” style typical of many African cultures. The troupe was about 30 strong. They were all dressed in traditional skins, boys in loin cloth and girls in fringed skirts. Their ankles were wound about with long strings of small plastic pouches filled with beans that rattled with each footfall. As they mounted the stage the group began to clap out the rhythm of the dance. Their voices were strong and in perfect harmony. The group echoed the chants of the song leader. One by one, small groups of four to six dancers would emerge from the group and dance for a few measures as the others sang. Their rhythmic stomps—enhanced by the shakers around their ankles echoed through the auditorium. It was electrifying. They moved their muscular legs with such speed and skill I was enraptured. It remains to this day one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. I have seen other dance performances since then, but none have surpassed the power of that first dance.

Just Dance! (It’ll be ok)

In the US it is often said that life has a certain flow to it. It moves at a certain pace--the “rhythm of life,” as it is called. The sun sets and rises—at which time many of us also rise—go through the motions of our often monotonous days. We drag ourselves out of bed and into the shower to wash off the dirt and the residue of weariness and frustration from the day before. We button up crisply pressed shirts and tuck them neatly into the uncomfortable pants we wear…along with all the anxieties and fears that greet us at the breakfast table so no one will see them. Thus made presentable, we march out to our places of work with our strongest mask on and best foot forward. We go through the day in a blur with the clock ticking out the pace of our march like a drum…a pace often too fast for our legs to keep up. By the time we get home the best we can do is collapse into the sofa and shut down for a while. We shuffle from sofa to bed---hopefully to sleep—and everything thing repeats itself the next day. Whether it be our 9-5 job, the demands of family life, or the combination thereof. In the end, this one truth prevails: Even though we may have all we ever wanted or be doing a job we love the tempo of our daily lives can often be overwhelming. Our hearts and legs can’t seem to keep time and become “burned out.” Most Americans I know cry out about that asymmetry. They complain. They shed tears. Some fly into a rage or dig in their heels, grit their teeth, and force their legs to march to the beat. 

Here in South Africa life has its own rhythm as well. In the place of crisp button up shirts, however, there are worn shoes two sizes too small—like the old ways of doing things that make progress painful, and the restricting circumstances that keep so many from reaching their full potential. Instead of a ticking clock compelling people to rush, there is a lethargic clock that causes the unbearable hours people spend in the company of hopelessness to stretch on indefinitely. And instead of waking up to the monotony of a repetitious schedule, people are greeted with uncertainty. Uncertainty of whether or not they’ll have dinner that day; whether their child’s father will finally give them money for the rent; whether their mothers will still be alive when they come home from school (without exaggerating!) Yet somehow, in the face of all this South Africans seem incredibly resilient. Every weekend there are one or two funerals in my village. At school 1 learner has lost their parent every week for the past month—often leaving them alone with their elderly grandparents or just plain alone! People struggle to find meals each day and many children come to school simply because they can at least get something to eat there. Yet, I have never seen one them crying.  Or heard them saying life is unfair. I have wondered how it is that they manage to cope when the rhythm or their lives seems so much harsher than what we’ve known in the US. My simple theory is this: the reaction of most South Africans to the crazy rhythm of their lives is not to march or run as we Americans tend to do, but to dance.

No matter what the issue, or what the occasion, the universal response of South Africans to life’s ups, downs, twists and turns, is simply to dance. You will see them dancing at celebrations and at weddings—in fact you can’t have a wedding without dancing. The entire bridal party and all of the family and guests, both young and old, dance throughout the entire two day affair. They stop only indulge themselves with healthy portions of the traditional menu for all Tswana events: stewed goat and beef, maize meal porridge, pumpkin and cabbage. At funerals they also dance. The whole community comes together and they dance and dance. They sing hymns with all their passion and strength in 4 or 5 voice harmonies. I have found it to be one of the most intense cultural experiences I have had since I’ve been here. The whole procession of guests dance and sing all the way from the home of the deceased to the graveyard where the casket is lowered into the earth. It is a mysterious and powerful kind of song and dance that gives me goose bumps every time I witness it, without fail. At meetings and workshops you will find a similar scene. Even at strikes and political protests you will see the people of South Africa dancing, singing, and chanting their slogans. From the youngest to the oldest the response is the same. At the elementary school some students come to school wearing hand-me-down uniforms so holey and stained they aren’t fit to be seen and some of them have walked up to 15km on foot to get there, but if you even mention the word “dance” to them they will burst into motion pulling moves that would cause many American jaws to drop in amazement)…all in perfect time to an internal rhythm (which they seem to share, as their movements seem to correspond to one another's—even without any music to guide them.) 

