Thank God I Have a Shitty Bike

When I moved to Rwanda in 2010, I didn't bring my bike with me.

Granted...I was coming off 4 years at Dartmouth when I spent more time perfecting my pong game than...anything else. But I would also casually bike to Lyme - or maybe today Fairlee - and back. And I dutifully would just jump on my pink bike to ride a century for the Prouty every year. And...well...biking (naked) was how most people at Dartmouth were first introduced to me. (#i305...still going strong! Hi Bustard!)
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Which is all to say...I didn't identify as "a biker" at that stage in my life...but my casual biking was still intense.

So when I arrived in Rwanda without a bike, I felt a bit lost. Oddly, I also lived down the street from the Africa Rising Cycling Center. I tried to mention to them a few times that I was a cyclist and suggested it might be nice to borrow a bike and ride with them and they were just like "lolz...girl...we're not giving you one of our nice bikes. Sit back down." So yeah - that never happened.

Africa Rising Cycling Center in Musanze, Rwanda - great organization! (Even if they never let me bike with them...) 

I was adamant that when I moved to Nigeria I would not suffer from the same loss (or...lbs gain...as it may be). In all my initial calls with people in the Lagos office, I asked about how much biking there was / did they see people on bikes / would it be possible to bike / should I bring my bike. In one of the most memorable conversations, the office manager was like "well...if you're looking to do outdoor sports...Lagos might not be the best office for you..." "Yes...I know that...but it's Lagos I'm coming to...so can you tell me what my options are?"

I finally got pointed to Cycology. There will be more about Cycology in a later blog post(s). What's relevant for now is that it meant I should *bring my bike* with me.

So one not frigid day in January when I was feeling not deathly ill (maybe more on that later), I rode my trustly pink bike to a local shop and paid them too much money to pack it up all nice for me. (I debated paying for this a bit given that I had all the time in the world in Janaury...but it ultimately came down to just the process of getting a bike box and packaging supplies (i.e., bubble wrap) when I looked online started to cost just as much as paying them to do it for me.)

And then I went back in an Uber XL to pick up the box and had my first encounter with male-chivalry/chauvinism-hurting-my-poor-bike...when the Uber driver insisted that HE (not ME) should get the bike box into the car. He proceeded to put it in upside down and I hopelessly tried to interfere and take over.

Tejas luckily let me manage the bike box between our apartment and the car when he took me to the airport. (Thanks babe!)

But that...my friends...was the last time I touched the thing. At the curb at JFK, the bike box was whisked away from me (from somebody who did not realize that it had handles...) to an oversize check-in as I continued to check my other bags. When I got my tags for my checked bags and carefully filed them away - I immediately realized my predicament because I never got a bag tag for my bike. Given my previous travel to Africa I knew this would surely create an issue...

1. If somebody tried to steal my bike box...I'd have no way of proving it's mine
2. If my bike box didn't arrive...I'd have no way of getting the airline to track it
3. I'd most definitely need to show my bag tags to be able to leave the terminal. Because Africa. Africa might selectively follows rules. But they rules they do follow...they follow to a T. (Yes - I'm generalizing for a whole continent. Sue me...and then scroll down to see that my fear was valid.)

I was worried for a little bit but not for long. Because Clear and TSA Pre Check were both shut (I've asked before and I will ask again: WHAT IS THE DAMNED POINT IF THEY'RE ALWAYS SHUT??) so suddenly I was in a legit security line. I barely had time at the gate to get confused about the boarding process before I got on the plane, took a sleeping pill...and...woke up in Nigeria. 

And then I remembered my predicament. Well I had two predicaments...if you remember from my Visa post (likely not)...I had opened up my immigration envelope which I was apparently NOT supposed to do...and I had no claim tags for my bike...

Given my #deltastatus, I was able to deplane fairly quickly and run through the airport to be...5th in the immigration line. This was not good enough. I still waited for a good 45 minutes as the immigration officers debated whether or not they were in the mood to work that day, as the American mother in front of me tried to insist that her son didn't need to list an "occupation" on his form ("He's my SON! His 'occupation' is 'son'!" "So...student?" "NO - SON!") and then also try to insist that he shouldn't have his picture taken / be finger printed (lolz...good luck lady), and then for a "VIP, VIP" to cut through ahead of me.

Luckily, before I got up to the front of the line, the [employer name redacted] "arrival ambassador" spotted me in line (I guess I'm easy to spot) and gave me a wave. He was behind a glass pane watching everything, but knowing that he was there and could see me with my opened immigration envelope, gave me a bit of reassurance.

Got through immigration with a stern "you should not have opened your envelope" and a meek "sorry....."

Then onto the bags. I told the arrival ambassador right away about the bike box. Both that it existed...and that I didn't have bag tags for it. He exhaled deeply. He understood my concern. And it was a legitimate concern.

We found the first two bags easily enough. Then the anxious waiting began. Obviously the bike box was going to take longer to come out...and come out to a different area...but...was it starting to take too long...what if it never even got on the plane in NYC...I had no way of describing it beyond saying it was a bike box...I had hastily sharpied my name and phone number on the side...but considering nobody even saw the handled ont he side...would they see that?...how would I communicate with anybody here what to expect...?...was it just sitting on the tarmac right now...?...and then...the doors opened and there it was! In all of its battered and beaten and taped up with "TSA INSPECTED" tape glory. Ah...so I guess this was of interest to TSA. Which worried me because of how carefully I had been sure to protect the wheel spokes so they wouldn't have stress on them...something tells me the TSA didn't pay as much mind as they were sifting through it.

My arrival amabassador not shockingly insisted on carrying the two checked bags and my bike himself. He let me wheel my pink carryon, which was nice of him. I cringed watching each step he took, imagining the wheel spokes jamming up against the frame, while he tried to angle his body up into the box to keep it from slipping...and like CAN YOU PLEASE JUST LET ME CARRY IT? No.

My poor battered, broken, inspected bike box.

First inspection agent. 

As expected, leaving the baggage claim area, you need to show your bag tags. My arrival ambassador casually went up to the agent and handed over the two bag tags I had for the suitcases. (Yes - I packed in two suitcases!) Then there was a motion towards the bike box. Then the ambassador motioned back to me, looking clueless. Then the ambassador started running off. Then the inspection agent looked at me. I looked at him. He motioned for bag tags. I motioned that my bags were running away, and went running after them.

First inspection agent cleared.

Second inspection agent.

