security checks, immigration and hungry men

Okay, so what did I get through immigration? Raw honey, bags and bags of dried ginger that the villagers gave to me (at least I thought they were dried) and that rooster the church gave me as a gift. According to Mary’s very strict orders the guys delivered the rooster to me at the airport. The Pastoral Assistant’s wife cooked it up for me and gave it to me through her husband at the airport in Abuja at 9:30 pm. I carried it in my handbag through Amsterdam, New Jersey and Minneapolis. And at about 9:00 pm our time, I put it in my refrigerator to eat whenever I feel like it. After all I have eaten; I don’t know why I bother putting it into the refrigerator.

The young immigration guy who questioned me about my agricultural goods asked if I had been in contact with any livestock. I was in the bush…but of course, I had been in direct contact with lots of livestock: goats chickens, dogs, cats. “Well, do you have any dirty shoes,” he queried.

“No, I didn’t wear shoes,” I responded.

He looked a bit shocked. I pressed it a bit further by letting a bit more of the too much truth Mennonite come out, “I went barefoot or wore flipflops.”

He let me pass. And nobody opened my luggage.

I’ve also been able to get up to 4.0 oz bottles through anywhere except the Minneapolis airport. Pretty girl factor works on almost anyone in security checks with the exception of American security checks. Atlanta, when it is full, security was more lax. In Minneapolis I have always found it to be tight, routine and unprejudiced. Only, Americans seem to take security searches super seriously. They yell and order you around like they’re managing a bunch of convicts. Nobody gets any special treatment. In Nigeria it was quite different. I got off the plane and almost immediately I run into a uniformed man holding a sign with my name. He had been “paid” to provide me with good guidance and hospitality. I walked past all the lines others were waiting in while he worked the paperwork, through the back door of the booth.

On the way out, I was sent various other messages from Fr. Vincent and his PA on the other side of the glass via another uniformed airport worker, while waiting in line to check in. I elbowed my way further up the mangled line by joking with my neighbors. One needs to be charming and happy in Nigeria and know how to give the right kind of incentives.

Before getting on the plane, I set off the metal detector. All the Nigerian men manning the detector turned their attention toward me. I remembered my hair was up in barrettes under my Nigerian head wrap. (Err, I mean my handgun was under my Nigerian headwrap. Check it out the photo below. A gun certainly could fit under that headwrap.)

 

“Shucks.” I thought. “I can’t plead religious conviction like I can with a covering.” I looked at the guy and pointed to my hair.

“Take it out,” he said.

My Amish-Mennonite inside was offended that a man had just ordered me to take off my hat and take down my hair but I had to remind myself this man was not Amish-Mennonite and I took down my hair, while everyone else watched, drooling. Except for the Nigerian lady with the severe look on her face, who had a wand in hand and who looked like she was going to hit me with it. I think I would have gotten away with telling the guy bluntly that he just wanted to see a white woman taking down her hair. In America, they would have given you an extra roughing up for that kind of lip. But for me, on this side of the world, I think I could have passed a gallon of palm wine through the screening, offered them all a sip and they would have let me go.

In Amsterdam, while I was going through the carry-on screening, I had forgotten to drink my liter of water before passing it through the conveyor. They pulled it out and asked, what’s this? “Oh, I forgot,” I whined. “I’m really, thirsty. Can I drink it right here in front of you?” I ask, while a white woman and a male Nigerian audienced. I watched the white woman’s face hardened quickly. The Nigerian was caving though. It went into the trash, unopened.

“You can go back out and purchase another drink if you like,” the Nigerian offered. “The plane isn’t leaving quite yet.”

I declined and moved into the lobby. Not two minutes later he came after me and started the array of questions. Where are you going? Who do you know?...ending in I like how you look.

What does one say to that? Go buy me a drink?

Hmm…and Africa is not full of hungry men?!

I had a bit of a discussion before the trip with my priestly friend in which he exclaimed to me in exasperation, “Africa is not a bunch of hungry men out for women.” I responded that I was quite certain of that but it was I that had to express my expectations of him to take care of any situation, should some man become overly zealous and desire to take me away with him, should such a rare situation occur. There were no issues, and as long as I was in the company of the family there weren’t even any approaches but in the short hours enroute, four Nigerian men took it there. And that’s not even counting the consulate experience.
January 16