Requiem for a Suitcase

Another one bites the dust.  Actually, another one, two, three bites the dust.  Remember how when I first arrived in Botswana one of my bags had a giant hole in it?  Well, there is something to be said for duct tape and shrink wrap.  I didn’t want to buy another piece of luggage while in Africa, so I saved it, duct taped it back together, filled it with a bunch of stuff, and then had it plastic wrapped at the Joburg airport.  TA-DA!  It actually made it all the way home.

And then there was my luggage that was forever lost.  First in Ethiopia for several weeks.  Then it went MIA when they forgot to put it on the plane from Joburg to Gabs.  I used that one most of the time I was travelling around Africa for the past year.  But by May the zipper had broken, so I could only half unzip it.  By June it had deteriorated to not opening at all.  So, yet again, I duct taped it together and then had it wrapped at the airport.  Thankfully, that one made it all the way back to the U.S. as well.

Then there was my rolling carry-on.  The wheels on that broke months ago.  So by Christmas it no longer rolled.  It was simply a “drag it all over the place and explain to porters, bellmen and anyone else who tried to help me with my bag not to worry because it was already broken” kind of bag.

Well, today I finally made the move to bury (in the dumpster) my three pieces of luggage, taken to Africa, only to meet their maker and return lifeless.  I suppose this is just one of the steps to moving forward and saying good-bye to my time in Africa.

On the bright side, I got new luggage!  I highly recommend my new TravelPro roller bags.  They are lighter and seem to have more room than my old luggage (which by the way lasted me a record 239 passport stamps!).

Out with the old….

In with the new….

Of course, that being said, I wouldn’t be terribly heartbroken if I didn’t take an international trip for a while.  Then again, you never know.

“Welcome Home!”

I love those two little words.  Any time I am travelling overseas that is what I look forward to hearing when I return.  I’ve looked forward to hearing those two words for the past twelve months.  Last week I flew back to Washington, D.C. where I heard those two little words from Officer Baker at Passport Control.  I practically jumped over the desk and hugged him.  That is my favorite part about coming home, hearing the Passport Control Officer tell me, “Welcome Home!”

Let me back track a little bit about my trip.  The flight from Johannesburg to Frankfurt was horrific, dreadful, abysmal, practically the worst plane ride of my life.  I will NEVER, and I mean NEVER fly Lufthansa EVER again.  First of all, there was no good entertainment- the movies were horrible.  Case in point: On a 12 hour flight you would expect there to be at least one recent (as in filmed sometime in the past decade) movie.  Nope, not one.  I watched the pilot episode of 90210.  I was 10 when that was first aired- no really, I looked it up to be sure.  And the food was equally disappointing.  Bad food + bad movies= unhappy Kelly.

In Frankfurt I was fortunate enough to locate free wifi so I Skyped with my friend Shaun (a TTU alum) who, upon hearing my dilemma about the bad onboard entertainment, recommended several new Bravo TV shows for me to gorge myself on.  And yes, in the last five days since I’ve been back I have watched all Ladies of London and Real Housewives of the OC episodes in the current season.

As I was sitting at my gate in Frankfurt waiting for my flight to board I noticed two things, well, three things: 1. There are so many WHITE PEOPLE HERE!, 2. Wow, so many tattoos.  I haven’t seen any of those in… forever.  Twelve months to be exact. And 3. Why is everyone cursing?  There are other, more creative words you could use to get your point across.  Let me get you a thesaurus or maybe just a dictionary.

The three observations from the Frankfurt airport did come as a shock to me because all three have been largely absent from my life in Africa.  I know I’ve mentioned before that there have been many times where I haven’t seen any other white people for days or even weeks on end.  I have to admit that I’m perfectly fine with that because it does give me a better appreciation for what it must be like to be a minority.  But the other two observations (the tattoos and the cursing) were both subconsciously missing while I was in Africa and I didn’t realize it until I experienced them again for the first time.

