The African Version of Delta

I parted from Africa, after four months of traveling and volunteering, on a cloudless, swampy March morning in true Ghanaian style. That is, I waited in lines filled only with foreigners until we figured out that no one else was bothering with lines and order, only to be told three hours before the flight that it was "finished." Come back tomorrow, the pink-lipped Delta agents said. Stand by status is always a bit dodgy, but here at the Kotoka International Airport, identifying myself as a standby to the stodgy silhouette of a large lady in charge was more of a joke. She slapped her thigh and shook her head, clucking like a noisy chicken. "See dose people ova dere? Dey been waiting for a week!" I followed her long painted fingernail to the corner of the tiny lobby. "Dey" were sullen looking locals and foreigners huddled over piles of luggage. And "dey" were numbering 60.

I had been in this situation before; overbooked, late, canceled flights were a mere hiccup in the travelin' soul. But nudging the flight attention to my attention and solution was somewhat of a personal superpower. So while my volunteer hostess watched over my dirty, half full backpack and cheap plastic rice sack filled with souvenirs, I strode to the agent counter, prepared to deliver a speech that would have me and my standby ticket sipping champagne in first class within the hour. As I explained my "situation", the flight agent just blinked at me, as if trying to figure out whether I was really still standing there. I finished, slightly winded and gave her a doughy smile. "Come back on the 10th" she drawled, sliding the glass window between us closed. On the 10th? That was eleven days from now! I looked around the lobby at the crowds of Ghanaians, sweaty and irritated in their floor length, brightly patterned garb. There was a Chinese couple yammering to Hong Kong on their cell phones, fingers simultaneously working their lap tops, and a few meek faced white girls -- probably volunteers as they mostly are -- who were standing with their arms wrapped in a protective self hug, wide eyed and wondering what to do next. Were they, like me, wondering how an internationally recognized airline like Delta manages to overbook weeks of flights by more than 100 people? Standbyers are meant to suffer, but when even ticketed passengers are getting the boot, you kinda start to wonder....

I huffed about the airport lobby a bit before settling into the easy remedy of that common expression that has pretty much summed up my trip and all its potholes. It's Africa. Which means that all your plans don't mean a damn thing and there's not a damn thing you can do about that.

Still, I was in a hurry to get back to the states for a Caribbean yoga retreat -- a full five days of stretching, bending, flexing and spiritual teachings, probably about things like patience and acceptance. So dry mouthed and over heated although the clock only read 9 am, I rushed to the airline offices. Milan, London, Amsterdam, Marakesh or Dubai were my choices for the day. As I eyed the airline lists, a gluey-eyed man slid in between me and the office windows, his smile big and filled with pretense. "Where ah you going?" he demanded with the typical downward inflection of local speech. I pursed my lips at him, hands on hips to dissuade any notion that I was an easily persuaded white fool in need of any special "help." My volunteer hostess answered for me. "Her flight delayed!" He smiled. "Ahhh, so you are going nowhere." I grimaced. "Helpful. Thanks," and took off down the hallway.

He grabbed my arm -- as Ghanaians often do when there is something you MUST know in their opinion -- and insisted he had a solution. This is not uncommon in Ghana; if you're lost or in trouble, it takes only seconds for the neighbor of your moment to swoop in and flap about with furrowed brows and endless questions. If he or she doesn't know how to help you, you'll be passed on to someone else who might know...and so on and so on until finally, perhaps after 8 or 9 informants, you arrive at your final destination or figure out a solution to your problem. This can be great, a guarantee that you'll always (with an emphasis on eventually) be able to find what you're looking for, even if you have to ask the entire freakin' village.

Or, this can be an open invitation for bribery. That money will be expected for a favor is usually well kept from sight until you have what you want. And then, in your state of toddler satisfaction, a nice little gift of thanks might be easily coaxed from you. The only way to really distinguish between genuine offers to help and opportunists looking for a little cash is to watch for two things: just a touch of over eagerness to help, even when the problem seems insurmountable; or making promises that clearly seem to good to be true. My low blood sugar from skipping breakfast and a nice case of the standby blues had me WANTING to believe his talk of "contacts" who would have me on my way in no time, for at least a good half hour. It was only when that "contact" who could supposedly guarantee my seat on the next Delta flight showed up, unable to communicate in English, that I realized him and his gluey-eyed accomplice probably couldn't pool the wool of the FAA's unyielding eyes.

Double sigh. Clearly I would have to do all along; handle this myself. And what could I really do? Come back tomorrow.

---

---