As soon as I stepped off the airplane, my senses were enveloped by an earthy, fresh smell, shortly followed by the warming humidity that quickly clouded my eyeglasses. Kilimanjaro airport is a modest building located near the national park, about a 45-minute drive to the city center. Affixed ceiling fans provided a gust, nay, a blow of air at every rotation, providing some ventilation to the top of my head. Wooden floors creek beneath our feet.
We are herded inside and the faint odor of body sweat replaces the earlier earthy must. The small airport is packed with mostly British, French, and American foreigners and residents, as well as a handful of nationals from African nations. There is a visa line, in case you forwent the visa procedure at home (double everything for Americans). I talk myself out of needing a work permit, as the security agent just shrugs and returns my passport.
I had no idea what to expect coming into the country, but I had a few assumptions coming into an airport. I thought there would be a bureau de change or an ATM where I could withdraw some Tanzanian shillings. I also assumed there would be a phone booth to call my friend Jack, with whom I'd be staying while I get settled. I also expected there to be an ICTR (Tribunal) van, but not really. As I am setting you up to imagine, none of these assumptions held true-- But I was relieved to see my name on a sheet of paper, held by a man outside the baggage claim area.
I tell the driver to wait for me while I purchase a SIM card for my phone. Upon my return, he is nowhere to be found.
--
Where did he go? I ask the man who is helping me carry my suitcases. Before I can say another word he doesn't understand in the Swahili I do not speak, he rushes out into the parking lot as I trot closely behind. It is dark out, and the big leaved trees shuffle around in the wind in this blind chase, as white jeep after white jeep comes up without my driver in sight. We finally stumble upon a packed car with two foreigners standing around. After a quick chat, I recognize both of them as being native English-speakers, who also happen to work for the Tribunal.
The men try to pack our suitcases into different Tetris blocks combinations until they find an arrangement that works. And so, with the tender corner of a luggage serving as a pillow and our backpacks on our laps, we drive away into the starry night of Arusha.
--
I will whittle down their introductions to a series of coincidences. Deborah is a prosecutor for the ICTR from Kansas City, Missouri. Matthew is fellow intern at the Chambers who grew up in Hong Kong and now attends Columbia Law. We suspect we both got our old phones unlocked by some shady dude outside of a Starbucks in Seattle at the U-District in 2006.
--
Having no working phone, I am unable to reach Jack and uncertain where I will be spending the night. Matthew wants to be dropped off at a hostel the driver does not recognize. The prosecutor is trying to get us to switch over and work for her at the Office of the Prosecutor (OTP -- NB: I will write a separate entry on the arrangement of the tribunal), and the intern coordinator sitting on the passenger's side wants to go to bed.
I am finally able to reach Jack with Deborah's phone and Matthew is invited along.
We arrive at the White House off of a specified road, which is the only address I know for the place. The big houses here are all gated with guards inside. I look up on the porch to see young, handsome interns smoking cigarettes and drinking wine, and a feeling of gratitude sweeps over me as they welcome us in. I have a home.
No comments:
Post a Comment