First of all, the tattoos.  People in Africa do not get tattoos (or piercings for that matter). At least, not the kind of tattoos and piercings in what we consider the traditional sense.  Many African tribes practice scarification where they actually cut individuals with a small razor blade in order to draw blood, resulting in a scar.  Scarification may be done to celebrate a military victory, coming of age or marriage, among many other things.  Scarification is practiced most frequently in rural areas in West Africa and Ethiopia.  In case you are unsure what I am talking about here are a few pictures:

Same thing goes for piercings.  In the U.S. the most common piercings are likely the ears, with nose and navel also relatively common.  In Africa you seldom if ever see a professional man, or any urban male with a piercing.  Women often have their ears pierced, but not multiple holes like in the U.S.  However, many of the tribes use piercings to signal social status or tribal affiliation.  Here is a Mursi woman from Ethiopia with large holes in her earlobes and lips:

With regard to my third observation, cursing, that was something I learned about quickly when I was in Africa.  And I have to say that is one lesson I wish I could teach my American students.  None of my students would ever dream of using foul language in front of me or directed towards me because they wouldn’t want to suffer the consequences.  But it isn’t uncommon for me to round a corner of one of the buildings on campus back home and hear someone exclaim, “G* D* Son of a B*! This is horsesh*t! Who the F* does that Mother F*er think he is?!... Blah, Blah, Blah,” you get the picture.  In Africa that is absolutely unacceptable.  If you are caught cursing you will likely be reported to the police constable and taken to jail.  NO JOKE!

The 10 hour Frankfurt to DC flight was equally dreadful, but at least at the end of the ride there were two positives:  1. I got to watch the “Welcome to America” video over and over again about 20 times while waiting in line at Passport Control.  After about the 10^th time of watching the video I realized why it seemed vaguely familiar: The soundtrack to the video was the same song used at the (Walt Disney World) EPCOT Center Illuminations/Fireworks show.  This meant two of my favorite things: Disney and America; had teamed up to welcome me home.  Now if only Disney and America could team up and start offering Fastpasses at Passport Control I would REALLY be in love. And 2. Officer Baker said those two magic words to me, “Welcome Home!”

P.S.- My luggage made it!  I think the curse has been lifted (knock on wood).

The Best Things I Learned Living in Africa

This afternoon I was speaking to a woman who was a new arrival to Africa.  She asked me what kind of advice I had as she began her new life here.  I took the opportunity to reflect on what I’ve learned over the past few months.  After giving it some thought, I can say with some amount of certainty that I have learned quite a few things.  Here is a list of my top epiphanies (so far) about Africa:

1. If there is hot water and water pressure take a shower and wash your hair regardless of whether you are dirty.  There is no guarantee you will have water pressure, hot water, or any water at all come tomorrow, so you need to take advantage of every bathing opportunity you can get.  The same premise goes for doing your laundry. 
2. If you act like a tourist, people will treat you like one.  For anyone who’s been following my blog for a while you have heard a lot of funny accounts of bizarre things which have happened to me.  If nothing else, the police seem drawn to me, whether my driving instructor is being pulled over for texting or whether I am causing accidents due to my crazy desire to walk to the store.  But I often have people ask why I don’t take pictures of some of these unusual instances.  For one, I don’t like to draw any extra attention to myself, such as when I was standing in court arguing my way out of a “walking with intent to cause a car accident” fine. In other cases I don’t take pictures because I don’t want to be perceived as a tourist.  I’ve watched this happen to other people: A foreigner and a local “become friends.”  The foreigner reverts back to his role as a tourist by asking to take a picture of the local.  The local responds by saying, “Sure, give me five dollars.” I don’t want those kinds of memories. 
3. It’s perfectly acceptable to play the “adorable white girl card.”  Speaking of being a foreigner, sometimes this helps.  The great thing about being a redheaded white girl is that I’m the only one.  I don’t blend in very well.  I try to, but thus far have been horribly unsuccessful.  But in some cases the inability to be mistaken for a local works to my benefit.  Every once in a while when I am desperate for help, such as when I need to get a beef permit so I can receive my package from home, being a “helpless, confused and scared white girl in need of rescue” can work to my advantage.  Somehow, that formula is irresistible to African men. 
4. On the flip side, if you are confident enough in your abilities to convince people you are a local who does belong then you earn yourself bragging rights and respect.  I particularly enjoy demanding an African rate.  Most African countries operate on a three tier pricing system: citizens, African residents and foreigners.  In Botswana, and when I travel to other African countries, I love saying things like, “This price isn’t fair.  Who do you think I am?  One of those rich muzungus (white people)?  No! I am an African! You give me an African rate!”  I certainly don’t get the absolute lowest price that the locals enjoy, but I don’t pay anything near what the foreigners do, plus, I end up making friends. 
5. If you are going to play a game of chicken, or start a fight, you had BETTER win; otherwise you may be taking your life in your hands.  Case in point: my recent visit to the Johannesburg airport.

