A "Homegoing" - Part 4a: Being there...

We arrived at Banjul International Airport on time (6:40 p.m. GST), and as I stepped off the plane into that hot darkness, apprehension and anticipation skipped off, hand-in-hand, right behind me.  Though not sure exactly into what I was headed - I certainly could not wait to find out.
 
As we waited on the runway for a bus to the main terminal, I was bathed in sweat due to the heat (and a sudden hot flash).  From the time I got a seat, to the time I got off at the terminal, the whole "only-wearing-deodorant-in the West" theory had pretty much become moot because - layered scents and Mitchum notwithstanding, I was as nose-stinging as everybody else by then!

Getting in the non-Gambian line, I struck up a conversation with a young blond girl walking next to me in the breezeway to passport control.  She'd been in-country for awhile working for an NGO and had just returned from a weekend in Europe (now armed with a more concrete knowledge of its geographical proximity to Africa, a white woman jetting off to Europe for a weekend didn't garner as much as a raised eyebrow from me - though it did give me some much-needed perspective down the road).

Remembering something I'd read about an airport fee, I asked if she knew anything about it.  She said they'd just instituted a new exit fee, but to her knowledge, there was no entry fee. And upon reaching the passport control desk, there wasn't one.  I got my entry stamp and asked whereto next.  With a flourish and a huge smile (the country is marketed as the "Smiling Coast"), I was directed to the luggage carousel.

It was wall-to-wall people, standing damned near shoulder-to-shoulder, in heat so thick - I felt like the Wicked Witch of the West when she got that water thrown on her ass.  And don't act like y'all don't remember that whole - "I'm melting!" - thing!  After awhile, the luggage carousel started to spit out its burden, and what felt like pure bedlam ensued.

There were passengers reaching over, under and around one another trying to retrieve bags; there was a swarm of local men everywhere, all shouting at once, asking if we needed help with bags or taxis; and then, there was the heat - times two.  Between constant, "No, thank yous," and anxiously searching the crowd of predominately Black faces for Gerald's, I started hot flashin' - times two, with sweat dripping down my face like I'd been rained on. 

After being nearly crushed amid the wave of passengers trying to retrieve bags and the locals trying to help them, and then wrestling the heavy, wheeled garment bag and its smaller, upright sister from the carousel (all while trying to hold onto the wheeled carry-on with the laptop in it!), I wish I'd said "Yes!  Thank you!" 

A little guy, obviously feeling sorry for me after watching my comedy of errors unfold, suddenly appeared, rolling cart at the ready saying, "Madame, would you not like some help?"  Drenched and overwhelmed I gave in (who could resist the "Madame?").  We headed to the baggage security line where they scan the luggage before entry to the main airport complex.

Once through, and with the little guy ready and willing to take the bags outside and find a taxi, I spotted Gerald - smiling and waving frantically.  I could hear him excitedly yelling, "Deborah!  Deborah!  I'm here!  I'm here!"   I was never so happy to see a familiar face!

As he made his way toward me, I told my dedicated helper, "Thank you so much, my friend's just over there, coming to meet me."  I gave him $5 for his good lookin' out  and when he thanked me so profusely, I was taken aback. I later found out from Gerald, that my $5 had been an extravagance.  The usual tip was $1.50 - $2.00 US.

That was to be the first of many lessons affirming the connections between people with very little and doing more with less in this place, and the way I'd been raised in South Carolina.  In that moment, being Black and American - a living, breathing embodiment of that "distance, deliberately created" to which Baldwin referred - felt at once, like a sucking chest wound, surrounded by warm fuzzies.  At least, with every U.S. dollar equivalent to 25 Dalasi in local currency at the time, I'd been able to help him HAVE a little more, but DO less - for a change.

After sweaty hugs and two-cheek kisses, Gerald introduced me to John, his sidekick and electrician from Belgium, who'd married a Senegalese woman and settled in The Gambia 10 years ago.  It was his car into which we piled and headed to the hotel I'd booked in Banjul.  It was non-stop catchin'-up for Gerald and me.  We'd not seen each other since my family moved from Florida to Maryland almost eight years ago.