After leaving the bag claim area, there's a customs declaration area. Weirdly (or not), there are no customs declaration forms, or the green/red declaration lanes you see elsewhere...instead...just a bunch of agents walking around and flagging down anybody who looks interesting enough to them. My bike box was interesting. We got flagged down. And then an awkward conversation ensued...
Agent: What's this?
Me: *checks with ambassador that I'm supposed ot answer* It's my bike
Agent: Is it new?
Me: No - it's about 15 years old...
[awkward pause]
Me: *proudly* ...but it's pink! So it looks pretty!
[awkward pause...I look at ambassador...am I supposed to be doing something?]
Agent: I want to see it
Me: Okay!
[awkward pause]
Agent: I want to see it
Me: Okay!
[awkward pause continues. I expect her to take it. Or to lead us to an inspection room. Or something. I said okay...I gave her permisison to see it...why is she not doing anything? I look at ambassador. After his performance with first inspection agent, I've now written off his usefulness.]
Agent: *rolls eyes* Here *hands over a box cutter*
[ohhhhh...so I was supposed to open it for her!!]
[ambassdor jumps back into chivalrous role and proceeds to use box cutter on some of the tape, but then rip the remaining tape, just so that I can cringe a litlte bit more as he struggles to rip the box open / starts ripping through the box and I'm thinking "okay okay...I need to use this same box to get my bike home! Can we please not ruin it?? Also...my poor bike!"]

Then, my friends, agent takes one cursory look at the bike, suddenly recoils, clearly repulsed by its condition, and waves me through. I hurridely run over to the box to make sure that the bike is at least still in tact. Indeed it is...she was just repulsed by what a 15 year old bike looks like.

Second inspection agent cleared.

Third inspection agent.

Of course on the way out, we had to put the bike through the xray scanner. The other bags didn't have to go through, just the bike. I wasn't worried at this point...but it was certainly just another opportunity for the bike/box to get banged up without me able to do a thing about it.

Airport cleared.

...and a week later...bike assembled!

My disassembled bike! There was also an adventure with re-assembling the bike...but that would bore you, so we're not going into it. 

My assbembled bike! Yay!!

I don't know what 98.6F is in C...but I do know that 37.5 is too high

"When a man with ebola flew into Lagos in 2014, doctors managed to isolate him & his contacts were traced. They contained it -- 8 people died. Will Nigeria be able to pull this off again with #coronavirus?" @ruthmaclean, Ruth Maclean, the newly appointed West Africa bureau chief for the NYTimes

Let me just say - I have no idea how this post will age - but I have actually been amazed by the organization and efforts I've witnessed to contain the spread of coronavirus in Nigeria.

The first case in Nigeria was announced on Friday, Feb 28. It was an Italian who worked in the oil and gas industry.

On that day, two O&G clients of ours instituted a remote work policy in order to trace recent travel and interactions of all employees before risking an outbreak in the office. This especially hurt the [current company name redacted] team as their final read out was supposed to be that day. Sad face.

The next day (T+1 days), I went to the Lagos Theater Festival in Freedom Park (more on that in my post about Uber...). Before even entering the park, a facemasked guard took my temperature* and squirted hand sanitizer into my hands. As the Uber fiasco unfolded, I stood right outside the gate of the park for ~2 minutes -- when I went to go back and enter the park, the same guard insisted on taking my temperature again before I could enter.

The next Monday (T+3 days), when I showed up at work, a similarly facemasked guard took my temperature* before I could enter the compound. Then, a different gaurd took my temperature again before I could enter the building, and directed me to hand sanitizer right inside the door. The building has since been covered with hand sanitizer -- including two bottles in the elevator!

Temperature* + hand sanitizer has quickly become a fact of life for me in Lagos...at the grocery store, in restaurants, at the bank, and of course at work.

Just chilling with some sanitizer in the elevator

Throughout all of this, the only guard that communicates the read of my temperature has been the one outside at work. Every morning, he excitedly shows me the read. Since I have no idea what celsius temperatures really mean, I just try to read his body language to understand that he's being helpful and not passively telling me I'm going to die of coronavirus. (Yes of course I know that 0 is 32 and 40 is "hot"...but I don't really know the nuanced difference between 36 and 37...do you??)

So this afternoon I went to the bank (more on Nigerian banking at some point...no way I can't post about it...) and thought it'd be nice to wait outside for a bit for my Uber to arrive. It wasn't nice. It was effing fucking hot. Harmatan (dusty season) seems to have ended so there's no protection from the sun. It just bakes. And my Uber was slow. (But you already expected that given my Uber post.) I also had to cross the scary street to get the uber. I managed to get my hair up in a ponytail and off my sticky neck but I was uncomfortably sweating in all the wrong places by the time the Uber arrived. I relished the AC, but it didn't quite make it from the front of the car to the back. And there was no value in rolling down the window to get a breeze in the Lagos traffic.

So when I arrived back at the office, I was looking beautiful. (So sorry - no photographic evidence.) The guard took my temperature...and I read from the body language that 37.5 was not okay. We stood blinking at each other. I was a sweaty mess. Surely he understood I was a sweaty mess because it's a 104 heat index and I couldn't find any shade while waiting 14 minutes for my Uber...and not because...he thought I had coronavirus...right...? We stared.

"Just go cool off" one of the other guards said.

Cool off? WHERE? I'm still outside! There's no AC, no breeze, just heat.

"Deep breaths" the guard said.

Okay...I backed my back against the metal gate it was cool. And probably ruining the back of my pretty pink button down, but some sacrafices must be made. I stood in this sliver of shade, enjoying the cool metal for about 2 minutes and then went back for another read.

37 degrees. Success!

So now I know...37 C = 98.6F...and 37.5 C = too hot (99.5 F)

Meanwhile, the Nigerian CDC has tracked down every passenger on the same plane as Patient 0 and has put them on isolation protocol. The second person from the plane just tested positive -- so Nigeria is now up to its second case. However, that patient has been on isolation since Feb 28 -- so it seems that Nigeria is well on its way to containing coronavirus much as it did Ebola in 2014. 

*Quick explanation -- "taking temperature" uses a no-touch infrared thermometer...basically it takes external temperatures...which is (I think) why I was actually able to "cool down" to get my temperature down!

A place to call home!

I've officially moved into my new apartment for the year! Taking after my parents...this officially marks the third property that I own/rent at the same time. Still got the house in Rhode Island...still paying "rent" to my landlord/fiance (we gotta discuss the returns on this one...) in Brooklyn...and now my own adorbs 1BR in Lagos!

Of course / unshockingly -- not much about this move was simple. First there was finding a place...then there was confirming a place...then there was moving in. Actually I lied. Moving in was fairly easy. I decided on Sunday "yknow what...I should just actually move today..." and I texted Amadi "yo what's up? Can you help me move?" And he agreed. But it turns out that when he agreed, he assumed that other people would do all the work of getting the suitcases out of my apartment and into his car because that's the life he's used to here. So he was a little upset that physical labor was involved. I reminded him that he was once a college athlete. That made him a little more okay with the physical labor, but not much. And then we drove to my new place and moved in.

Amadi - college athlete

So since moving in was so easy...let's go back and focus on the things that weren't easy...