In all reality I can think of at least another 10 best things to know about living in Africa, but I didn’t want to overwhelm the rookie.  She seemed a little deer in the headlights anyway, so I thought I would just let her ease into it for the time being.

My 2014 New Year’s Resolutions

I know, it is the 16^th of January and I am just now posting my New Year’s Resolutions.  As a person who is chronically prompt, this probably sounds as if I am a little late to the party.  Oh contraire my friends.  I am actually right on time.

Today is my birthday.  (By the way, thank you to everyone who sent me messages today.  It is nice to hear from friends when I’m so far away from home.) I am really not one to celebrate much, particularly something where I am the center of attention, such as my birthday.  But my birthday directly relates to my New Year’s Resolutions.  I have a lot of close friends who are January babies.  Many of them, and I, have a unique approach to New Year’s Resolutions.  Rather than beginning our resolutions on January 1^st we begin on our birthdays.  I suppose in reality you could do this with any birthdate or month, but for some reason this seems to be prevalent among my fellow January birthday buddies.  I like this approach because it gives me a little extra time to determine my resolutions.

In reality I don’t tend to make New Year’s Resolutions, I make goals.  Looking back on 2013 I feel as if I accomplished a fair amount.  But I have a few more goals for the coming year. In reality my list is always evolving, but this is the final draft as of today:

1. Record at least 15 hours of academic writing per week.  For the last several years I’ve aimed for two hours of academic writing (Research only. Blogs, emails, Facebook posts, Tweeting and anything written for a class or my Associate Chair position doesn’t count) per weekday.  Since two hours a day has worked successfully and I have some lofty writing goals I want to accomplish this year I’ve decided it’s time to shoot for more.

2. Read 40 books.  Last year I read 36 books.  I think I can do better.

3. Get at least three journal articles accepted.  I actually had six accepted last year, but that was because I had a lot of graduate students helping me.  Since I’m on my own here in Botswana I am hoping to get three accepted and then finish an additional two.

4. Try one new recipe each week.  I really enjoy cooking, but it is more of a challenge here than you might think.  A few days ago I went to the store and my protein options were limited to ox tongue, chicken feet, and gizzards.  Needless to say, the best recipe is often abandoned or drastically altered due to lack of inventory.  But, I am determined to be creative in the kitchen.

5. Train like crazy to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro.  I was supposed to climb Kili in December, but due to illness I had to postpone it.  This time around I am determined to avoid any colds, flus or other ailments by being as healthy as possible.

6. Never travel with luggage again.  After my recent lost luggage incidents in South Africa and Ethiopia I would like to aim to travel with only my passport, credit card and toothbrush. 

I’m not so sure how realistic that last goal is, but at least it will be an interesting challenge!  Happy 2014 Everyone!

Back to Square One

Remember last week when I was so excited to have received some gifts from the U.S. and my luggage that was lost back in November in Ethiopia?  Well, now everything is gone.

On Saturday morning I went to the Johannesburg airport for my flight back to Gaborone.  I was so excited to go home.  I had finally received my luggage that had been missing for over a month, and on top of that I had seen a friend from the U.S. who had brought me a few goodies I had been unable to purchase here.  All I needed to do was fly 40 minutes back to Botswana and then I could enjoy some peace and quiet, and my STUFF!

But an easy 40 minute trip is never easy in Africa. The first problem came when I arrived at the airport.  I’ve seen this phenomenon in China and I hate it: You arrive at the airport and someone approaches you and asks where you are going.  This is typically a well-dressed person who appears to be someone official, as if they work in the airport.  Well, they don’t.  They “help” you and then either demand a very large tip, or they just flat out rob you.  The problem is, the airlines know about it, security knows about it, and nothing is done to save unsuspecting tourists from a dire fate.