I couldn't see much of the capital city as we entered because it was dark, and street lights were few and far between.  I could make out some single-family home neighborhoods, government buildings and paved roads though.  Once we reached the LAICO Atlantic, Banjul (owned by the Libyan Arab African Investment Company headquartered in Tunis), they struggled with the luggage, while I went to check-in. 

Expecting my late arrival, my key and "Hotel Passport" card were ready at the front-desk.  The back of the card reads:  "This card is your passport in the Hotel.  It will be requested by the reception staff when collecting your key, by bar or restaurant staff when charging to your room and by the cashier for meals included in the price of your stay. Please therefore retain this card at all times until surrendering it to the cashier on departure."

I think, it's to make sure only "paying" guests are availing themselves of the "amenities" - but that's just me.

He led us to my room, showed me how to work the lights with the key card and the guys followed him back to the lobby, saying they'd meet me by the pool for a drink.  I said, "Just what the doctor ordered!  Let me wash my damned face - the rest can wait!"

There weren't a lot of people hanging out, so I found them quickly.  The night was warm with a light breeze - and it was beautiful sitting out there!  Gerald and I both had a Guinness.  I rarely drink beer, but this one was downright refreshing given the day I'd had!  Since he was driving, John decided on a locally bottled, Fanta Orange soda.  Amid fits of raucous laughter, we talked for about an hour - them, excitedly bringing me up to date on the center's progress (these fellas had been busy!), and me, recounting what I'd learned so far about international travel, while intermittently practicing my French on Jon - and failing miserably!

I told Gerald I wanted to see just what all they'd been doing and rising to leave, he suggested, "You better get plenty of rest then!  I've arranged for you, a personal tour guide to be with you during the day."  Surprised and a little wary, I asked, "And where will you be?!" Reading my mind, he said laughing, "Oh Deborah, but do not worry - you will love her!

He explained he and John would most likely be at the center working during the day and he just wanted to make sure I'd be able to see as much of the country and its culture that I could.  "But you are also more than welcome to come and work too if you like!" he said laughing.  I got the two-cheek kiss goodbye from both of them and Gerald said, poking John in the side - "We will not come for her until around noon tomorrow because she is NOT a morning person!" 

Laughing (because anyone who knows me well - would cosign that), I walked them through the lobby to the car.  Gerald asked had I changed any money yet and I said no.  He reached in his pocket and gave me 1000 Dalasi saying, "Some pocket money, in case you need to get anything before we come back for you tomorrow.  We'll settle up once you change some money."  Before they pulled away, I leaned in the window and asked him if he'd made those "arrangements" yet.  Patting my hand, he said,  "It will be no problem Deborah, don't worry!!  Tomorrow, I will do it tomorrow."  Shaking my head, I said good night and went inside.

I got back to the room  and realized I was tired, but not sleepy.  I took a Guinness from the fridge, went on the terrace and smoked a cigarette (it was advertised online as "non-smoking" - for the most part, I'm a rule follower).  Sitting there in the shadows, that full feeling began to creep up into my chest as I said aloud to myself, "Welcome home sistah."  I finished my beer, had another cigarette and went in to take a shower.

The husband had warned the shower would be compact - built only to wet yourself down, lather yourself up and rinse yourself off.  He was right.  It felt a little cramped (and so not suited for languishing!).  Taking the shower head down to ensure a thorough, whole-body rinse, I thought, "Damn good way to conserve water, 'cause I'm sure as hell ready to get out of this cubicle!"  I can't lie, I like to languish.

When I slid into my pajamas and got between the sheets, all clean, lotioned and "Butterfly Flower"-smellin', the body just said, "Aw-w-w yeah!!" - and promptly fell the hell out.  A loud knock on the door around 9 or 10 p.m. jolted me awake.  It was a young man on staff with an aerosol can, coming to spray the room for mosquitoes (not sure if mosquito nets were available upon request, never occurred to me to ask).  I waited in the hallway until he was done and then went back in, surveying the room to which I'd not really paid much attention upon my arrival.