It seems as if every extreme emotion people experience here in South Africa—whether joy, grief, or fear—all is channeled from the heart into the legs. So instead of crying; instead of wailing and gushing to friends and family about all their deep hurts; they just DANCE. It is a coping mechanism I’ve been learning to emulate. Sometimes my work here is frustrating. Sometimes I feel I’m getting nowhere. Sometimes people do things that are hurtful and disappoint me. Sometimes I feel quite alone. But before I cry or scream or throw in the towel, I will remember what my friends here have taught me and JUST DANCE!

Up, Down, and All Around

When we SA24’s (that is, South African volunteer group 24) were all still in training back in September of last year, they told us about something they call the “volunteer cycle.” I remember they had shown us a graph resembling a roller coaster. It showed what amounted to be the typical pattern of mood swings volunteers go through over the span of their Peace Corps experience.  I did not give much credence to it then, but now that I am almost a year into my service it’s taken on a new significance.

Every roller coaster starts with the climb to the top. Everyone knows that we humans tend to be romantic about things at the beginning. There was that long build-up of pre-service training and then observation and preparation at sight in which we conjure up all kinds of dreams and visions in those idealistic little Peace Corps heads of ours. This 6 month long process then culminates in a spectacular peak we in the organization know as in-service training. By the time that is done, however, we are beginning to see the near vertical drop called ‘pedal to the metal’ (or ‘reality’) that is on the other side of all that build up. That’s when the long fall back to earth starts. 

In term 1 (Jan-March) of this year I was still teetering on the summit. I was off to a great start. I launched the English Club, taught grade 10 English, presented the library project to an enthusiastic throng of teachers and PTA members, and started teaching in grades 1-4 once a week. My creativity was mobilized; I was energized; I had a vision that stretched on for countless miles into the future… Until, without warning, the bottom fell out. The decent began at the beginning of term 2, at which point I suddenly realized I am not super woman and had been spreading myself way too thin. I had to cut back on the amount of days I was teaching to make room for preparation for my other projects. That in turn upset my groove so to say. It took some trial and error to find a new balance. Even that process of finding the balance itself was interrupted by my unplanned trip to the US. That brought on first reverse culture shock…and then reverse-reverse-culture shock upon reentry. 

Being in the US was a strange sort of experience for me. It seemed like people were going too fast. Everywhere was over-developed and much too crowded and noisy. All thins environmental stress was overlaid with the stress of my grandfather’s illness and near death. All wrapped up in that, however was the relief at being able to see my family again. In essence it was emotional overload. As a result my last day or 2 in the US was spent mostly sleeping. When I got back to SA it was vacation time. I had the fortune of being able to participate in the Longtom Marathon (albeit doing more walking than running)—a fundraising event in the scenic Mpumalanga. After living in the Kalahari for 9 months it felt like being on a different planet! The days after the marathon were filled with hiking rafting and horseback riding…not a bad deal. (Aside: this has made me into and official outdoor adventure enthusiast!) Being surrounded by Americans in those first days back took the edge off of the reentry, but once I made it back to site things sort of crashed. That long fall back to earth combine with new drag put my heart in my throat. I Suddenly found myself running against many brick walls: Teachers resisting my efforts to observe their classes or give assistance (it seems the very behaviors and teaching practices of mine I hope to inspire them with have lead them to dread my presence in their classroom…something about being showed up.); finding myself on the wrong side of what is akin to a mutiny against the principal of one of my schools; lack of dedication on the part of those who vowed to support me and even being undermined by them in some ways; having my efforts to achieve anything at all in the other school crippled by the principals apparent on going apathy towards the affairs in his institution. Suddenly, my realm of possible influence has shrunk drastically. The realities of general unwillingness to change on the part of some and a system that is both ridged and dysfunctional abruptly halted my roll. It’s an ugly fall, that one: finding out you can’t do as much as you thought, and that even what you thought you were achieving is not what it seems…a sobering realization. It’s all part of what they call the ‘year mark depression.’ Apparently it’s very common. 

And so I spent a few weeks plummeting from that great height I’d been at. Now, however, it seems things have leveled off. I’ve hit the curve of the roaster. I feel the pressure but am gaining momentum as I readjust my focus and my plans in light of the circumstances. 

As things stand, I have revitalized the English Club, which had lost a bit of momentum end of last term, and attendance is back up to original levels. I have established a new personal schedule that divides my time more equally between the two schools…much to the appreciation of the elementary school teachers. Thanks to an extra push by the middle school principal and the efforts of a fellow PCV, things are moving forward with the library project and I have even started two new projects: an English Refresher Course for educators and the Bridge Project, a course aimed at helping qualified individuals overcome the obstacles in finding jobs. With some effort and a bit of divine intervention these will both bear fruit and before long the year mark depression with fully pass and lead to a few satisfying results.

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.