I’ve seen these people before and since I already known the scam they intend to pull I avoid it.  Normally threatening to scream helps, “Get away from me! I know you are here illegally! If you don’t leave me alone I will scream! Go find someone else to rob!” If you are nice they will rob you anyway, so you have to be overly aggressive and downright mean to get them to back off. This time I misjudged the situation.  The scam artist cornered me as I was getting off the escalator with my trolley full of luggage.  I gave my well-rehearsed and frequently used line and he said, “Ok.”  Then he proceeded to wrestle the trolley away from me and push it back down the escalator.  Despite my backpack (which contained my laptop) falling a good 50 feet or more, the only thing that happened was that the battery popped out, which I was able to jimmy back into place.  Crisis averted. However, it still made me mad.  Here’s why it really made me mad:  I went back down the escalator, retrieved my things, but my bags back on the trolley and returned upstairs.  When I got there two security guards were talking to Chris (the scam artist).  Point being, THEY KNEW HIS NAME! This guy was a regular!  Couldn’t they arrest him for something? Anything? Destruction of property? Trespassing?  In India you cannot enter the airport without a ticket.  I would love for them to implement that rule here.

Despite the security guards hanging out with an obvious criminal, likely talking about last night’s cricket match, I continued to the check-in counter, got my ticket, handed over my bags, proceeded to security.  As I was standing in line at the passport counter I turned my ticket over and realized my claim ticket had the surname Mwai listed, along with Walvis Bay (which is in Namibia) as the destination.  Once through passport control I looked closer and realized I had two different baggage claim tickets, one had my name and destination, the other was for Mwai.  I went to the South African Express information desk, explained the situation with the wrong bag tags and was told to go to my gate.  Went to my gate, explained the situation and was told to return to the SA Express transit desk (on the opposite side of passport control).  At the transit desk was told to return to the main check-in counter.  At the main check-in counter I talked to another person (the man who checked me in was gone when I got there).  She made four phone calls and was told they could not issue a new bag tag, so they would just move the bag to the correct pile of luggage for Gaborone.  Yes, I agree, this sounded very official (insert eye roll here).  Turned around to head back to security so I could go back through passport control again, and who did I see?  That’s right, Chris!

Fast forward to boarding the plane.  The plane was packed.  The planes between a lot of the shorter African destinations are smaller prop planes, but they can still hold a fair amount of people.  My plane was sold out; every seat was full.  This meant there had to be at least 60 people on the flight.  After we boarded we sat on the tarmac for almost an hour before we took off, which was unusual, but not exactly the end of the world.  Of course, it was 100 degrees out, and therefore uncomfortable, but sweating is my natural state of being here, so no big deal.

When we arrived in Gaborone I did what I always do and sprinted across the tarmac towards passport control in order to be first in line.  Then I went to the baggage carousel to retrieve my luggage.  Normally I get my luggage and depart before everyone gets through passport control, but this time the wait was so long everyone was milling around.  The baggage never arrived.  Finally a lone baggage handler appeared and said, “It’s ok, come over here.”  Since there is only one baggage area I literately thought maybe he was taking us back to the plane to offload the luggage ourselves.  I would have been ok with that.  But it was not to be.  Instead he took us to the check in counter and then disappeared.  Then another person arrived and said no luggage was loaded onto the plane at all.  He needed everyone to fill out paperwork regarding lost luggage.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!  THERE WERE 60 PEOPLE ON THAT PLANE.  NO ONE? NO ONE THOUGHT SOMEONE, ANYONE, MAYBE ONE PERSON WOULD WANT TO TAKE A BAG WITH THEM?

Long story short, they never loaded any bags on the plane at all.  Not quite sure where the common sense was in that decision.  I would like to think one person who worked at the Joburg airport would have questioned the fact there were no bags to load.

In the last 48 hours six South African Express planes have arrived in Gaborone from Johannesburg.  They can tell me with great certainty that the bag tagged for Mwai never made it to Walvis Bay.  But they also can’t tell me where it is.  Maybe Chris has a deal worked out with the Johannesburg baggage handlers as well as the security guards.

My Birthday Comes One Week Early

You know how yesterday I said I had the best day ever?  I may have to amend that because today ranks pretty close to the best day ever, for slightly different reasons.