Very clean (I already told y'all back in the Brussels bathroom!  Not Clean - pet peeve), with all the amenities one would expect or need:  two twin beds (cheaper), a safe, tucked away in the very spacious armoire, the obligatory, pay-as-you-go mini-bar/fridge, a television and a desk.  A screened, sliding glass door leads out to the small terrace facing the Bird Sanctuary behind the hotel. As stated on the back of the "Hotel Passport, breakfast and dinner are also included in the price of the stay.

Since I was up, I decided to send the husband and sons an email letting them know I was safe.  The laptop battery was about spent, so I figured I might as well plug it in and let it charge overnight.  I should have just gone back to bed because none of the outlets could accommodate the plug! 

I went to the front desk and the guy on duty smiled as I recounted how I'd searched high and low, but could not find a suitable outlet. He said, "But Madame, you would never have found one, you need an adapter to use your American electronics here!" 

Seeing as I was going to be in the country for awhile, I forked over the 150 Dalasi, took my adapter and went back to my room to send my emails.  I must've missed reading that in my haste to book - because there was no Wifi access in the room!  I called back to the front desk, only to be advised that Wifi was only available in the lobby areas!  I have to say, that was the only drawback about the hotel for me.

Since I was expecting those other "arrangements" to come through the next day, it wasn't that big of a deal, but in the interest of Gambian tourism, they might want to look into that set-up.  I decided to wait until morning and went back to my room, set my phone alarm for 8:00 a.m. (right in the middle of breakfast being served so as not to miss it!) and fell asleep watching the BBC channel.

I slept very well.  So well in fact, I got up at 7:15 a.m. - before the alarm went off!  Starving, I threw on some sweats and flip-flops and headed to the restaurant for breakfast - camera in-hand (for those of you who've done any late-night clubbin' - y'all know - things that look good in the dark, tend to look a whole lot different in the daylight!).  Set up in the inside dining room was a smorgasbord of British, American and Gambian staples - and you could get omelets made to order while you waited (which I did)!  Rather than eat inside, I decided to go back out to the poolside-table we'd shared the night before.

The pool, now abuzz with activity, slapped me in the face with that "geographical proximity to Europe perspective" that I mentioned earlier!  Aside from the staff, I was the only black face in the joint!

With music and water aerobics going full-tilt,  everybody was quite friendly.  I was just absolutely undone that I could be in Africa, with just as many white folk as I'd left back home!!  All I could think about was how ignorant I'd been all my life, AND -  how woefully inadequate our education system in America was, is, and continues to be for Black folk.  I had a cigarette and went back to my room to call Gerald.

I reached him on his cell, and he and John were at the center.  He couldn't believe I was up and about so early in the morning.  He said he and John would be by around noon with the young lady who'd become my constant companion during my stay.  I told him, since I'd not taken a shower yet - that was perfect!

After I'd showered and dressed, I decided to go out and investigate the digs.  There was really nothing a foreigner would lack if they chose to vacation there.  Time was still - sort of.  I felt like I'd been transported to peace and tranquility.  Living up to the moniker attached to the country, every staff person I met had a smile and a conversation for me.  Most were surprised when I told them I was from America.  One of the landscapers said, "We don't get many Black Americans here.  It's good to see you sistah!"  I was, at once, happy - and ashamed.

Noon came - no Gerald.  I called him on his cell to find out where they were - of course, he was at the center.  "We'll be there right away!"

I decided to wait by the pool.  On the way, I stopped at one of the hotel bars for a Guinness.  I was served by one of the cutest, most amiable, little chocolate girls who reminded me of myself (in much younger days!).  Her name was Bintou, "But everybody calls me Mama" she said, smiling.  She'd become a welcome face in the short time I was there.