First...finding a place

• Context: the real estate market in Lagos is primed for some tech disruption. Despite being way ahead of the curve on mobile banking and whatnot...I'd say Nigeria is very very behind the curve on just like...even having a website showing which apartments are available. And the websites that do exist have one outside picture of a building, or sketchily post the same pictures over and over again for multiple listings of different size/different price making me skeptical that any single apartment even exists
• The good news is: everybody knows a guy. Literally everybody is or knows a real estate agent. But agents focus in on different neighborhoods...so you gotta find your guy/gal. And then if your ideal neighborhood changes (as mine did)...you gotta find a new guy/gal.
• More context: Lagos is effing expensive. I am paying about double for my 1BR in Lagos as I do for my 2BR in RI and on par for my part of a 2BR in Brooklyn (granted - my "half" of the rent in Brooklyn is highly subsidized by my landlord/fiance). Economics would tell you that if prices are so high, then demand should be high...demand should be pushing the prices up. But every building that I toured felt creepily vacant and meanwhile, many of my coworkers live 1+ hours from the office. So um...why don't these landlords just lower the prices? There's people who would rent the places, at a lower price, and they're obviously not turning over units how they're currently priced...
• Ah...because Lagos, I'm told. TIA. Apparently most real estate is simply seen as a safe investment where the land/location will be enough for the asset to appreciate...there's no need to get returns on it on a yearly basis. So the top top Nigerians (we've already discussed inequality) just buy up apartments as an investment. They might list them for renting, but only at a high price that makes the hassle of renting worth it to them. They're not super motivated to reduce the price just to move the unit. 
• Oh...also because of me...I'm part of the problem. Expats/foreigners working for international companies, receiving generous housing allowances also drive up cost of living. 
• The process: So all this meant that I spent several days driving around with different agents, mostly sitting in traffic, and then viewing a few aparments. This was actually convenient because it gave me something to do during my otherwise friendly weekends. The agents mostly took me to all the same buildings and sometimes the same apartments. These were seemingly the only buildings that were activley looking for renters. Annoyingly, most of the units they showed me were Ground Floor, which Bray Mitchell was vehemently opposed to -- which honestly made my choice rather easy. In the end, I had actually only seen one unit that wasn't ground floor and was in my budget. It was convenient that this unit was also owned by a guy who owns a furniture store -- so it was actually decorated well and felt like a place I could live for a year. 

My attempt at a side-by-side comparison of the corporate apartment vs. the homier apartment...these are both in the same building. But the pictures don't really do justice. To be clear...this is the more corporate apartment...just couch, table and rug. I think what's not totally captured / which I don't have pictures of...is that there's really NOTHING ELSE in the room...there's a TV that's just on a wall with a cable box on the floor. Cursory curtains. And couch is very corporate.

This is the homier apartment that I'm much happier with. Picture taken at night so unforutnatley no natural lighting...I dunno...there's a bit more to the couch and coffee table...also not captured is that there's another chair, a book shelf, TV stand...like it just feels like a place you'd actually live in. Anyways...this is where I live now. 

Then...confirming a place...I first found that unit on Feb 11 -- so why did I not move until now? Ah -- of course there's a story there too

• First, we settled on a price. Well actually it seemed that the price was set in stone, but I at least negotiated to get things like wifi, DSTV and cleaner included in the price. I sent pictures to my Nigerian friends and they didn't seem to think I was being immensely ripped off so I shrugged and went along with it. 
• Then the drama started. So here's the Season 1 recap:
• Last year, Person A - who owns a furniture store - rented an unfurnished unit in this building of 1BRs
• Person A's plan was to furnish/decorate the unit nicely (because he owns a furniture store) and then sub-let it at a profit
• I was that sub-letter
• The building landlord (Person B) saw the price I was willing to pay for the unit and was like "wait a second...we want that cash...you're not allowed to sub-let...this girl has to rent one of our furnished units"
• So...re-negging on contracts is a thing
• At one point here they also threatened that they wanted to rent out the building in its entirety to a corporate client 
• Remember the story that I had already been shown multiple units all in the same building with different agents? So I already knew I didn't like the furnished units offered by the building -- their idea of "furnished unit" was a bed and a couch -- ta da! furnished!
• But I had to go back to the building to look at one of these sad "furnished" apartments. I held my ground and said I wouldn't be moving into one of them. Started to reach ot to other real estate agents to see about other options.
• Then my real estate agent when AWOL.
• Then he came back to say...Person A just decided to buy the whole damned building...? This part got confusing and I would probably have had to rewind and put sub-titles on...but I had a phone call...and it resulted in me being able to move into the originally furnished apartment that I wanted. Yay!

Then of course I had to sign contracts and pay. Being that I'm in Nigeria...I was very worried about this step. Interestingly, basically NOBODY around me was worried about it. Like I actually read the contract line-by-line and made comments for edits. My agent then just told me to make DIRECT EDITS to the contract and send back a signed copy. Didn't even feel the need to discuss with the landlord. 

At the point that I moved into the apartment...I literally did not have a signed contract from the landlord, nor had I paid for it. Nobody seemed to care. I asked so many Nigerians and everybody was like "why are you worried? Just move in." It took A WEEK after I moved in for them to send me the invoice for the apartment. 

So like...scary place to do business where contracts are not enforced and where you can have rented an apartment with the understanding that you're allowed to sublet, which is then re-negged...but also where people feel comfortable letting others move into an apartment without a contract in the first place...? 

Thank you so much for offering! But…you’re definitely not going to come visit me!

A lot of people (not all the people – for example, not my mom) – got excited when they heard I was moving to Nigeria (FOR THE YEAR – as Tejas always wants to make sure I qualify – I love you babe!) saying “ohhhh…that’s so cool…I’d love to have a reason to visit that part of the world!” I love your enthusiasm. But you’re not going to come visit.

Here’s the thing…a Nigerian tourist visa is incredibly expensive and incredibly time consuming. And I mean like…super really expensive and super really time consuming.

First off…why? Honestly, I don’t really know. It might be because tourism is not nearly as important in Nigeria as many other African countries or it might be because Trump hates Nigeria (but actually that can’t be the reason because it’s not like the US is singled out…)…but these are just guesses because in any googling of “why is Nigeria visa so expensive?” all I get are lists upon lists that say a Nigerian visa is one of the most expensive and cumbersome to get.

What do I mean by this? (1) The process sucks and (2) It’s super expensive.

1. The process sucks

 Okay – so first you have to apply for your Nigerian visa online. And you’re like “Oh awesome! So tech-savvy! You go Nigeria!” But it’s definitely NOT awesome. This online experience is the worst thing ever and will make you want to cry…for example…

• The process is 7 steps. You’ll enter your information and click through all happily…and THEN when you get to “submit” on Step 7…you’ll get an error message that says “Issue on Step 3”. No more detail. Just an Issue on Step 3. So you click back to Step 3. In doing so, you lose all your data for Steps 4-7. It’s unclear what the error is in Step 3…so you start trial-and-error…changing one thing…filling out the rest of the application…and then getting the same error message. You want to give up, but you can’t. Because this is a necessary step. This process took me about 2 hours.
• FYI – advice if you ever do apply for a Nigerian visa…I believe the issue in Step 3 was that I used punctuation in a city name – when I changed my last international trip from St. Emillion, France to Paris, France…no more issues! (Yayyy engagement memories!)
• It requires online payment. Fine. It’s 2020. Makes sense. Except…two things:
• It literally does not let you use a secure web browser…which yeah…most web browsers are. The error message you get for this really aggressively tells you to “STOP TRYING TO SCRAMBLE WEB ADDRESS” which…yeah…is what an encrypted browser will do. There’s no way to turn this off. I could only get it to work when I used Internet Explorer. (lolz)
• US credit card companies are like “oh hell no” when they get a charge from Nigeria. And then…you descend into credit card black hole…the error messages I had here were:
• First, my credit card rejected (obvi)
• Then, I called my credit card company and tried again – it got rejected again
• Then, my credit card company was like “oops – we didn’t press the button – try again”
• Then, I tried again – this time I got an error message that I had tried using my credit card too many times so the Nigerian embassy was rejecting it
• So then I had to start the process over again with a new card
• New card charged me foreign transaction fees. Sweet.

Related – my credit card has been cancelled twice since arriving because of “suspicious charges” – but every time they say “oh no you don’t have to tell us when you’re travelling…and I’m like…dudes…can you stop turning off my card every time I try to buy dinner??”

• The visa application is “seamlessly” integrated with your Google login. Like why? This meant that me and Tejas had to use separate computers to fill out our vis applications. Also meant having to go through Google 2-step verification when switching over to IE for payment…because like…obviously I’ve never even bothers to login to my google account on IE…
• If you fuck up, there’s no going back. I messed up something on my visa application and immediately called. They said they could not edit it…but that I was welcome to submit a NEW application and then submit for reimbursement for the first.
• I’ll just say…I’m so effing happy that I used Chase for my first application because 2.5 months and 25 emails later, I obviously have not seen any evidence that they will reimburse me for the first go-around. (Chase agreed to just reimburse me.)
• Obviously, I had to use a different card for my second visa application. I don’t know why. Just because obviously.

So that’s the online process. Then two (plus) more absurd things have to happen:

• For a tourist visa, you have to submit:
• Letter of invitation from somebody with a Nigerian passport (so I cannot invite you with my workers’ permit…I need to ask somebody in the office to send the invite)
• Evidence of flights and hotel (fine – a lot of countries require this)
• Your effing three most recent bank statements I am not kidding (don't worry fam - I blacked out my account number)
• You have to go to the Nigerian consulate in person for an interview on a date that they assign to you

Obviously…they charge you another fee when you go for your interview. Which gets me to the fee side…

• $160 – advertised visa application fee. Lolz.
• $20 – online credit card processing fee. Because in 2020, credit card processing fees are 12.5%
• $XX – whatever foreign transaction fee you’re charged by your credit card company
• $30 – “Embassy Processing Fee” – the charge when you go to the embassy – which is obviously a lot more than that…it’s actually…
• $85 - $95 – the “rush processing fee” at the embassy – aka the only way to maybe see your passport again
• ~$265 – to do it yourself

I had a friend try and do this himself (for him and his boss). He told me he went to the embassy every day for 2 weeks and was told that they weren’t ready. He finally took $1000 cash with him, gave it to the security guard…who came back with the passports within 5 minutes.

Let’s say…you have a job, so going to the embassy multiple times for an “interview” isn’t really convenient for you…you also have the option to pay a third party company to deal with all the waiting and bribing for you. This does not come cheap.

First of all, these companies can burn with payday-lenders IMHO. They aggressively try and steal your money. Their forms are a maze of “check this box if you don’t want us to charge you $50 to register with the US embassy abroad” (a free service you can very easily do yourself online) and “uncheck this box if you don’t want us to not charge you $100 to save a digital copy of your passport” (you mean like…email a copy of my passport to myself? Also…which option means I don’t have to pay for this??). Anyways…as much as you don’t want to…you end up having to use one of these thieves of a company…so then your costs will be:

• $60 – going rate for non-express service
• $100 – least expensive option for shipping everything. (I saved $$ by going to the office to pick the damn thing up…but like…it doesn’t cost $50 to ship within NYC)
• $290 – an increased fee from the Nigerian embassy for “third party processing” … aka they increase the required bribe if you signal that you’re rich enough to pay a third party company to go to the interview for you
• Notably – the UK doesn’t allow civil workers to pay these “facilitating payments”...and shockingly…the internet seems to think it’s a lot cheaper/easier to get your Nigerian passport in the UK
• $630+ to get somebody to do it for you

Of course - when I arrived at the Lagos airport...every American stood in line clutching the same envelope from the same agency that "assists" with the Visa application process. Thieves. 

So I love you all. But I’m pretty sure Tejas is the only person who will put up with the stress and cost of a Nigerian visa to come visit me. Actually that’s not true…I did the online process for him because I figured he’d never get through the forms himself. And my company is reimbursing for the costs of his visa. If that wasn’t the case…I’m pretty sure not even Tejas would have come to visit me!

Yes I was applying for a business entry visa (NOT a worker's permit though) -- but I submitted 7 beautifully colored and labeled folders to keep all required elements in order. Kisses. 

I'm Back!

Hi! I’m back! Since my last post in 2015, it seems that blogging has really fallen out of fashion…everybody who’s anybody now has their own podcast…or at least a Youtube/TikTok channel. At first I thought it might be fun to experiment with a new medium while here*…but I fell back on trusty blogging because...

1. I’m a bit of a long-winded story-teller and there’s no telling how long a vlog/recording would take…at least with writing, it’s a bit easier for me to go back and edit out my most meandering points
2. As much as others seem to love my “deep”, “powerful”, “raspy” and “porn star” (real quotes) voice – I could not actually imagine having to listen to recordings of it to post updates, or to put myself at risk of getting ridiculed for vocal fry.
3. As the biggest proponent of podcasts since Tatiana introduced me to Start Up…even I can admit that sometimes (read: subway, toilets), it’s easier to read something than listen to it. I want y’all to be engaged. So I hope you’re ready for a long toilet break.

 *Where’s the “here”? Ah right – “here” is Lagos, Nigeria. (pronounced Lay-gos...I think) The largest city in Sub-Saharan Africa, and home of your local Nigerian prince. I will update you once I find him. I will be here for a year doing a rotation with my company (which most of you know or work at…and if you don’t know, it’s easy to find, but in the pretense of keeping this a personal blog…I won’t mention by name). And just to precept** your questions -- Tejas is staying in NYC for the year but he and I are still happily engaged. Welcome to 2020 relationships. Love you babe *eye googly emoji*

I actually...don't have a picture of me in Nigeria yet...so here's a picture of me at the UN a few days before leaving!

So buckle up and get ready to read about life in a city of 16M people without a true public transportation system, with pollution worse than Beijing, with regular blackouts, with 10%+ inflation and with inequality…oh…um…only 8 spots worse than the US***…

…that all happens to be a country that prides itself on entrepeneurship and hard work...that is at the heart of Africa’s start up and tech scene (Yabacon Valley or Silicon Lagoon), one of the top oil producers in the world, and home to Africa's richest man. A lot going on. A lot of frustrations. A lot of opportunities. Certainly a lot of material to write about (assuming I have the time).

So air quality isn't ALWAYS worse than Beijing. But on the day that it felt particularly smoggy so I decided to check...well then it was most definitely worse than Beijing.

**This word apparently doesn’t mean what I think it means. But I can’t find the word that I mean to use here. What is the word that you use to “intercept” a question and like answer it before being asked? Hmmmm.

***Wait a second…can we talk about how a country with 25% unemployment and 50% of people living in extreme poverty – the highest rates in the world – is only 8 spots below the US on the GINI Index? Like yes…I expected it to be much worse than the US. But c’mon America. Maybe this of all things could be a wake-up call? 

In Place of Turkey Bowl – November 27, 2015

Right before I left for Ethiopia, I got a text from a friend in Hanover asking if we’d be having Turkey Bowl this year – given that 17RFR is on the market. Well 17RFR hasn’t sold, so no reason for no Turkey Bowl on the Green…except that I’d be in Ethiopia.

One would think that given my love for Turkey Bowl, I would have tried to organize something in Ethiopia. One would be wrong – because I was at a hotel that had a spa option and that seemed like a better use of my time than a futile (American) football effort.

So with the lowest of expectations, I set off down to the Sabana Wellness Center. Let’s just summarize this whole experience by saying that my expectations were met, exceeded, re-set, and exceeded again. From the plush robes to the rainfall shower and the Jacuzzi and mood music – I just didn’t know that such a luxurious spa experience could exist in Ethiopia!

As I struggled to not doze off while enjoying the full body massage, thinking of exactly how I’d capture the full experience in my blog, I remembered…*gasp* I NEVER PUBLISHED MY BLOG ABOUT MY EXPERIENCE WITH THE TURKISH BATHS IN ISTANBUL!

*Flashback to June 19, 2014*

I landed in Istanbul without much planned except for a reservation at a hostel for that evening and a list of ~20 foods to try and ~20 attractions to visit aggregated from Turkish friends and friends of friends. Some things, like the Blue Mosque, felt obligatory and inevitable (note: I ended up never visiting the Blue Mosque) while others – like going to a Haman, or Turkish Bath, sounded a little more interesting.

I tend to like to do interesting things…so after getting settled at #bunk hostel, I set off to Galatasaray Hamam. Everything I knew about the Haman is summed up in the 2-line explanation I received from a friend-of-a-friend: “In Taksim Zone. Open daily 08:00-20:00, prices range from YTL 40-70 (EUR 23-40) according to preference. YTL 70 includes massage, the cleansing, pore opening and bubbles. Women only, women do the massage”

Seemed reasonable to go to a place where women do the massage. Whatever that meant.

By the genius I learned from Cory Hoeferlin in Mozambique that you can access the blue dot on Google Maps even if you’re offline, I was able to navigate my way through the back streets of Taksim to find the Galatasaray Hamam. Well…kinda. I saw a door that said as much and I let myself in.

I feel that I should be excused for missing the Female door for the Galatasarya Hamam

Cue scene from a movie for a room full of naked men all conversing suddenly stop, turn, and stare. Apparently there is also a male-only Galatasaray Hamam – and apparently they are quite exposed because male only means MALE ONLY and women don’t usually wander into the restricted area.

So I tried again at the female Galatasaray Hamam. As I walked up the stairs, I was greeted with some beautiful posters of beautiful women laughing around marble baths while enjoying eating grapes with their friends. It looked beautiful and was nothing like the experience that I walked into.

My only indication of what would be included in my hamam experience before I entered. Maybe I should read up about some things in advance.

*Warning: In an effort to maintain journalistic integrity, the following section is NSFW (aka Not Safe for Work) or for grandparents. I had no idea what I was walking into with a Turkish bath and you might be offended.

So I walked into the hamam. There were about four women sitting around in various states of dress, most of them with some amount of water dripping off of them. Despite the entrance of a clueless white girl, it took them a while to acknowledge me – at which point it became clear that none of them knew English. I pointed to one of the options on the list of services and hoped that it was clear.

The woman didn’t take any money, but she gave me a key and led me to a little room on the side. I use the word “room” very liberally here – it was kind of like an open cubicle, made of glass, and with a door that locked. There was a little chair and a towel in it. I assumed this meant that I was supposed to change into the towel – but it was a little strange because there wasn’t exactly any privacy in the tiny room made of glass. But in my hesitation, I gained privacy – the other four women in the room quickly left to go to side rooms. So I slipped off my clothes and wrapped myself in the tiny little towel. But then I didn’t really know what to do, so I just sat on the little chair for a bit.

A little bit became a long bit. I was confused. Was I supposed to do be doing something? I eventually grew bored enough of sitting and staring at a blank wall, so I decided to venture into the main room to see if anybody paid any attention to me. Maybe because I hadn’t paid anything, they were ignoring me? Was I supposed to have paid?

Finally finally, one of the four women came back into the room and led me to this room full of showers. She mimed that I was supposed to shower and then held her hand out to hold my towel for me. Right. There’s nothing I love more than showering in front of foreign women in foreign countries. (Tried to link to a blog entry about visiting a traditional bath house in Japan here – but apparently I never wrote that blog either! Something has prevented me from writing these NSFW blogs…)

When she felt that I was sufficiently showered, she led me into another room. This room had a huge marble slab in the middle and probably 20 little faucets/sinks on the side with stools. It was also hot and steamy. My guide pointed to me to sit on the marble slab – which was pretty hot. Because if you think I left out the part where I was supposed to say that she gave me my towel back, I didn’t. I was still prancing around naked in front of her.

She turned and left.

Things I did in the time before she came back included: walking 10 laps around the marble slap (a feat given how slippery the floor is), laying back down on the marble slab and counting all the tiles in the ceiling (they were tiny tiles), opening all the doors that led out of the room to see if there was something else I was supposed to be doing, giving up hope and just sitting there…wondering what I’d gotten myself into and if I should’ve gone to one of the fancier hamam’s suggested by the friend-of-a-friend.

Finally finally again, my guide came back to rescue me. She instructed me to sit up on the marble slab and then she stripped down herself, on a stool across from me. Then she started dumping buckets of water on top of me. With the combination of the force of the water and the already slippery surface of the marble, I slid straight off the marble slab with the first dump of water – and straight into my guide. She pushed me back onto the slab and forced me down into her well-endowed chest. 

Ermmmmmm – I hesitated.

But then she poured the next bucketful of water on me and I started to slide again before steadying myself with my head against her chest.

“Fuck it,” I thought, “I need stability” – so I went for it and burrowed myself into her chest, grabbing her sides to further steady myself.

Which was when I remembered the pictures of the ladies enjoying the hamam that were on the stairs as I entered. While nuzzled up in this Turkish woman’s boobs, staring down at her nudity as she slapped my back clean, I thought to myself that this experience definitely was not what was advertised.

Just...not what my hamam experience was like. There are way too many clothes in this picture and those girls are way too not-that-well-endowed.

The Next Generation – Thanksgiving, 2015

There is so much to be thankful for on Thanksgiving – and it’s easy to be reminded of all of this when you spend Thanksgiving in a developing country.

But rather than say that being here on Thanksgiving means I’m especially thankful for having family, having health, never questioning where my next meal is coming from (except for those times when I am genuinely confused), etc…I figured I’d take this another direction.

I’m thankful for Quinn. (Her dad, my coworker, gave me permission to mention Quinn and use her picture in this blog…he probably didn’t realize how I was planning on using it though.)

I spend a lot of time volunteering and I give pretty generously to non-profits. I have a hard time explaining why I do this except for maybe I grew up with two very good role models. But this inherent sense of responsibility can actually be a weakness as it often means I find it difficult to convince others to volunteer or to make a donation to something. They ask why and I freeze – what do you mean “why”? Why are YOU challenging this??

So when I was telling my coworkers about my fun times buying massive quantities of children's vitamins, cough syrup (note: wasn’t stopped…?), underwear and soccer equipment to bring over with me to Selamta, I was not expecting anything to come out of it except for a few laughs.

Boy was I wrong. Later that night, one of my coworkers, Rob – who happens to also play on the CVS Soccer Team (RxNinjaBallz) with me – followed up with me to ask if I had room in my suitcase for one more soccer ball. I mean…of course! But why?

Why is because his 5 year old daughter, Quinn (who’s probably better at soccer than I am), wanted to donate a soccer ball to the kids in Ethiopia. Before I left the office last Thursday, Quinn showed up with her bright green soccer ball to donate.

This whole experience made me so thankful. I'm thankful to see this connection made between two kids across the world from each other. And I'm thankful to see the inherent good in the world with this "next generation" of givers. AND I'm thankful to see the smiles on these kids' faces - I don’t know who is happier in their picture with the bright green soccer ball!

Quinn and Rob - making their donation!

I actually HAD to be in this picture because the Fasika and Dagim (L to R) kept running off with their new balls. The only way to get them to stop for a picture was to hold them. Not pictured is my tight grip.

The Selamta kids all have soccer practice on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I missed Saturday's practice so I was really excited to be there for Tuesday to bring the new soccer balls (and a football - in case we want to try to organize a Turkey Bowl game on Thanksgiving) to the field. I didn't get out of the office though before one of the kids (Dagim) found me holding the bright green ball. His eyes widened up as he knew EXACTLY what it was and who it was for (hint: him). He "helped" me out by taking it out of my hands (I was also juggling some other balls and some bottles of water) and played with it the whole way to the field - often passing to me but then just getting frustrated with my lack of skillz. When we got to the field he excitedly dribbled a victory lap to show off his new ball before the big boys were like "that ball looks cool - we want it" -- I had youngest child PTSD as I watched him watch the older boys kick the ball around. He was beaming about still being somewhat involved in the fun -- but -- youngest child PTSD about not actually getting the ball. 

Quinn is an oldest sibling, so I'm not sure she'll ever be able to appreciate this situation. But a little later on I smiled to myself as the little munchkin had recovered his bright green ball and taken it over to the wall to play without interruption from the big boys -- kinda reminded me of when Quinn shows up at our soccer games and has to play with herself while all her dad's friends are playing on the field. I know that if these two ever met each other, they would be instant friends!

So I hope you can have a happier Thanksgiving thinking about these two kids - on opposite sides of the world, but being connected.

Had to Comment on the Healthcare Here - November 24, 2015

Today a mystery was solved!

In the brief phone conversation I had with the Selamta Executive Director right before I boarded my plane in DC (here), I failed to mention her true sign off line: “Oh…we learned last night that Yohannes is in the hospital. It says it was for ‘stomach surgery’…so we assume that means appendicitis – but could you check once you arrive?”

Considering I went straight from the Kigali airport to a wedding when I first moved to Rwanda (check it out here), the request to go to the hospital right when I landed wasn’t too far out of the ordinary. So, after the initial money exchange and errands, down I walked to the Bethel Teaching Hospital with Abel.

[Side note to mention that the hospital was in better shape than I had expected. I didn’t want to take any pictures there – so sorry, but it was a 5-story building with a winding ramp up the center atrium – all pristine white and reasonably organized. Inpatient was on the 5^th floor (well – I was misled – they said it was on the “4^th floor” but then my post-plane, sea-level altitude acclimated self almost cried when we walked up one flight and I saw a sign that said “Floor 1”.)]

In the inpatient unit, there was a chalkboard with the patients’ room numbers, names, diagnoses, DOB, etc. It seemed very similar to a US hospital (I’m not sure they need Hospital IQ yet) – Yohannes was listed in room 404 (LIES – really 504) and with a “Perforated PUD”.

STOP. Put yourself in my shoes and do not Google the answer. Because Google was not available to me at the time. Does a “PUD” in a foreign country that doesn’t even use the Roman alphabet for its native language look similar enough to “aPPenDix” that you’d agree with what you’ve been told? That the patient had appendicitis?

Med school students – I feel your judgment. I don’t care. You’re the profession that's most likely to suffer from #confirmationbias

Yohannes was unsurprisingly holding court from his hospital bed (maybe this is surprising since you have no idea who Yohannes is – but let me tell you – it’s not surprising). He had about 5 visitors when we arrived and there was a steady flow of visitors throughout the miserable 1.5 hours that I was there.

Why were those 1.5 hours miserable? Because I had arrived at 8am (midnight EST) after ~no sleep during my 16 hour flight and I was sitting on a hard chair in an Ethiopian hospital surrounded by people who didn’t really know English and whose focus was the kid recovering from surgery in an Ethiopian hospital – not the white girl sitting on the side.

At one point, this very confident woman showed up. She walked right in, pulled his chart off his bed and started flipping through it. Then she inspected his IV drip and drainage bag (stuffed into a black plastic bag, tied to the side of the bed), felt for a fever, and started saying something to his mother. Of note – she was also dressed up all nice and had her nails done and hair styled perfectly. I figured she was a Selamta kid who was in nursing school – and looked down at my dirt-laden nails and travel outfit with shame – and started regretting my career path – why do I have such useless skills? How will I ever be able to help anybody with Excel shortcuts and “leadership”??

Okay – let’s bring this back from my existential crisis – I also figured that if she was in nursing school she probably knew English – so I went for it and asked her the diagnosis.

Boy, did she know English. She rattled off her response. I again caught “perforated” and a word that had some P and D sounds. It wasn’t appendix but I wasn’t exactly sure what it was. I decided it was a fancier word for “spleen” because – that’s in that part of the body – and also has a P.

DON’T GOOGLE! Do you remember from 7^th grade biology what the spleen does? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Anyways, I nodded along and pretended I understood everything she was saying. Especially after we exchanged some greetings and I learned she’s the actual nurse for Selamta and I told her that I work at “a pharmacy” in the US (no introduction has ever been more misleading – she probably assumed I knew exactly what she was talking about).