Today I flew to Johannesburg to meet up with one of the professors from my department back at Texas Tech.  She is here doing a three day seminar at Vaal University.  Since she is a Nutrition professor, I took advantage of her visit to make some contacts in the Hospitality and Tourism department there.  I am also planning to visit another Hospitality and Tourism professor friend of mine from the University of South Africa.  We met at the Ecotourism Conference I attended in September in Nairobi.

When I arrived at my guest lodge in Johannesburg I was greeted by a gift:

Yes, that is luggage.  My long lost luggage.  The luggage I thought was gone forever after my trip from hell to Ethiopia.  Keep in mind I was in Ethiopia on November 24^th.  That means it took 45 days to get it back to me.  Actually, that’s not entirely true.  Ethiopian Airlines delivered it to Johannesburg on December 17^th, so it was really only 24 days, but they couldn’t send it all the way to Gaborone because they don’t fly to Botswana and because I was in Namibia anyway and wouldn’t have been able to pick it up at the time.  So I asked them to deliver it to the lodge where I knew I would be staying during this trip to Joburg.  Thankfully the lodge didn’t mind holding the bag for almost a month.

When I heard the luggage had arrived a few weeks ago I was cautiously optimistic because I had no idea whether it was the correct bag, or if it completely empty.  This was attached to the bag:

But this was what worried me:

When I checked the bag in on November 24^th it had a lock (which are legal and pretty much required here in Africa).  So I was a little concerned about what may have been removed from the bag after the lock had been cut.

Fortunately when I opened the bag it appeared everything had survived.  If something had been taken it was something I didn’t care about.  All the things I was hoping to see again (and mourning when I thought the bag was gone forever, because I knew I couldn’t replace these things here) were alive and well.  My zebra print Bobs, purple purse, universal converter, curling iron, UB library book, and even the plantain chips I bought in Uganda were all there:

Now, the luggage would have been enough to make this the best early birthday present ever.  But on top of that I got to see Mary, the Nutrition professor from TTU tonight as well.  We went to dinner and she brought me a few things from the U.S.  When my Super Mom heard the zebra print Bobs and purple purse fell victim to the Ethiopian Airlines Luggage demons she sprang into action and sent a new purse, zebra Bobs, two additional pairs of Bobs and a few other goodies over with Mary:

It looks like it’s going to be a pretty good year.

“Welcome to Uganda, everyone is very excited to have you here!”

I arrived in Uganda safe and sound this evening. My flight from Joburg to Entebbe International Airport, the only international airport in the country, was about an hour and a half late, but I made it nonetheless. I started to worry a bit while waiting for my luggage as my bag was the VERY LAST off the plane, but the good thing was by the time I exited the airport the crowd had dispersed.

It is interesting to travel through Africa and see the different airports. Some are practically brand new with all the bells, whistles and technology you can imagine. Others are little more than wooden shacks where everything is done by hand. The Victoria Falls International Airport which hosts the #1 tourist attraction in Sub-Saharan Africa leaves a lot to be desired. There they don’t have carts or baggage carousels, so they use a lot of baggage handlers to move all the luggage manually from the planes to the teeny-tiny arrivals hall (about the size of my parents’ living room) where travelers wait to attack the second they see a bag they think is theirs. I would rate Uganda’s airport as one of the better ones in Africa.

The guide, Tobas (I think ?), who is taking me on my weekend getaway met me at the airport and delivered me to my hotel for the evening. Tomorrow he will be driving me and my new friend, Catherine, whom I have yet to meet face-to-face, 10 hours into the Bwindi Impenetrable Rain Forest to go trekking for gorillas.

On the ride from the airport to my hotel Tobas told me, “Welcome to Uganda, everyone is very excited to have you here!” Everyone? Really? I’m guessing “everyone” is excited to have me here because the small fortune I paid for this excursion is giving a nice boost to the local economy. But, it turns out, his greeting was genuine. He continued on to explain, “I understand when you get back from the gorilla trekking you will be teaching at Makerere University. They are very excited about that.”

Generally when I travel I try to visit other universities with hospitality and tourism programs. I figure it gives me the opportunity to see how other programs work, potentially form relationships for study abroad programs and recruit graduate students who might be looking to come to the U.S. And since I like to reciprocate when someone agrees to host me, I always offer to guest lecture if they are interested. When I was in Kenya in September I spent a day at the University of Nairobi and taught a class there.

