Réflexion Numéro Deux (… 2)

In addition to about 6 kilograms of body mass (about one eleventh of a Graham), my aversion to cold showers, and my reticence to learn to drive a stick shift, I’ve lost the ability to type the number sign.

I’ve been working quite a bit and if I thought writing reports and proposals was hard in English, writing them in French is even more of a challenge. Of some consolation is the fact that thanks to Bill Gates, I can configure my computer to interpret the American keyboard as a French one. Granted I have to memorize the keys, and while not actually translating the documents for me, it at least helps me type them without clicking on ‘Insert – Symbol’ and finding the accent aigue or grave or circonflexe every third word.

And the positive news is that I’m climbing the WPM (words per minute) chart by the day, mastering the wonder that is the AZERTY keyboard. Try doing this on your keyboard Americano: éèçàù§£µ. Thatés whqt I thought youùd sqy. So in addition to learning that q is a and m is ; and 4 is ‘ and 5 is ( and w is z, I’m slowly getting my head around the idea that nothing here is ever what it seems. And most of the time, things don’t work out the way you want them to… but sometimes things do... and you have to trust that it will all be ok in either case. And whatever challenge comes along, I'll just have to face it without the use of the number sign, which I can't find anywhere on this darn keyboard. Let me try to make some sense of this:

My life here has normalized and, for the past month, I’ve been Burundi bound, getting settled and whatnot. I feel it wise to ‘faire un état de lieu’ a short assessment of where I am, particularly given the last line of reflection numéro uno (yeah froggy keyboard!).

There’s no longer a kid living in my tool shed; in fact, I no longer even have a tool shed. I now have two roommates: a gay Parisian with a mustache and French girl from Saint-Etienne, which as coincidence would have it, happens to be from the former mining has been town where I was lucky enough to spend 10 months ‘teaching’ (speaking) English. I have my own 4x4 Toyota Land Cruiser, which has been parked at all hours of the night in all corners of this city, as I soak up Burundian youth covering Marvin Gaye and James Brown; Nepalese UN peacekeepers built like brick shit houses trying to get up the courage to talk to my roommate, then telling her that speaking French is like wiping your ass with silk (why can’t I come up with those lines?); doing the twist in some local bar outside of town at 4am after some drunk as hell prostitute steals my beer and breathes the stench of the dorm toilets on Saturday morning when all 9 stalls are overfoaming with vomit and cigarettes in my face; teaching my colleague Diego’s 3 year old kid to kill flying bugs the size of my thumb while watching Didier Drogba beat up on the current UEFA champions Barcelona via satellite on a green and orange screen (Ronaldinho player of the year my ass); showing some American colleagues the beach and looking across the lake to the mountains of Eastern Congo, while sipping lemon Fanta from a glass bottle that’s been regularly reused since probably the mid-eighties… waste not want not… And, in the midst of almost getting my ass kicked by two 7 ft. local guys who crashed my first house party at 3am, I remembered it was time to write down my thoughts.

That was two weeks ago.

So here we are two and a half months abroad, and I’m sitting in a hotel room in Pretoria, South Africa, watching WWF Smackdown and eating McDonalds for the third straight night and feeling a bit of culture shock from my return to America… or at least something similar.

I’m ‘stuck’ in South Africa until the Angolan Embassy here approves my visa, at which point I’m going to have to manufacture an open seat on a plane to Luanda. But I’ll worry about that once I get that nice pretty sticker on page whatever it is in my beaten up passport. Went for a walk downtown yesterday, which actually reminded me of Pittsburgh, or actually any other city in America where I’m the minority (the whiteness is going to be a running theme through these, so if you’re offended… uh, just think about me in the hot sun, and you’ll see that the issue is pretty much unavoidable).

There’s a lot to live up to after the first installment, the feedback from which included a marriage proposal, many compliments, and a request to write more. Let me start with a couple of recent events and move on from there.

So I’ve grown a beard… which according to my delightful roommate, makes me look “moins blanc” less white. Great. I also got a wicked sunburn, so I look something between a karaf of kool aid and a (Graham)Scott-ish highlander. I’m still trying to decide if it’s staying. Day 17 is looking a little rough.

Ok, I guess that satisfies for background.

Today, boys and girls, we’re going to talk about Trust. I flew from Bujumbura to South Africa on a Rwandair flight, trusting that there would be an Angolan visa waiting for me in Pretoria and trusting that I would be able to get from Johannesburg to Pretoria somehow. Ok, I arrived in Johannesburg, got a ride arranged by the hotel, failed at trying to get internet access, bought a phone card where an Afrikaans guy told me not to be out at night, and I negotiated a ride to Pretoria with a taximan who was going there anyway… HALF PRICE. Again, I trusted that there would be no problem.

The next day we headed out, 6am, straight drive 45 minutes to the capital… small problem, I didn’t know where the Angolan embassy was. No problem, trust factor. So Phineas (the driver) and I head to Pretoria, and stop by the DMV… he has to renew his licence.

Time out.

Do you remember that awful TV show “Sliders”, where the characters would ‘slide’ between different dimensions… each the same world, with the exact same people, but something was different… in one all men were enslaved by women and the “sliders” get caught because one of them leaves the seat up… in another, hell, I don’t remember… I think that was the first and last episode I saw...

So I find myself waiting in line at a DMV, so Phineas can renew his passport. I might as well have been in suburban Arlington. After deciding that waiting in line wasn’t going to work, we headed downtown to find the embassy… After asking five different people, including the front desk person at the Irish Embassy where the Angolan embassy was (you know ‘cause Angola used to be an Irish colony… sarcasm), I was exchanging my drivers license for a visitors pass and being told that the immigration folks in Angola were a ‘bunch of liars’ for telling me I could get my visa in South Africa. Uh oh. Negotiations ensued, and I was told to reapply; I insisted on talking to the guy’s boss later in the day. So we head back to the DMV, but first, I need to get a SIM Card, so I can 1. stop using Phineas’ phone and 2. be within reach of my coworkers to diffuse any ‘urgent’ conflicts. He drops me off at the cell phone store, I hesitate for a second before jumping out to buy the SIM Card. My laptop, baggage and bacon Pringles are in the car, and Phineas could just drive off. (parallel universe --- they have Fanta and Pringles, but they’re in weird flavors like bacon and pineapple, respectfully (sic)).

But I jump out anyway, buy the SIM card for the equivalent of two bucks. Imagine that… 2 bucks and I have my own phone number… Trust. Jump back in the car and we’re off to the DMV. At the DMV I’m waiting in line, Phineas needs some medical form filled out, so he says, “Can you hold my spot, I have to run to the doctor’s.” So I hold his spot in line, while he jumps into his car and drives off with my laptop, pig-flavored Pringles, and fruit of the looms. So I’m sitting there, and that’s when it hits me… I’m either a complete moron or a very trusting individual. The only real difference is whether or not Phinny decides to take those crappy Dell adds seriously – Dude, you’re gettin’ a Dell from that gullible American schmuck! – or whether he decides to come back to get his driver’s licence.

When the red car rolls back into the parking lot 20 minutes later, it hits me. It’s not really about trusting people, though trust is important in this world, it’s about reading people, and about knowing their needs and interests. I don’t know Phineas from Gideon or Jacob or Adam, but I know that the only reason he’s going to Pretoria is to get his licence, and the only reason he’s kept me around is that I’m going to pay him 22.50 $$ to drop me at a hotel in town. Sure, I trust him, but if he leaves with my shit, I’m high and dry in a strip mall 5 miles outside of the capital of a country I’ve only been in for about 19 hours. Hell, I’m still green enough to be wowed by bacon Pringles. It’s not so much trusting people as trusting yourself to make the right decisions. And being able to understand where people are coming from. And you can’t understand people until you get out of your shell and put yourself in a position to be surprised, shocked, laughed at, robbed, loved, betrayed, fucked. And maybe that’s really what trust is… not trusting that things will work out, ‘cause they won’t…. or sometimes they won’t… it’s trusting that when they don’t that you made the right decision and are in a position to deal with whatever dimension the world decides to show you. Likewise, it’s not about trusting a person to be good, it’s about trusting that there are good people in this world… and having the courage to put yourself in a position to find them. Or maybe it’s as simple as trusting that things often don’t work out, but that you’ve got to trust that things eventually will.

Phineas dropped me at a hotel, gave me his last black pen (after five minutes of fierce negotiation) and a receipt for the 160 Rand. The next day, the woman at the Embassy was about as helpful as her underling, but I reapplied, and I’ll have a 30 day visa on Friday… I hope… or should I say… I trust.

La suite…

Ok, end of chapter. I got my visa four days later (spent eating McDonalds and typing report and budget after report and budget), rushed to the airport to catch the last flight of the week to Luanda that I had no hope of catching. Naturally, I missed it, so I set about finding another option. TAAG (Angolan airline) – booked through next week, South African Airways – booked through next week, Air Namibia (Air Namibia?!) – flight in one week, through Namibia of course. Shit.

Laisse-moi t’expliquer un tout petit peu… I arrived in South Africa on Sunday, hoping, trusting, that I would have a visa waiting for me, and trusting that once I had said visa, I would be able to get a flight to Angola. I have no reason to be in South Africa, other than for this crummy visa, and now I am going to have to spend another week eating Mickey D’s twice a day and bouffing all of my Rands in the same internet café, speaking French with a guy from Bukavu, Eastern Congo named Elvis who plays classical piano and listens to a mix of Congolese dance music and Christian worship music from the USA, baby. Lord, I lift your name on high…

In fact, Elvis hooked me up with a cheap ride to the airport… I guess I earned it, since I’ve spent the equivalent of about 30 bucks in his internet café this week. Actually, no, that doesn’t balance out. I saved like 40 bucks on this ride… oh, just you wait.

Meanwhile, back at Jo-burg Int’l (which apparently isn’t called Jo-burg international, but it is in this story), it occurs to me… I have a flight back to Bujumbura on Rwandair in two weeks. I look at my ticket and realize that it’s a weekly flight, and this week’s flight leaves in 1.5 hours… did someone say ticket change… giddyup.

So I run to the Rwandair “counter” (woman selling tickets out of a suitcase at a borrowed South African Airways counter with the SA sticker covered up, but whatever), where I am informed that I can’t change my ticket there. No, I say, I have all of my baggage and can leave immediately (you’ll see in a moment that that wasn’t quite right). Ok, she says, but we don’t accept cash. Not even Rand? Credit card? Bribe? Backsheesh? Shirt off my back? Plasma? First born? GET ME THE HELL OUT OF SOUTH AFRICA!!!!!! You have to make a deposit in our bank account. Lady, the flight leaves in an hour. Sir, the bank is downstairs, and the gate closes in 30 minutes… rush rush rush…

$2 cell phone rings… it’s Elvis’ friend who drove me to the airport. Allo, oui, t’es ou? Merde, le vol décolle dans une heure… Let me paraphrase – my luggage is still in the trunk of the car that dropped me off, as it was also going to drive me back to Pretoria (that is before I was going back to Bujumbura)… I’m not after all going to spend a week in the airport. The driver (friend of Elvis’) calls to say that he’s been arrested and is leaving the police station in Johannesburg… in addition to trying to drive backwards off an onramp on the way in (that particular maneuver got us pulled over by airport police), he illegally parked the car after he dropped me off (in front of the same squad car, I might add)… lovely. That got him a free trip to the police station an hour away.

I’m not coming back to the airport. Dude, you’re coming back to the airport. Désolé mon gars (sorry dude).

Ok, quick mental inventory of what’s in the bag… electric razor, malaria pills, clothing, backpack, toiletries, Portuguese language CDs… unopened… of course… Ok, fuck it, I’m out. I either go back to Pretoria for a week of MacDO, bacon Pringles, pineapple Fanta, franco-african internet cafés and sunburn OR I head the hell back to Bujumbura for a Primus (local beer) and some “fun”. I AM OUT. You’re not supposed to take those malaria poison pills for a year anyway (why has graham lost 15 pounds? – slight hyperbole).

10 minutes later I find a phone booth place to call internationally. Call Washington for approval to fly back to Bujumbura (essentially a loss of about 400 bucks). No, there are no more flights… yes, yes, tried that. No, can’t do that. Yes, I’m a little bit ready to get out of here. Right, ha ha ha,,, yes, it’ll be a great story. Riiiiiight.

Small price to pay for home sweet home… So now I have 15 minutes to deposit the money… rush rush rush, THERE’S A LINE. Okay, okay. 15-14-13… phone rings, it’s Elvis… ca va? Non, ca va PAS!!!!!! (Are you fine? NO I’M NOT FINE !!!!) While you’ve been dancin’ to the jail house rock, I’ve been running around like an idiot trying to fucking emmigrate. I’ve got your bag and am driving to the airport. Okay, flight leaves in 1 hour…

Security guard kicks me out of the bank for talking on my cell phone.

Back in line… 9-8-7-6…. come on come on -5-4-3-2-1- -1, -2, -3… you get the point. So I finally pay the 390 Rand and run back up to get back to sweet Buja and cold, cheap beer….

Oh, yeah, the Rwandair “counter” has now transformed back to a South African Airways booth and the carpet bag lady is halfway to Kigali.

NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Guess who’s staying in Pretoria?

So I begin working the phones, calling Burundi and DRC colleagues… and spending even MORE money… I can get to Kinshasa on Monday, then get my office there to buy me a ticket to then fly to Angola on Tuesday. Problem being that I’d have to come back Luanda to Kinshasa to Johannesburg to Bujumbura… all on different tickets. Or I could drop the Jo-burg – Buja leg and just get a UN flight from Kinshasa to Bukavu coming back and then get a ride from Bukavu to Bujumbura. Who cares, let’s focus on getting to Angola. Other option, fly back to Bujumbura on Sunday, then fly from Bujumbura to Kenya to South Africa to Luanda via Kenyan Airways, connection with South African Airways (this according to my colleague / travel guru in Burundi).

Hang on a second. I thought there were no flights to Angola from Jo-burg.

Graham’s colleague Guru Travel Agent Dude: “Says here that there are.”

South African Arways; “Sir, there are no spaces on any flights for the rest of the month to Angola”. But Kenya Airways said… “Sir, there are no spaces on ANY flights for the rest of the month to Angola.”

Kenya Airways, “No, sir, we can’t put you on a flight to Luanda.” But your Bujumbura office said… Blank stare. Great.

So I drive back with Elvis, pay his gas, and go back to the hotel. I don’t care what South African Airways says, I’m calling their central reservations office. “No, sir, no room tomorrow, nor the next day… I could put you on a flight next Saturday.”

321 123 why is Africa bothering me.

M’am, are you SURE that there are no spots tomorrow… it’s very VERY V E R Y important that I get to Luanda.

PAUSE

“Oh, yes, it appears there is one free spot. How is tomorrow morning?”

And most of the time, things don’t work out the way you want them to… but sometimes things do... and you have to trust that it will all be ok in either case.

Or maybe that’s just Africa, and I got lucky. I’ll be positive for a change.

Just in case, I think I’ll put the seat down… you never know what dimension you’re in... hell, this one doesn’t even have number signs.