Day 169: Mr. Amin Goes to America

"The day is approaching when all the peoples of the world will have adopted one universal language and one common script. When this is achieved, to whatsoever city a man may journey, it shall be as if he were entering his own home."

- Baha'u'llah

So, it's been a while, huh? Unfortunately, I had to come home in the latter part of July because of my grandmother's health. She's been in the hospital for varying amounts of time since January with all sorts of ailments. Because of her declining health, I made the decision to come home, leaving Dar es Salaam on Tuesday evening and finally arriving in Little Rock on Thursday afternoon. In between all of that, I made a 9 hour stop in Amsterdam, which afforded me an opportunity to leave the airport.

Mitra, May and Allen escorted me to the airport on Tuesday evening. The woman at the ticket office in town had told me the day before that the flight left at 9:30 PM with check-in at 8:15 PM. That seemed like a suspiciously short check-in time, but of course I didn't bother to check her quoted time against my actual ticket. Mitra engaged in some creative driving to get me there on time, including driving down the sidewalk, because we ran into a massive traffic jam on the road to the airport, which seemed to be made all the worse by the presence of the police (instead of the other way around). When we arrived at the near empty airport, I checked my ticket and discovered that the other passengers hadn't shown up yet because the flight didn't leave until 11:30 PM!

We decided that I should go inside, check my luggage, get my boarding pass and then come back out and have tea with them at the cafe upstairs and say goodbye. After I got my boarding pass, I attempted to go back outside but the security people stopped me. I argued with them for a few minutes, incensed that I wasn't allowed to leave the airport after I'd gotten my boarding pass even though I offered to just stand outside the door, go back through security again and even be monitored by one of the security personnel while I stood outside. Finally giving up, I asked the man how exactly I was supposed to say goodbye to my family, picturing a tearful May Saba waiting for me to come back. His reply? "Stand at the window and wave to them." How cold hearted!

I was already frustrated about not getting to say goodbye to the Sabets but the people in the duty free shop seemed to feel that I just hadn't had enough difficulties. I only wanted a news magazine but I didn't have any cash, so I tried to use my debit/credit card. The woman informed me that they only accepted credit cards for purchases exceeding $20, which forced me to buy two news magazines, a drink and a seriously over-priced Putumayo CD of salsa music from around the world (who thought salsa music could be global?). When I signed the receipt, she asked to see my credit card. After moments of scrutiny she announced the obvious: "Sir, your signatures do not match." Unfortunately, my signatures never match. I have the most inconsistent signature in the world, basically a line like an erratic heartbeat on an EKG machine with a somewhat identifyable "B" and "T" somewhere amonst the scribble. I told her that (in fewer words) and produced my drivers' license and passport to verify my identity but when she saw that none of the three signatures matched each other she was even less cooperative.

When her manager came over, I was starting to lose my patience as he explained that if my bank called to investigate the charge then it would be important that the signature "on file" at the bank (since when do banks keep signatures "on file"?) matched the one I'd given them. I have no idea why the Bank of America would care about a $20 charge at the duty free shop in the Dar es Salaam International Airport, and I told him as much. Given all the scribbled line signatures they get at the bank, I'm sure they know by now that I essentially don't have a signature. I don't know if it was my explanation or the fact that I was getting increasingly belligerent but he finally decided to give me my things and let me leave.

Although that was some unpleasant business, the plane ride to Amsterdam itself was nice. I was content with my news magazines and new CD (overpriced as it might have been, it was still good) and the seemingly brand new 777 we were on. As a side note I was a little disturbed by the fact that the airplane only had two engines, but it seems that it can fly for six and a half hours with only one engine so that makes me feel a little better (after the fact). Because I was in a row with a French man whose arm was broken, I was moved to a three-seat row with only one other occupant so the broken-arm man could have some extra room. Unfortunately, I don't sleep very well on planes but I managed to catch some sleep over Sudan and Libya and woke up in time to see us fly over Syracuse, Messina and the Alps.

The first thing that struck me most in Amsterdam was the airport security, or lack thereof. I saw only a handful of security personnel for such a large airport. When I was passing through immigration, I was beginning to think that maybe it was more secure than I thought when the Malaysian woman in front of me got the third degree from the immigration officer. But when it was my turn he barely looked at me. He just took my passport and without saying a word stamped it and waved me on. I suppose having an American passport helped, but I had a harder time leaving and entering my own country!

Anyway, I bought a train ticket to go from the airport to the city centre. It seems there are three distinct forms of transport in Amsterdam: train, tram and subway. I couldn't figure out any of the three. I bought a train ticket, but at one point I ended up getting off (after getting on the wrong train in the first place - talk about deja vu) and boarding the subway. At no point did anyone ask me for a ticket nor did I see one of those machines you have in most American cities where you have to insert your ticket to enter and leave the station. But before I even boarded the train, I ran into a bit of a character...