But I was surprised Tobas knew about my guest lecturing at Makerere because I hadn’t told anyone at the safari company about it. I was put in touch with someone at Makerere by the professor with whom I co-teach at UB. We emailed back and forth several times and I agreed to do a one hour lecture on the American tourist market in Africa. Shortly after we set a day and time, he emailed me back and told me there was a lot of interest in my visit; he was hoping I could spend a second, full day, doing more lectures to larger groups. I was surprised there was “so much interest” but I enjoy visiting other schools, so I was happy to do it. Upon hearing that Tobas was aware of this arrangement I guess there must be “interest.”

So, how did Tobas learn about my upcoming visit to Makerere? It turns out the owner of the safari company is a tourism professor there. And due to the relationship between the professor, the safari company and the Ugandan Tour Operators Association, my visit it advertised as a public lecture. I certainly don’t mind, but I guess it does put a little pressure on me. Of course, I could look at it from the opposite perspective; I wanted to make sure I had some tourism experiences here in Uganda before I spoke. So if I was the professor/safari company owner I would definitely want to make sure the American visitor had a good experience.

Regardless, Tobas seems to be a good guy; I think I am in good hands. If nothing else “everyone is very excited” that I’m here, so it sounds like this will be a great trip.

“Hopefully your bags won’t be completely empty”

EXCUSE ME!?!

This morning we called the airport inquiring whether my bags had finally surfaced.  Thankfully they had; I was beginning to lose hope.  One of the staff members in the International Affairs Office, Monare, took me out to the airport to pick them up and along the way he gave me a brief tour of Gaborone.  I say brief because it’s a relatively small town, only about 65 square miles.  For a point of comparison Lubbock is 124 sq. mi.

When we arrived at the airport Monare and I had to wait a short while before they had a person who could take me back to the baggage storage room.  As we were chatting Monare said to me, “Hopefully your bags won’t be completely empty.”  No doubt anyone who has ever spent any amount of time with me can imagine the look on my face.  All I could say was, “I hope my bags aren’t completely empty either.  I’ve been wearing the same clothes for three days now and would really like people to know I can dress better than sweatpants and sneakers.”  He went on to clarify, “You NEVER want your luggage left in South Africa.  They will go through it and take anything they think they can use or sell.”  Awesome, thanks for the tip.

Needless to say, my luggage was all there and it was not empty.  I suspect my clothes and toiletries weren’t particularly appealing to any would-be thieves.  However, one of my bags did meet a rather sad fate.  I’m not sure whether someone tried to rip it open, if it was dropped from the plane, or maybe it feel off the luggage cart and rather than pick it up and return it to the cart, the driver chose to continue dragging it across the tarmac.  But, it has a huge hole in the bottom and likely will have to be retired:

 

The unfortunate thing about this bag was that it belonged to my mother.  And it wasn’t just any bag, it was a piece of Disney luggage.  I have a distinct feeling there will be a short period of mourning (on my mom’s part, not mine, though I appreciate being able to use and ultimately destroy the bag) followed by my mother reminding me I promised to would take her to Walt Disney World when I return to the U.S. next year.  Now there is no getting out of that promise because she will no doubt delicately remind me, “Remember that time you took my luggage to Africa and killed it?”  Sorry Mom, it wasn’t my fault.  Really.  After all, you NEVER want your luggage left in South Africa.

Welcome to Botswana! Your luggage isn’t here? You will probably never see it again.

36 hours of travel, three airports, one long sprint, and no baggage- but I made it to Botswana!

Well, I am here.  Yesterday morning I wasn’t so sure I would make it.  My first flight from DC to NYC was delayed three hours, causing me to arrive at JFK airport 27 minutes before my New York-South Africa flight was scheduled to depart.  As per usual with most setbacks, it was followed by several more challenges.

Apparently if you arrive at JFK on a United domestic flight you have to exit the airport, take a train to the international terminal, go back through security, and then attempt to find your gate.  So, here’s my abridged play by play: Run from first plane to tram. Get on tram to international terminal while frantically looking at my watch.  Run to front of line at security and proceed to beg the security guard to let me cut the line. He agrees. Get in line to go through the x-ray machine.  Couple in front of me decides to take pictures of one another walking through metal detector. Security tells them to stop.  Couple continues to take photos.  TSA gets mad at couple and tells them to erase pictures.  Couple takes another picture. TSA shuts down the line. AHHH!