I took my beer and went outside where a local vendor was set up.  His name was Ibrahim, and he was making some of the most beautiful sand paintings I'd never seen.  Here's a video of the process.  I apologize, I'm no computer wonk and I've yet to figure out how to re-size my videos - with crispness intact - for Blogger ("Tomorrow, I will do it tomorrow" as Gerald said!):

Yeah, no - it is not only in The Gambia that sand painting is done.  But Ibrahim is a businessman (and a capitalist!) just like any other businessman all over the world - marketing to the unsuspecting buyer is everything!  As I watched him, I realized, if I could draw as well as he does - I could sand paint too!  It's exactly how I made my Christmas stockings with our names on it - but with glitter, not sand.

As I said on the end of the clip, I had to go.  Gerald, John and my new friend were waiting in the lobby.

To be continued:  A "Homegoing" - Part 4b:  Links, lineage and the legacy of "Black Rice"

A "Homegoing" - Part 3: Going "back to Africa" on my own terms

Mr. Baldwin's, "Where are you from" story is familiar to most of us whose ancestors' entry into this country "was a bill of sale" (the remainder of the discussion's here and here).

Growing up in the Deep South, I was always confused when white folk would sneer at us and say, "Y'all niggers need to go back to Africa!"  Angrily, I'd always say to myself, "What?  (I was little!), I ain't never been to Africa!  I was born right here!"

Obviously, that "distance created, created deliberately" to which Baldwin referred, coupled with the physical and psychological barbarity experienced at the hands of our countrymen for hundreds of years (and counting) - had all been very effective in ensuring that I too, would have no knowledge whatsoever of whence I came. 

But after more than 25 years of critically thinking and realizing that I both wanted and needed to know, I now had a golden opportunity to physically and psychologically  diminish that "distance" in less than 48 hours - and  not at the behest of any of those "real Americans" in Dixie - but at my own.

My own, "Up in the Air"...

Before I dive into this, let me just say that from Newark on out, all times are approximate given my very, American idea that I didn't need to figure it all out.  After all, everybody's got clocks right?

But while my mind had dismissed keeping up with the whole time-change thing, I discovered later on that the body had been paying strict attention.  In very short order, it would register its stern opposition to my wearing it the hell out - with a vengeance!  But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

I'd left home at 9:40 a.m. CST headed to Houston.  The flight was about 45 minutes and since we didn't have to deplane as they dropped off and picked up passengers, I texted the sons and called Rhoda to check in while we sat on the tarmac.  The unloading and loading went pretty quickly - and shortly after noon, we were on our way to Newark where I'd change planes for Europe - and lose an hour. 

We arrived at 4:30 p.m. EST, and as we disembarked and blended toward our gate to Brussels, the linguistic composition of the passengers noticeably shifted from mostly English-speaking, to a veritable Tower of Babel!  And to my surprise, I was starting to "hear" bits and pieces of French and Spanish conversations going on around me.  I thought to myself, "Aww yeah, NOW, I'm feelin' that whole international traveler thing!"

I checked in and sent the husband a text letting him know where I was (I didn't in Houston because of the 10 1/2-hour time distance).  When I hit send, I got a pop-up saying the battery needed to be charged.  A frantic search of my carry-on produced nothing - I'd left the damned charger on the kitchen counter!

Serendipity reared its beautiful head once again though, and not too far from my gate (thank the Lawd!), I found an electronics store.  I picked up a compatible charger and headed back to the boarding area, stopping for a large cup of coffee on the way.  Taking a seat near a plug, I sipped coffee, people-watched and waited.

When the call to board came at 5:40 p.m., I was ready.  Settling into my seat, I pulled out Mab Seagrest's, "Memoir of a Race Traitor" which I should have been able to finish on the plane, if only I could've just concentrated on one thing.  At 6:30 p.m. EST - which I note because it marked my descent into real time-change hell! - we began to taxi down the runway. 

Watching the lilliputian, Newark-Liberty International recede from view - I exhaled.  It had been an absolutely beautiful day for flying so far, and the trip had gone without so much as a hitch.  The stone was more than halfway rolled up the hill.

Our estimated arrival time in Brussels was 7:50 a.m. (CET) - a seven and half hour flight!  All I knew was I'd been awake since 6:40 a.m. (CST) and the body was saying, "Hey!  How 'bout a little shut-eye here!  But since my seat was one row behind the exit row, I  resisted.   I thought I'd better pay close attention to the signal-woman in the aisle, since I sure as hell knew I couldn't drink up all that water out there if we crashed into it!  But once the show was over - I was down for the count.

I remember being awakened for dinner and later, standing in a short line to "answer the call."  Awake now, I considered writing, but getting the laptop - out of the carry-on, in the overhead bin - was more than I wanted to do.  Instead, I watched "Eat, Pray, Love" and really enjoyed it!  When it was over, I looked out of the window into a pitch-black night and decided to read.  The body, however, had other ideas.  After only a few pages - I passed out again.

I was happy I had a window seat for the many times I awoke and found myself leaned into the bulkhead, scrunched up on that little pillow, with that thin, little blanket pulled up around my neck.  And based on that telltale damp spot where my face met my palm, I'd definitely been sleeping with my mouth wide open.  In between sleep and wake, I vaguely remember a kid crying. But since that's what kids do, it didn't really interfere with the many catnaps I'd have between then and Brussels.

I awoke to the flight attendant asking me to pull my seat back up because we were preparing to land.  I raised the window shade and realized it was the beginning of a gorgeous morning!  As we descended, the view of the city just took my breath away!  It was absolutely stunning!  I made a mental note - "Get a Rick Steves book and plan one of those Eurail Pass trips to Europe!  You need to see this place and the surrounding countries at ground level at least once before you check the hell out!"

I made my way off the plane, following the herd to Customs and Immigration.  I stood in a fast-moving line and after my documents had been verified and the pat-down was completed, I traipsed right on through the checkpoint (I was sure glad I'd gotten that visa beforehand!).

Upon arrival in Brussels, everyone with connections to Africa had to trek to Terminal T.  Since we had an almost four-hour layover, I took my time, window-shopping and people watching as I walked through this fairly new and very clean airport (I took the moving sidewalk whenever I could!).

I didn't see "Up in the Air," okay?  But, I am convinced there's some connection with that movie coming out and this Nespresso ad, plastered all over the Brussels airport at what seems like every three feet!  I mean he's cute and all, but I'm not buying a coffee-maker cuz he says so! {smdh}

When I got to the gate, there were no Brussels Air representatives there yet, so I decided to go freshen-up.  And just like the rest of the airport, the bathroom (my number one pet peeve) was spotless!  A young Black woman - with beautifully smooth, not made-up, coffee-colored skin and Senegalese twists trailing down her back - was standing at the mirror talking to a little Black girl, no more than seven or eight years old.  She was wearing the same "joined plaits" in her hair that I used to have from first to fourth grade.  With a strangely "full" feeling in my chest, I stopped in the doorway for a minute thinking, "Two faces of me!"  I'd have that feeling more times than I could count from there on out.

I smiled and said hello, excused myself as I passed between them and chose the first stall.  I could hear the little girl saying she lived in America, but she was going to The Gambia  with her mom (in the stall next to me as it turned out) because her grandfather had died.  Then she asked, "How come you talk like that, are you from Africa?" The young woman laughed and said proudly, "Yes, but I live in France!  I'm going with my father and uncle to see my grandparents back home in Senegal."

When I came out of the stall, I almost collided with the little girl's mother.  Smiling, we both apologized for the near miss and said hello as her daughter came over, excited to tell her all about her new "friend."  I walked over to the sink to wash my hands, silently enjoying the small sampling of the beauty of the African diaspora in this Brussels bathroom.

Hands dripping, I was looking around for one of those folded-paper towel holders or, one of those on-the-wall dryer things, when what sounded like a vacuum cleaner starting up made me jump.  I turned to see the Gambian mother with her hand in this yellow, air-blowing thing.  I laughed and told her, "That's exactly what I was looking for - I think!"  Moving my hand around, I noticed the "Dyson" logo on the machine and thought to myself, "Vacuum cleaners?  Fans?  Seems "air" is quite lucrative for this guy!"

I started back to the gate, stopping for a bottle of juice and some gum.  Good thing my new phone had a "Smart Converter" app on it, because she gave me the price in Euros and I would've had no clue how much it was in dollars!

I got to the gate and checked in among a sea of faces in various shades of black, brown and yellow, wearing everything from traditional African attire to typical, Western jeans and sweaters.  There were some whites, but the passenger composition had shifted.  People of color were in the majority in that camp!  And it felt good.

I pulled out the laptop and sent the men in my life this short email:

Sent: Sun 12/5/2010 6:38 PM
Subject: One last flight!
It's 2:30 a.m. home time and 9:30 am (not sure) here in Brussels. Flight to Gambia leaves at 11:20 a.m. Will text when I get there.
Love you guys and thanx for everything!

I really didn't know what time it was anywhere! The computer said 6:38 p.m., the clocks said 9:30 a.m. and I just guessed about what time it was at home (I didn't even consider the husband's 10 1/2-hour time difference from CST!).

After making some small talk with a lady next to me, I read a bit while we waited for the call to board.  When it finally came I was excited.  In about six hours, I'd be planting my feet on terra firma for awhile.

I got situated in my window seat and a few minutes later, two young Chinese men took the middle and aisle seats next to me (three of their friends took the middle row of seats across the aisle from us).  No offense intended, but I think deodorant is mainly a Western thing.  I could be wrong, but it sure seemed like it when my nose started stinging with the scent of body odor gone bad.  All I could do was lean into the bulkhead and wait until the nose adapted to the scent as it usually does.

Once we got up in the air and the signal-women had done their thing, the simulated flight path displayed on my very own miniature TV screen caught and held my attention.  I watched as the little plane flew up and across the UK toward Ireland.  I looked out of the window just as we flew over a cluster of windmills somewhere in southern Ireland and thought smiling, "This is way better than playing, "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego!" (a game we played fanatically when the sons were small!).  I leaned back in my seat, put on the headphones and started watching, "Two and a Half Men" - and promptly fell asleep.

The seat-neighbor's head falling on my shoulder, and the sound of the captain's voice, saying something about approaching Casablanca woke me up.  I looked out of the window and as far as the eye could see, there was nothin' but sand -- from the almost black, to a rainbow of browns, reds and beiges.

I fumbled for my camera, and over the next couple of hours, I intermittently snapped pictures as the terrain changed from sand alone -- to sand meeting water at the coastline. I got that "full" feeling in my chest as I watched all the different shades of the same "grains" pass by my window.  After awhile, I went to the bathroom to get the circulation going in my legs - waking the seat-neighbors. No harm, no foul though because the food cart was in the aisle when I got back and e'erybody was wakin' up! I squeezed past back to my seat, skipping the meal in favor of a steaming cup of coffee.

I switched my TV to the simulator thing to see exactly where we were. The little plane was slowly moving south toward Senegal. I leaned into the bulkhead and read myself into another catnap.

As it turns out, the body decided to go for the "dead sleep" instead, keeping me damned-near comatose for about an hour and a half. Not until I heard the seat-neighbors talking back and forth in Chinese as they got their bags out of the overhead bin, did I realize we were on the ground! Wide awake now, I turned to look out of the window for the African Renaissance monument I'd read about last year -- and there it was in the distance. We'd landed in Dakar...



...and I heard my beautiful, young sister, India in my head, singing...

Photograph: Seyllou/AFP/Getty Images

I can appreciate the fact that the monument's been a real bone of contention for a lot of people in Senegal.  But I can't argue with what the analyst said in the last paragraph at the link because - it does "make a heck of a first impression for a visitor upon arriving in Senegal."

Even though I couldn't see it in detail from the plane, I knew it existed.  And getting a chance to be there to see it - even if only in silhouette - it meant a great deal to old, mushy-'bout-my-people me.  I plan to go back and see it one day - only up close and personal the next time.

The layover in Dakar, much like the one in Houston, was brief.  We didn't have to deplane, and the unloading and loading of baggage and passengers went quickly.  Before I knew it, we were slowly taxiing down the runway, sending that damned stone careening down the other side of the hill at quite a clip as we took off.  Once  airborne, I took a couple more photos of the city and watched as the sun began to set on the horizon.  I sat back in my seat for the very last time as we made the 20-minute trip to The Gambia.  And yes, I was feeling pret-t-t-y good about what I'd accomplished.

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 4a:  Being there

A "Homegoing" - Part 2b: "Getting there" lessons continued

I'm hoping my litany of hiccups in Part 2a , will be helpful for those who've not yet travelled "across the pond" - going "home" - but plan to do so one day.  If nothing else, at least you'll know that spontaneity alone, won't get you there!

I'd rescheduled my departure date for Dec. 4th (and changed my 3-day, hotel reservation to coincide with my Dec. 5th arrival), pushing that rock a few feet further up the hill. I figured I might as well keep it movin' - so I printed the application the husband had so helpfully sent on the 24th and completed it, leaving Item 12 - Passport No., Issue Date, Expiry Date) blank, until the passport came. At the end, I read through these, just to ensure I had, or soon would have, all of them):

VISA APPLICATION REQUIREMENTS (please note that we canNOT process unless requirements are complete)

1. Valid passport
2. One passport-size photograph (taken in the last six months; please write name and passport number on the back and sign)
3. Completed and signed application form
4. A nonrefundable application fee of $100.00 in money order only, payable to the Embassy of The Gambia
5. Prepaid self-addressed/return envelope (FedEx/UPS or Priority/Express Mail recommended)
6. Personal or telephone interview may be required.
7. Regular visa processing time 3 – 4 days.

It was Nov. 25th and now, I was in that - "on, or about" window, waiting on my "expedited" passport. When I'd applied Nov. 10th, the courthouse clerk wrote "5 - 10 days" in the top right-hand corner of the application and date-stamped it. The State Department email said it'd been printed on Nov. 23rd (apparently "printed" really just meant - "printed"). I'd been waiting 15 days - and counting. Add to that, the 3 - 4 day, processing time - and there was no way I would've made that first flight I booked!

The mailman delivered the passport Nov. 26th in the morning (Can't really complain right?  It did arrive "about" the 25th).  I filled in Item 12 and headed immediately to the post office (sans passport). I don't know why, but I thought Item 1 meant, I had to have a valid passport - so I could complete Item 12!

When my oldest was four, and doing his best, "I'm making my bed" imitation, he found his Skeletor among the tangle of sheets and blankets.  Yelling to me in my room, he said, "Look!!  It's serendipity, Mommy!  I did a double-take and walked into his room, saying, "Serendipity?  What's that mean (thinking he didn't)?"  He looked at me, laughed - and said, "When you find something good that you're not looking for!" I said to myself, "How did he know that??"  When I asked him, he just hunched his shoulders saying, "I don't know - I just do!"  I've never forgotten that day.  He's always been an old soul to me - still is!  But I digress.

I share that little vignette simply because, for some reason, as I headed to the "big" post office where I was sure I'd get any, and all questions I had answered - my "Low Fuel" light came on.  So I got off the expressway about a half-mile before the exit, deciding to go to the closer, "little" post office - inside the Shell gas station (this IS Texas, y'all!). 

As I started completing the Express Mail form for overnight delivery, the young Ethiopian guy - doing double-duty as postal clerk and gas station cashier - walked less than 10 steps over to the "postal" counter to help me.  I told him what I was trying to do, and that I'd just got my passport that morning.  He said, "Oh!  I'm waiting for my passport myself, so I can send it in for my visa to London!" (emphasis mine)

I said, "Send it in?  With the visa application?  He said, "Yes, yes!  How else will they be able to stamp it?"  Actually, having the visa stamped on the passport never crossed my mind (I thought they'd just mail me a page for it to put in the passport).  I told him, "Man am I glad I ran into you!  I have to go home and get the passport to include in that envelope!"  Serendipity, no?

So I hustled the half-mile back home, got the passport, put it in the envelope and went back to the "little" post office.  I tracked it with the overnight mail number - it was delivered on Monday, Nov. 29th (Why had I paid extra to expedite it - over the weekend - when no one would be there to process it???  Could've just sent it Express mail and got the same result!).  I called the embassy to make sure it'd be expedited because I was leaving Dec. 4th.  They assured me it would be - and it was.  I got it back Dec. 1st.

I'd not spoken to Gerald directly since Nov. 12th. We'd been communicating intermittently through our mutual, 81 year-old, Jewish friend in Key West (part of his collection - which he eventually plans to ship to The Gambia - was still being stored there). Our last cross-communication had me arriving Nov. 30th, but neither Rhoda, nor I had been able to reach him before then to tell him anything different (figured when he showed up at the airport - and I hadn't - he'd know, and call some-damned- body!). He did - in a panic - 20 minutes after 1 a.m. on Dec. 1st, waking her up when I should have been walking off the plane (there is a 7-hour time difference from EST).

When I called her later that morning, she said, "I'm glad you called.  Gerald is frantic!  I told him you wouldn't be there until Dec. 5th. Didn't you tell him?" I told her I'd tried calling his cell several times, but I kept getting a recording that my call had not gone through. Turns out he'd bought a Gambian SIM card and now had a Gambian telephone number - and had given it to her, to give to me (did I say he was really "single-minded?"). She said, "He gave me a "220" number for you to call him, but it didn't look like enough digits!" "When?" I asked. "The last time I talked to him," she said matter-of-factly.

I took the number and called Gerald. He was frantic. "Me and my friend, John were there waiting at the airport for you! I thought you got stuck in Brussels!"

I told him just as frantically, "If you'd given me your new - Gambian number - I could have told you I'd be delayed!"  He went through the whole thing about giving it to Rhoda, and thinking she'd pass it on to me.  I cut him off and said, "Never mind, Man - I'll be there on Dec 5th, same time.  And since we haven't spoken, I made a reservation at The LAICO Atlantic in Banjul for three days.  Any luck on that "great-rate hotel" arrangement yet? 

He said no, but by the time I got there, he'd know. I told him, "I'm sure glad I made those damned reservations!!" We both laughed, knowing one another too well.

I hung up and emailed the husband to tell him sorry I'd missed him on Skype - but I had to get my damned hair braided (he's ten and a half hours ahead of CST) and start packing! He said:

Hey,
No worries...Got in and the internet was down, ironed clothes then it came back.  Should have called and told you I would be on later. Hope you got ur hair done and all.

I love you kiddo, I really do.
LYAHAW

I answered:

Thank you so much for making this trip possible. I’ll be in here all morning tomorrow packing, so I’ll talk to you then.

Me

He responded, Dec. 2nd (his time):

Hey:
I am so glad that you will be taking this adventure. Push yourself the whole time because you can rest when you get home. See everything you need to, talk with the people, visit the public records building and see what's there. I know you're breathing is the thing, but get out and mingle with everyone and most of all, eat the traditional food. I want to know how it is.

See you tonight or later on today.

LYAHAW

I smiled to myself contentedly thinking, "Ain't Understanding Mellow?"

I'd arranged with the oldest to come stay at the house with the dog while I was gone, and to take me to the airport at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday morning.  Excited (and scared I'd forget something really important), I didn't go to bed until 4 a.m.   But by 6:45 a.m., I was dressed and ready to go!

And by 9 a.m., James Baldwin and I were snug, as bug, in a rug - in my window seat, on that Continental flight, heading to Houston for a short lay-over and then, on to Brussels - final stop, Banjul, the capital of The Gambia!


A "Homegoing" - Part 3:  Going "back to Africa" - on my own terms