When I remembered to Google it later, I searched for “ruptured PED” – which isn’t what he has but returned enough search results about a medical thing (a pipeline embolization device) that I #confirmed my assumption that “PED” was just some inexplicable Amharic-to-English acronym translation for spleen or appendix.

My mother was very concerned when she arrived today and asked me what the diagnosis is. Apparently a “ruptured spleen I think” is a VERY BIG deal. She went straight to the source of the nurse, where we got MYSTERY SOLVED: the patient had had a ruptured ulcer in his stomach (peptic ulcer disease)!

Unfortunately, this wasn’t actually joyous news – because like a ruptured PUD is a much, much worse diagnosis. But at least…now we know?

PS – Wonder if my time spent in a hospital allows me to bill this as a “work trip”?

Girl Power - November 23, 2015

I have a confession to make: for all that I love and support female equality (especially in developing countries), I have a difficult time discussing it (especially in developing countries). Which is why I think that one woman who I met this week is so incredible.

On Monday I had the pleasure of visiting the two main schools that Selamta kids attend: the local Alpha school and the distant magnet-like Yeha School of Science and Technology.

During my visit to Alpha, my (female) guide just happened to mention the bathroom process – because we passed a group of boys sprinting back to their classroom from the bathroom. Everywhere you look in the literature about female equality in developing countries, you see references to girls who stop attending school when they start menstruating. The topic was there…I didn’t even have to bring it up: all I had to do was ask how they handle the bathroom process to make it easier for girls on their period. And yet, something about me felt too awkward – questioning “What if she doesn’t have a good answer? What if she doesn’t understand the question? What if she’s offended I bring up menstruation?” – so I held back.

Sorry for the teaser: neither me nor that female guide is the incredible woman I met this week. I met HER at Yeha – the school we headed to after Alpha.

This girl is also not the incredible woman that I met this week - but damn - isn't she beautiful? This was taken during a 2nd grade English class at Alpha. After the initial giggles when I walked in with my guide, most of the students went straight back to the lesson - it was incredible how they were all so eagerly engaged! Except for this one girl - she did not take her eyes off of me - she wanted to make sure she knew what was up!

Yeha is a Science and Technology school about 30 minutes away from Selamta. Twelve Selamta kids started attending this year. Given the distance, requisites, tuition, etc., it would be impossible for all Selamta kids to attend Yeha (and admittedly, of the 12 there, some aren’t too happy about it because they had been going to Alpha for ~10 years), but the school is AWESOME. The Director showed me chemistry/physics/biology labs, a computer classroom, and an IT lab (where they deconstruct computers) – and we didn’t have time to go to the biodiversity farm across the street! The halls are covered with educational posters and pictures of world leaders who have visited the school. And there’s a bunch of tortoises on the school grounds that are raised by the Kindergarten class every year.

I couldn't get the best pictures at Yeha because the classrooms/labs were locked (we got there after the school day ended) - but this "tree model" for Global Impact pretty much captures how all the hallways looked!

Doesn't this pictures just make you want to go back to school and learn??  

Anyways, as we were leaving, we ran into the elementary school English teacher. None of the Selamta kids at Yeha are in elementary school so she was unaware of the program. As we explained to her the Selamta model she said “bless your hearts” and then jumped straight into asking:

“How many of your 12 students here are girls?”

I did not know – but I learned that the answer is three.

“That is not enough. Girls need to be studying science and technology. You need to send more girls here.” And she didn’t give up – she asked me if I could come back to speak with the girls in the school about what it’s like to be a woman in science (disclaimer: I have had a hard time correcting people from thinking I’m a pharmacist #cvsproblems) – she told me that she has a Girls in Science Club.

And all the while I was kicking myself for:

1.       Not having nearly as much courage as she has – I didn’t even feel comfortable asking the guide at Alpha about female menstruation

2.       Not having asked myself at Selamta about the breakdown of girls who attend this school (but don’t worry too long about that part – I made sure that the point was not lost when we got back in the car)

Reflecting on this encounter brings a smile to my face. I am so happy that the local drive for female equality exists – and I am so happy that the girls at Yeha have this woman as a role model!

PS – I would be remiss to not mention two other points about #feminism with this Girl Power post:

1.       In every single house that I have visited, the girls have been preparing the meals while the boys basically hang out. I do keep on asking the boys if they ever cook and they do keep on telling me that “yes they do” (so they’re not embarrassed to say it) – but I still haven’t seen it L

2.       I visited Axum House tonight with my parents – I might ask my mom to write a guest blog post about the Axum mom because she’s seen her grow since her very first day at Selamta (when she didn’t even know Amharic!) to the strong, proud mother she is today!

Ethiopian Coffee Ceremonies – November 22, 2015

This blog could just as reasonably be titled: “Dancing, Drinking and Other Regrets”, but I figured I’d go with a more wholesome suggestion.

I was really excited to hear that the Great Ethiopian Run would be going on while I was in Addis. Basically any expat/Ethiopian I talked with the day before the run asked me if I was planning on going. It seemed like such a huge event – I obviously enthusiastically replied “YES!” every time I was asked.

Then I woke up at 10am. The race started at 9am. And was in the city. So I didn’t make it.

At first, I blamed the dancing, drinking and other adventures from the night before. Anxious that I only had one weekend night in Addis, I had called Ishy and INSISTED that he take me out dancing. I never think it’s reasonable to say you’ve visited a city if you’ve never gotten drunk with locals – so I saw this as necessary. Ishy was a little surprised by my enthusiasm to go out drinking after arriving at 7am that morning (and sleeping next to none on the plane – I have already submitted a formal complaint to Ethiopian Airlines – I DO NOT understand why they turned the cabin lights off for the first part of the flight and ON for the second part – the flight landed at 7am! We should’ve all been sleeping right up til the landing!) but, as I’ve said, drinking with locals = necessary.

So after a great dinner with Gondar house, complete with Ethiopian coffee ceremony (a true ceremony that includes roasting beans and drinking three rounds of very dark coffee out of tiny little cups, often laden with sugar), Ishy picked me up and off we went to downtown! 

Injera dinner at Gondar house. Fuzzy picture because - yes - I was embarrassed to be #instagramming my food.

We started at a sports pub to watch the Real Madrid – Barcelona match, continued onto a “fancy place” where they had more Tanquery in one place than I’ve ever seen in my life and ended at a dance club/ hookah bar where we pushed through the blackout** and stayed until the wee hours of the morning…where then we really ended the night at a pizza joint. I got home around 3am and was still so energized that a lucky someone got to spend 20 minutes on a combination of Facebook/GroupMe/Whatsapp calls with a very drunk and happy (and sappy) me.

So…needless to say, that 8am alarm got turned off pretty quickly. (Not that I had a way really to get to the GER since Ishy didn’t wake up until around noon…)

I did spend most of today in a haze of confusion however because I have always INSISTED that jet lag doesn’t impact me/ only impacts the weak. I was a bit terrified that in my old age*, I had become weak.

This was up until I was at Menelik House for dinner tonight and, after dinner, we started the coffee ceremony again. Eyob kindly explained to me that it is traditional in Ethiopia to drink three rounds of coffee during the ceremony (the “Abole”, the “Tona” and the “Bereka”). As we were drinking the Abole, he asked me if I would do all three rounds. Eager to please and to accept the hospitality, I said yes. Everybody in the room reacted to my agreement though – with a universal “REALLY?!? How are you going to SLEEP!?!”

And that’s when it hit me: I have a rule of saying yes to anything that I am served in somebody’s house***  – it’s actually the reason I started eating meat before I moved to Rwanda (the reason I continued after Rwanda is bacon). This rule has given me a generous list of foods that I can brag about having tried (generally, once) – but I’ve never thought that I should get credit for drinking something as common as COFFEE.

But for those of you who don’t know me that well…I DO NOT drink caffeine. This little body has enough energy in it that caffeine is not only not necessary – it’s probably a health hazard. I mean – of course, I’d say yes to coffee without a second thought when invited into a family’s house and when it’s so integral to their culture. But in real life…NEVER.

So now I know why I missed the Great Ethiopian Run. It wasn’t because of dancing and drinking and pizza – it was because of the famed Ethiopian Coffee Ceremony!

Roasting the beans as part of the Ethiopian Coffee Ceremony! Gondar House and Menelik House were both great hosts for my first two dinners in Ethiopia!

*Note: not that old

**In reviewing this - I feel the need to explain that I mean an ACTUAL blackout. Like...when the electricity goes out. Not a drunk blackout. Although maybe it's a reasonable pun here. 

***Entertainingly, I actually broke that rule at the Menelik house when I was offered tap water. I have seen my system handle tap water before, but given the short duration of my trip this time around, I didn’t want to waste being sick for any of it! So I did say “no” to the tap water. And immediately felt incredibly guilty as Eyob ran out to the market to buy a bottle of water for me. And I didn’t have any birr on me so I couldn’t pay him back. And I’m feeling like the worst person in the world as I’m typing this…trust me.

And We’re Off…or Are We? - November 21, 2015

Arranging pick-ups at foreign airports is perhaps my favorite part about traveling. There’s generally guaranteed to be this overwhelming sense of “wtf” when you land and realize you don’t speak the language / have a local cell phone / really even know who is picking you up or where said person will be. When you’re on the plane, everything is all wonderful and still American…and then you land it’s like “shit…I’m in a very foreign place now.”

I was not disappointed when I landed in the Addis airport early on Saturday morning after ~18 hours of travel. Luckily, I have been to Addis quite a few times before so I was able to speed walk my way to be probably the first person on my plane to the Visa line – and then I was able to reassure everybody that, yes, they had to wait in the disastrously long line.

But as the minutes in line ticked away (after probably 15 minutes I gave up pretending to be in awe of everything and just tuned into a podcast…I then listened to two 30-minute podcasts before getting close enough to the front to think it inappropriate to start another), my confidence that I’d be able to find the driver for Selamta Family Project diminished…

Flashback to 16 hours before: about 10 minutes before I boarded the plane in DC, I got a text from the US Director of the Selamta FamilyProject: “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

I volunteer for the Finance team for Selamta and we’re in the middle of a grant application…so I knew that the “few minutes” she wanted to talk would probably be ~30 minutes reviewing the budget…and I literally only had a few minutes before I boarded the plane. I contemplated not texting her back, but ultimately guilt overwhelmed me so I did, and I braced myself for the barrage of budget questions that would inevitably come. (Marisa – just so you know – I do love you!)

She called me right away.

No small talk…she jumped straight to the point: 

“Do you know who is picking you up in Addis?”

“Umm…Ishy was going to but he just messaged [about 10 minutes prior] to tell me his car is broken to Haile is going to pick me up instead.”

[Actually realizing I should be thankful that Ishy messaged me when he did. Would’ve been an unfortunate message to miss by just a few minutes…]

“Okay and do you know where he’s going to pick you up?”

“Umm…no.”

“Alright…well usually they can’t come into the airport because of security reasons. So don’t freak out if you don’t see him! Just get your bags and walk down to the parking lot and I’m sure he’ll spot you!”

“Right…I’ve been to Addis before so I can vision the parking lot area. But…I’m not sure I remember what Haile looks like.”

“I’ll text you a picture. Good luck!” [Hey Marisa…about that text…I never received it!]

Perhaps the only time I’ve been less confident in an airport pick-up was when I was messaging Cory Hoeferlin from the Istanbul airport on my way to Jo’burg. It ended up that the only way I found him was by talking loud enough about my problem in the airport that a tour guide overheard and made the connection that his tour guide friend was with Cory – like what.

Back to Addis time: every time I’ve gotten a Visa before, it has taken about 30 minutes. So when I clicked onto podcast #2, I started figuring out Plan B – as I was sure it would soon become Plan A. Haile was definitely going to assume he missed me and leave the airport. There were four Plan Bs in my mind:

1.       Public transportation – I’ve taken public busses around Addis before so I figured I could figure it out again. Plus, Selamta is pretty close to the (I think) well-known Bethel Teaching Hospital so I could probably communicate that with a bus driver who would probably let me know where I need to transfer, etc. The reason I was most apprehensive about this option though was because it would be really hard to take a public bus with two 50-lb bags in tow. I actually wasn’t sure it was possible. Also I wasn’t sure if public buses came to the airport.

2.      Walk down to an internet café – I’ve hung out in Addis/Bole area enough to know there are plenty of internet cafes. There would probably be a few within a mile of the airport. I could just walk down to one of them and pull out my phone to email Abel/Hailey my whereabouts. But again – two 50 lb bags in tow made this one a little difficult.

3.      Bite the bullet and pay the international data roaming fee and just text Abel/Hailey – This idea was especially attractive because I recently absorbed the rest of my family onto my Verizon plan – which actually means – I recently stopped paying my own cell phone bill. I actually tried this one but it didn’t work because I’m somewhat technologically inept.

4.      Cry and find a ride/ hitchhike – Would’ve been a fine idea if I could articulate where Selamta is located. But I quickly realized I could not do this when the Immigration Officer asked me the address of where I was staying and I stuttered out an inadequate response.

So without a reasonable Plan B, I only had one option once I got through the Visa line (its own adventure of follow-your-passport as it traded hands between FIVE immigration officers), I picked up my bags, confidently shrugged off any taxi offers with a “no, amaseganalo” and headed to the parking lot.

…which is where this story ends because I immediately spotted and recognized Haile, who was beaming and enthusiastically waving at me the second the parking lot came into view. With a quick hug and an exchange of cookies from the US as thanks, we were off to run some errands and head out to Bethel, home of Selamta Family Project!

[Of note: I wasn’t alone in my fear that immigration took too long. Once I got internet, I saw that I had actually gotten an email while in line from the Ethiopian Director of Selamta. He had assumed I missed Haile and was finding my own way to Selamta!]