Enter Kelly. I turn to the couple and speaking with great enthusiasm say, “Don’t come to the U.S., break the rules and punish the rest of us.  If I came to your country (I had seen their passports and knew where they were from) and did something this stupid I would be thrown in jail.  Stop it!” Then I gave them the ever-famous “Phelan eyes of shame,” stepped in front of them, told TSA my flight would depart in 14 minutes and being a law abiding citizen I would appreciate it if he could please let me through.  And he did!  Thank you TSA.

I went through the metal detector without incident, but apparently there was something they didn’t like in my bag.  They asked me how long I had until my plane departed; I told them 11 minutes, so they waived me through and suggested I run.  And that’s just what I did.  I’m pretty sure I ran a mile.  They had just closed boarding, but fortunately opened it back up for me. So, I boarded the plane out of breath and sweating, but I didn’t miss my plane.

Fortunately my 18 hour flight to South Africa was relatively smooth.  I made it through the Johannesburg airport quickly and made a friend in the passport control line that I passed the time with during my layover, and then fell asleep the second I sat on the SA-Gaborone flight, so that flight was over in no time.

The only other hiccup arose while I was standing at the baggage claim here in Gaborone and realized everyone got their bags, except me.  I told the representative from the University of Botswana who picked me up.  His response? “Oh they are probably lost.  That happens a lot in Africa.  You will probably never see those again.”  Great!

In all reality, travel in general tends to be hectic, and in my experience, it is even more so in Africa.  But I arrived safely and that’s what counts.  Tomorrow I head to campus, where no doubt the adventure will continue.

Don’t worry about finding us. We will find you.

One of my most memorable jobs was in Alaska.  I lived in a small village called Galena along the Yukon River in what is known as bush Alaska.  The bush villages are not connected by the road system, meaning you must either fly into them, often landing on a dirt runway, or you arrive by boat in the summer, or via snow-go or snow-machine (known to everyone in the Lower-48 as a snowmobile) once the river freezes over.

When I was hired for the job as Residence Hall Director for a boarding high school, sight unseen, via a phone interview, I excitedly asked the principal on the other end of the line how I would know who to look for when I arrived at the airport.  I distinctly remember his response, “Don’t worry about finding us.  We will find you.”

In order to get to my final destination I flew from Baltimore to Anchorage and was then scheduled to take a six-seat prop plane to Galena.  In Anchorage I collected my belongings and checked in for my Anchorage-Galena flight. The difference between the major carriers like Alaska Airlines and the bush planes are immediately obvious to new arrivals who noticeably wince the first time they recognize that duct tape is used to hold the windows together.

Unaware of the nuances associated with Alaskan travel I was taken aback at the Anchorage airport when I was told I needed to step on the scale.  After significant confusion and objections on my part, the woman behind the counter said, “We have to weigh you because we need to know exactly how much weight the plane is carrying so we don’t overload it and cause it to crash.” As if the mention of a crash once wasn’t daunting enough she mentioned I needed to wear my winter coat on the flight.  “But, it’s August and 90 degrees out.” Shaking her head and rolling her eyes disapprovingly at my ignorance she responded, “Yes, but this is Alaska, we have lots of mountains and snow here.  If the plane crashes on a mountain you don’t want to freeze to death!”  It took every fiber of my being to restrain myself from telling her if the plane crashed I would like to request a much swifter demise than freezing to death.

Obviously, I survived my first Alaskan plane ride, and dozens more during my two years there.  And the principal was right, when I arrived in Galena, they found me right away.  I suspect my dazed and confused expression of relief at finding my feet back on solid ground in the Galena “airport,” which was really a wooden shack about eight feet by eight feet, may have given me away.

I remembered this story recently as I was preparing for my flight to Botswana. I emailed my new department chair with my flight itinerary and was assured I would be met at the airport and taken to my new home.  Without any idea as to the location of my accommodations or a phone number to reach someone in case I arrived and no one was there to meet me I asked him how I would know who to look for when I arrived.  His response was familiar, “Don’t worry about finding us.  We will find you.”  Here’s hoping lightning strikes the same phrase twice.

Here's also hoping my escort brings doesn't bring a moped to pick me up: