The story of a box....

"I'm on the edge here. Don't do this to me." I was talking directly to the change machine who was refusing to eat my slightly crumpled dollar bill. It was turning out to be one of those ridiculous moments that make up the proverbial straw that brought the camel down. I'd arrived at the airport happy to be on my homeward journey only to discover my bags were going to cost $400 more than I had anticipated. Somehow I missed this nifty baggage chart and assumed all extra bags were merely $25. Being a frequent international flyer had left me paying more attention to weight than to number.

I thought briefly about the contents of my luggage- an entire year's worth of clothing and supplies for me and the boys- and deemed it all necessary. I laughed at the US Airways clerk and made some comment about only in America (I'd noticed these two things, the laugh and the "God loves America but no one else does" line popping forth more frequently. Sure signs that my departure was well overdue.) I handed her my debit card, quickly calculating how much might be left to get us through to the next payday. Declined. Oh boy. We had some conversation and ultimately I took my confusion off in search of an ATM. No luck there landed me on the phone with my bank, watching the minutes quickly turn to an hour at the risk of missing my flight. The discussion with the visa dept. led me to several other extensions and finally to a whole new bureau. It bordered on surreal, what was happening to me. Except of course, I truly was stuck in an airport 300 miles from my children and 6,000 miles from home with no way to access my own money that sat comfortably in a bank in upstate NY. Merde. Wild images of being homeless in Philadelphia ran across my mind as I tried to formulate a solution. Nothing came to me. I'd missed my flight and made my way back to reschedule. Step one appeared clear at least.

By the time I returned to the check-in desk, the clerk had moved my bags onto a push cart and called the police. God does love America. "You were gone so long," she explained, as if that explained anything. I gave her my smile and laugh. "I'll need a new flight," I told her and she booked me onto the next plane with ease, terrorist fears and abandoned bag issues now abated I suppose. I was then faced with the task of managing my luggage, which I hadn't quite figured out how to compile on the push cart. I was always left with one extra bag. The ingenious design of the push cart requires one to hold the handle down (or up, I could never quite be clear on which) in order to release the breaks. Impossible to do while holding another bag. In addition to that, it seemed the disease afflicting the Miami payphones had stretched out to Philly and the ones in closest reach just didn't work.

So it was I found myself talking to the change machine hoping for enough coins to call a friend to save me from disaster (again.)   And my remaining dollar bill was just too crumpled to be accepted. I was completely on the edge of breaking down, despite my best attempts at deep breathing and calm self-talk. One angel was eyeing me from a nearby bench and soon offered up a crisp new bill, which the machine hungrily devoured. Coins in hand I began the unwieldy task of maneuvering my bags across the long hall to the other side of the airport where the payphones were working (hopefully.) Tears were no longer threatening to fall, they were sneaking down my face like defiant teenagers refusing to believe I had everything under control. People stared at me, watching me struggle, but no one offered to intervene. I had become an airport spectacle, a momentary diversion from their own travel dilemmas.

Until the angel appeared again. He pushed the cart to the phones and inquired several times about why I was crying. His tone indicated that every moment is a virtual gift and hence tears should ever be shed. I managed to pull out a smile, fix it into place and reassure him that I would be fine. In doing so, I managed to convince myself as well.

I spent several hours people watching and wondering about the stories filling other lives. Overhearing snatches of conversations reassured me that I was not the only one to be caught in the throes of mistakes from the past.

Fortunately, I had only one more stateside airport to get through before I would feel securely on my way. Landing in Miami was a welcome step closer to my final destination. I grabbed another luggage cart with renewed determination to make all of my things fit. While I was unable to achieve this on my own, a kindly Jamaican airport employee sized up the situation and quickly reversed the pieces to my puzzle. He sent me off towards the elevator with a stacked cart and some doubt about actually fitting inside. "No,no, you'll make it, " he assured me.

I did manage to lug my things up and out to the curbside where I flagged down a shuttle to a nearby hotel. Baggage problem put to bed for the night, I had a happy reunion with my boys.

The biggest problem was not my suitcases but a large bike box I had created to transport the latest exercise equipment needed to accommodate those long, sunny Kinshasa days. It wasn't heavy, just awkward and impossible to carry with anything else.

We made our final arrival at the airport five hours early, ready to check our bags (and box) one last time and settle down for an airport picnic. The shuttle driver dropped us off on the curb and I could see the AirFrance check-in counter from where I stood. Hope restored.  We just had to get there, less than 100 feet away. The boys each took a few bags and I waited with the last two sacks and the box.  As Nabih came back and grabbed one of the bags, it was the first time I realized my problem was uniquely American.

An African woman would have easily gathered that box up, placed it firmly on her head- leaving both hands free to grab an additional suitcase (or two!) and gracefully made her way over to the check- in line. Feeling woefully inadequate, I could only stare across at the distance wondering how I would ever make it. I resorted to sliding the box with my hands and pushing the bag with my feet in an unsuccessful attempt at covering ground. I was caught up in remembering the conversation I had had several nights before when packing up the bike.

We'd been debating the usefulness of a handle. I wanted to tie some string around the box to allow for a grabbing point. This idea was ultimately vetoed with the thought that there was always someone around to help when you're traveling.  Wondering at this faulty logic, I continued my slow maneuvering towards where the boys had placed the rest of our things.

Two men began discussing between themselves whether or not I needed help. One seemed convinced I was fine and the other suspected a hand might be in order. While they carried on their strange debate a young Hispanic dad walked over, picked up my bag and dropped it by the boys without a word, leaving me free to now grab up the box and join my children. We had about half an hour to wait before the counter opened. This part did not pose a problem in the least. We know how to do airport waits. 

I spent a few minutes feeling competent and accomplished. With the help of friends and traveling strangers, we'd made it. But our story was not quite over. Because one handle on the suitcase wouldn't retract and the box had been inspected by the Miami TSA on the way down from Philly. They'd neglected to return it to its beautifully wrapped state and the check in agent had some concerns about accepting it in its current half-wrapped condition........

Oh yeah, God does love America.

Mikes at the Airport

     Travel has always held a certain appeal to me. Walking is my standard passion, allowing me to feel in control and on the move. Though I have never felt limited by how far my feet can actually take me, bicycles and automobiles offered a second freedom, opening the roads and highways up to endless destinations. Airports, however, have become the ultimate symbol of converging cities, countries and continents. They are a point of potential where everyone is on the brink of some new adventure. My first international flight enchanted me with its multitude of languages and customs. I waited patiently for the English version of the announcements, delighting in the sounds of Flemish, French and Spanish that came before. I secretly loved the fact that my native tongue wasn't first or even most important. 

     Airports are a place of bringing people together. Even a departing friend or family member suddenly becomes all the more dear and close to heart in the face of an airport goodbye. Strangers are flung together for long hours and uncomfortable circumstances which often results in a sense of camaraderie and unity. People feel more at ease sharing their stories and taking time to talk to those that they may have previously brushed past brusquely on the street. Its kind of a limbo state in between the busyness of everyday life and the quiet contemplation of a retreat. The busyness of an airport is usually of the hurry-up-and-wait variety while the contemplation comes along in sleepy waves as the clock jumps hours trying to keep up with the plane, hurling its passengers back and forth through time. Even those waiting on the ground have gone through their own kind of warp, anticipating the arrival and setting out early to beat traffic. There is the suspense of wondering if the flight has made it in on time and all has passed as it should. 

     In Kinshasa, the suspense grows a hundred fold. Traffic is legendary. One can sit for hours barely moving, slowly following dusty detours. The alternative is to leave early enough to avoid the rush which allows you to arrive with hours to spare. Hours waiting for the protocol by a roadside gas station or sitting in the parking lot of Ndjili, wondering if your brother will actually make it past customs this time.

    The suspense builds because arriving at the airport does not provide any of the reassuring feedback one might receive in the US. There are no electronic flight schedules to monitor or any way to determine delayed or arriving planes. There is not even much sense of getting out of the car as entry into the airport is strictly forbidden.

     When I went to pick up Kazadi two years ago, he was flying in from Lubumbashi. It was a local flight and during the day. I spent some time hanging outside the doors where in-country arrivals exit. A man named Mike struck up a conversation with me as we were hustled from our shady waiting spot by humorless painters afraid of dribbling on us. We stood side by side in the narrow line of shade cast by a lamppost awaiting our guests. Turns out Mike, an herbal doctor, and his cousin needed a ride into the city, which I was happy to give them.

     Last Wednesday I was sitting in the car observing the airport at night. It had been a long journey, began when the sun was still high in the sky. I'd already witnessed my share of attempted car washers and competent tire changers overseen by a muscular man in fatigues. People were clearing out, cars were leaving and lights were being turned off from within. I wondered where my brother was and if immigration had their clutches sunk too deep. A tall man walked by dodging puddles from the recent downpour and discussing possibilities with the two young boys deftly wheeling his suitcases. I had spotted him earlier as he spoke to a woman just getting into her car. She appeared to be an airport employee leaving for the night. She had driven away and the tall man had disappeared somewhere. As he passed this second time, he noticed me gazing out the open window and I heard him say, almost to himself, "Let me see if I can request some services..." He changed course and made his way over.

     Turns out he was also named Mike, a Kenyan from Switzerland working at a local NGO. He'd had his car brought to the airport only to arrive and find it with four flat tires. He was also in search of a ride to the city. We talked a bit in French and English, remarking on the state of the country and the differences one could feel in the air. Our conversation was a mix of history and philosophy peppered with  personal revelations. It's amazing how easy it is to strike up a conversation with someone at the airport.

      In the midst of this, the protocol--who had all along been assuring me everything was fine this time and my brother was not going to be deported---arrived at the car. Alone. I immediately stepped out and began questioning him. All was not going exactly smoothly and he wanted me to begin making some calls. We had people on alert this time in case of this very thing. I looked at Mike as he loaded his bags into the back of the jeep and shrugged my shoulders. "You see, you've asked for a ride and now you are caught up in this problem." He seemed undeterred by a prolonged wait and was instead determined to offer his help in whatever way possible. Oh the unity inspired by an airport parking lot. We three charged up to the entrance ramp.

The officer there was not happy to see us. He seemed to think the protocol had disrespected him by returning with so many people who thought they were just going to march right in. Mike, being half Congolese though raised with his Kenyan side of the family, was very adamant about gaining entrance or, at the very least, some concrete information. I couldn't really tell if his claim to connections was valid or a mere show of pomp and flashing badges meant to inspire compliance. As I occupied myself with phone calls, Mike gained the ear of an official passing by at just that time. He informed us that all the detainees would be released immediately.

Ousmane came sauntering out minutes later. The protocol went back in to retrieve the passport, an affair that took another half hour or so. Mike and Ousmane became fast friends as they shared tales of their travels and woes. They surveyed the flat tires and commented some more on the state of the country. Mike repeated his vow to make formal complaints when he returned the next morning.

It was near midnight when we finally all piled into the small car, bags stacked high and knees scrunched tight. We made our way through dark and deserted streets back to the main city. I worried a bit about leaving Mike off at Kintambo to search for a taxi to his place in Macompagne. We left with an exchange of numbers I might never use and that sense of camaraderie and unity so often accompanying a travel ordeal. 


I seem to have developed a habit of picking up Mikes at the airport.