Or at least while seemingly ignorant. Seemingly ignorant is a far greater virtue than willful obnoxiousness or even knowingly arrogance, at least in my experience, even if you are not an ignorant as you may seem. Sometimes it is the only way to get where you are going, despite having the awesome majesty of the law frowning down upon you.
The daily temperatures hovered around 115 degrees during the two weeks I spent in Sudan while working on a new project. Plum balmy, as they say here in Idaho. I was nearing my tolerance for fun and sun when I got a call from HQ telling me I needed to stop in Cyprus on my way home.
Cyprus is not Sudan. Larnaca is beautiful sandy beaches and soft breezes from the wine dark sea. Nicosia is charming, enjoys a pleasant climate, and is very easy to get lost in after dark because everything curves round inside the ancient walls. But to travel from Khartoum to Nicosia in the timeframe I had to work with required an overnight stay in Damascus. I asked our logistics guy to check at the Syrian embassy in Khartoum to find out whether I needed a visa to stay overnight. Half an hour later, he assured me that I could get a visa at the Damascus airport. “No problem. No problem.” I instantly understand that to mean there would be a problem.
The flight was on Egypt Air, and the flight attendants did a final pat down search before we boarded the aircraft, a pat down search that I thought was a little too friendly. Line crossing, even. They took away my Leatherman pocket tool, but promised to return it when we landed in Cairo. And miracle of miracles, they did return it in Cairo, where I spent a couple of hours walking through the ancient artifacts on display while dining on cold Snickers bars. The Cokes were always warm, but Snickers were always cold, even in Sudan.
Pro tip: if you need a restroom break at the Cairo airport, make sure you have some spare change to tip the toilet paper guy. Both he and you will appreciate it.
After a few hours of mummy watching and fine dining, it was time to board the flight to Damascus. Apparently passengers on the Cairo to Damascus route are a higher class of clientele, because we weren't patted down at the aircraft door and I kept my Leatherman.
Upon arrival in Damascus, I found my baggage and queued up in the immigration line. Several flights arrived about the same times as our Egypt Air flight, so the lines were long. After what was probably a very long wait (I am able to go into screensaver mode when waiting, so time has no meaning for me), almost everyone was processed and it was only the immigration guys and me in the big hall, because I had a problem.
It was possible, I learned, to get a visa to stay overnight, but the visa could only be processed at the headquarters office in town. After a long, but entertaining discussion about what to do, one of the immigration guys remembered he needed to take care of something at the HQ office in town, so he would take care of my visa problem. After paying him a modest service fee comparable to what the bog roll guy in Cairo charged, off he went.
Then a great silence descended over the immigration hall. All the remaining immigration guys found places to stretch out and went to sleep. I alone stayed awake to keep watch. It occurred to me how easy it would be to simply walk out the door, find a taxi, and head into town to find whatever passed as a halfway decent hotel. However, I always try to play by the rules, I really do, so I also found a place to stretch out and snooze, far enough away from the other guys so their snoring wouldn't keep me awake, and vice versa. I check my watch every hour or so for the visa guy, but after three hours, he still wasn't back from HQ with my visa.
Finally, when another flight arrived and my sleeping beauties were back at their work places, the guy showed up with my passport and visitor's visa. Just as my Leatherman was returned to me by the too friendly Egypt Air guy, the Syrian immigration guy came through for me. In the weird way that our creaky old universe seems to take care of us, a guy I didn't know in a place I didn't know came through for me. I was reminded of something Henry Thoreau wrote in Walden:
“I think that we may safely trust a good deal more than we do. We may waive just so much care of ourselves as we honestly bestow elsewhere. Nature is well adapted to our weakness as our strength. The incessant anxiety and strain of some is a well nigh incurable form of disease. We are made to exaggerate the importance of what work we do; and yet how much is not done by us! or, what if we had been taken sick? How vigilant we are! determined not to live by faith if we can avoid it; all the day long on the alert, at night we unwillingly say our prayers and commit ourselves to uncertainties. So thoroughly and sincerely are we compelled to live, reverencing our life, and denying the possibility of change. This is the only way, we say; but there are as many ways as there can be drawn radii from one centre. All change is a miracle to contemplate; but it is a miracle which is taking place every instant. Confucius said, “To know that we know what we know, and that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge.” When one man has reduced a fact of the imagination to be a fact to his understanding, I foresee that all men will at length establish their lives on that basis.”
One thing I did learn over the years was that I can safely trust a great deal more than I do, if only I would do it.
After a nearly pleasant stay in Damacus, I flew on to Cyprus without incident or my luggage that I never saw again, but that is a story for another time.
Don't assume because of the last story that border crossings are always as smooth as my journey to Cyprus. When my wife and I first arrived in Africa, we lived in Botswana, a dry country inhabited by good people and a lot of cattle. If anyone reading this has never read Alexander McCall Smith's “The Number One Ladies’ Detective Agency” series, by all means read it. It is set in Botswana and is the story of a “traditionally built African lady” who owns a small detective agency that specializes in helping ordinary people find answers to their problems. Of all the books about life in Africa that I have read, this series may be the most honest picture of daily life in Africa when things are going well. Instead of a heart of darkness, McCall shows us Africa's heart of gold, a heart filled with empathy, unselfishness, and decency.
Leaving Botswana to travel to South Africa was an odd experience because it required crossing through an almost country called Bophuthatswana, a sort of franchise nation under the corporate leadership of South Africa. I'm not sure I should count it as one of the official countries I traveled to, but since it no longer exists in the new South Africa, I may keep it on my list as a souvenir country.
One time when we arrived at the Bophuthatswana border post, we noticed that several rifles were pushed pointy end into a small patch of grass under an acacia tree. High in the tree, a cat was stuck, and most of the border post employees were trying to get the cat down, including the guys who were nominally in charge of the guns. I don't remember if the cat was saved or not, but I do remember that it was a long time before we were on our way again.
“One thing I did learn over the years was that I can safely trust a great deal more than I do, if only I would do it.” I really need this one.
Your writing inspires