While waiting on the train, I was checking out the extremely confusing map of the transportation system, which had trains and God only knows what else heading to what seemed like all of the towns in the Netherlands and into Belgium and Germany. Standing next to me was an equally as confused older gentleman who I judged to be in his 70's. He was very neatly dressed and frankly I assumed he was a European until he opened his mouth and asked for help with finding his stop. Then I knew immediately from the accent that he was a New Yorker. He recognized that I was an American and asked me what state I was from, which was a great relief to me because people had been consistently mistaking me as being German (?) or British. When I told him "Arkansas," his first reaction - as with every single other person - was "Oh! Bill Clinton!".

Now, when someone says "Oh! Bill Clinton!" to you, you don't really know if it's a good "Oh! Bill Clinton!" or a bad "Oh! Bill Clinton!". People are so polarized about him that it could go either way. But I soon found out that John and his wife, Barbara, were both staunch Democrats from Manhattan. Imagine my shock when this seemingly polite and well-dressed New Yorker suddenly launched into one of the foulest strain of profanities I've ever heard, all directed at our reigning President.

To paraphrase: "Bill Clinton... Oh, I miss Bill Clinton. He's better than this schmuck Bush we've got now. That stupid son of a b****h just f**ks up everything that he touches, just every mother f**king thing. Me and Barbara can't even travel around this b*****d continent without someone getting all over our a** about that stupid jack**s Bush and the s**t that he's pulling all the time. Sure, Bill Clinton was corrupt. Believe me, I'm from New York, I know how corrupt the Democrats can be. But at least when they were in power everyone was eating, you know? But now these Republicans, they're using all this religious bulls**t and while you're down on your f**king knees praying they're picking your pockets clean. God d**n I hate that man."

At first, I had no idea how to respond. A nervous chuckle here, a "heh, yeah" there and then, mercifully, the train pulled into the station and we said our goodbyes. I wished them a safe trip and the best of luck with the 2008 elections.

By the time I managed to get to Amsterdam's Centraal Station in the city centre, it was somewhere around mid-morning, maybe 9:00 AM or so, but the city seemed like a ghost town! Those few people that were out and about all seemed to be smoking maijuana as they delivered goods to the various shops and cafes lining the street. I'd planned my itinerary back in Dar es Salaam bearing in mind that I would probably be tired when I got there, which was good because I was about to drop dead from exhaustion when I stepped out of the train station.

Unlike London, most people were content to use public transportation or bicycles so I didn't have to worry about being run over by some speed crazed Dutch flying around a roundabout at twice the speed limit. The bicycles were actually kind of amusing. As the morning progressed I was passed by men in business suits and woman in very proper dresses all cycling to work, which is very feasible in a city as compact as Amsterdam.

My first stop was the Dam Square, which was actually a dam for the Amstel River before it grew so large that it was turned into a town square. It houses the Royal Palace, which is just used for ceremonial purposes these days; the Dutch branch of Madame Tussauds Wax Museum; the so-called New Church, which was actually built in the 14th-century but I guess that's still pretty new by European standards; and the National Monument built to commemorate the victims of World War II. Here I was privileged to see Amsterdam's finest arresting a woman who must have been crazy given her dress and the strands of aluminum foil weaved into her unkempt hair. The old Dutch man next to me insisted on delivering running commentary about the incident even though I told him three times I didn't speak Dutch.

After taking a wrong turn and viewing some of Amsterdam's more residential areas, I finally got back on track (after walking in a big circle) and headed toward the Anne Frank House Museum. On the way I must have crossed a dozen different canals! There are canals everywhere and if I hadn't been so exhausted it might have been nice to take a canal tour of the city. But alas I was determined to get to Anne Frank's House and then head back to the airport for some sleep. On the way to the museum, I passed a sign which indicated there was a "Homo Monument" nearby. Since I everything is in Dutch, I assumed that "Homo" must have been "Human" or "Humanity" in Dutch. I made a mental note to check it out on the way back to airport.

At the Anne Frank House Museum the line was stretched out the door, around the building and down a sidestreet. I took a picture of the Anne Frank House and decided I'd go inside the next time I was in Amsterdam.

Back at the Homo Monument, I managed to locate the thing but couldn't find the English inscription. Eventually I found it and discovered that this was not in fact a monument to humanity. Instead, it was a monument to homos, as in homosexuals. Flustered and embarassed, I made haste back to the main road. I didn't even stick around to finish reading the inscription or information about it. It wasn't that I'm opposed to a monument for homosexuals, I was just so thrown for a loop that I didn't know what else to do but evacuate! I was expecting a monument to the whole of humanity, not a minority portion of it! Being such a liberal and open society, someone in the Netherlands sought to immortalize the struggle of the homosexual community, to "inspire and support lesbians and gays in their struggle against denial, oppression and discrimination." It's basically a large triangle made of three smaller triangles of pink granite, which is a reference to the pink triangle patches that gay men were forced to wear in Nazi concentration camps. Each point of the triangle points to a specific landmark within Amsterdam: one toward the National Monument, one toward the Anne Frank House, and one toward the COC Nederland, a gay activist organization.

I bumbled back to the Amsterdam airport on the train without being asked to present my ticket a single time. I received the same treatment at immigration (brief glance, stamp, wave) and the security was even worse going into the airport! I stepped through a metal detector once, which of course went off with my carry-on luggage, but I received only a cursory glance. No one checked my things until I arrived at my actual gate. I'm sure if our Department of Homeland Security found out about it they'd be furious!

The flight between Amsterdam and New York was on a 747, which was like a flying city. I got lost trying to find my seat after stubbornly refusing the flight attendant's assistance at the outset. When we landed at New York, I had another run in with an "interesting" New Yorker at immigration. I don't know if the immigration officials were sleeping or what but they didn't seem to know we'd arrived. I was one of the first people off the plane, so I entered the area through an open entrance but apparently not the main entrance. I was standing in line in the improper place behind this diminuitive black woman. A woman working for the airport comes and tells us that we have to go to the back of the line even though people in front of us had already passed through the immigration officer's extreme scrutiny (*tongue in cheek*).

The woman in front of me turned around and I could tell from the look on her face that she was about to unleash hell, so I stepped to the side. She asked the airport woman just who the hell she thought she was making us get at the back of the line. We'd been on an airplane for eight hours and she sure as hell wasn't getting at the back of the line, so this lady needed to just step off and let us go through because she was ready to go home. And don't even think about messing with me either because I was "with" her. The airport lady's earlier confidence just totally metled in the face of the woman's verbal assault! She just slumped away.

When I got outside the airport to the transportation area, it was a few minutes past 8:00 PM and they told me the last shuttles to La Guardia (I had to switch from JFK to La Guardia) left at 8 so I had to take an over-priced taxi. When I got to La Guardia I found that all of the ticket agents were gone and the electronic check-in was disabled, which meant I couldn't go into the airport proper. My flight left at 10:00 AM, so I had to sleep in the public area of the airport. Enter interesting New Yorker number 3. The area I was directed to had a number of benches, but they were all divided by big plastic arm rests into individual seats except one, which was already occupied. Along comes this old Cuban man, who I assume is an airport employee. He promptly tells me that I "look like hell" and that I really needed to get some sleep. I relayed to him why I was coming from Africa, so he says he's going to wake up "the broad" that was sleeping in the only actual bench. She was an airport employee and should have been sleeping there it seems. So he woke her up, ran her off, and offered me the bench, which I graciously took. After I'd arranged my baggage I tried to get some sleep but typically by the time I was asleep the door would slide open and freezing cold air would blow in from the sea and wake me up.

Despite the troubles ("adventures") and the excitement, I finally made it home. I was under the impression from my mother's description that my grandmother was in the process of dying but not quite there yet, so I wanted to go home, shower, change clothes, get some food, and then go to the hospital. But they were insistent, so I settled for a shower and change in clothes. I spent about 4 hours with my grandmother, who really didn't look much like my grandmother at all. I felt that I'd been a bit deceived about her state while I was still in Africa. Her breathing was extremely labored, her eyes literally glazed over and only partially open with one eye going this way and one going the other way, and she seemed to have no muscle control, not even enough to tighten her grip when I was holding her hand. Maybe 20 minutes after I left the hospital my mother called to say she was dead, which I guess indicated that she was clinging to life long enough to see me before she went.

The visitation was an opportunity to see a bunch of people that I didn't know, although there were a handful scattered around that I actually recognized. The funeral home had put together this very nice DVD that ran throughout the visitation that was basically a compilation of photos of her throughout her life and it was probably one of the things that "got" to me the most. I only observed her in the coffin briefly. She didn't look herself from all the fluid and swelling but then again I guess most dead people don't. I'm made really uncomfortable by funerals and whatnot, but even more so by a dead, hollow, shell of a body itself.

The funeral was held at the Baptist church she attended with her new husband. I was a bit concerned about a Baptist preacher presiding over it, but he did most of it in good taste (although there will always be too many mentions of "in Jesus's name" and "true believers" for me, which is my own personal issue with the Church and clergy). I was proud of myself for not being the hysterical mess that I was at my grandfather's funeral nor completely in denial like I was about my other grandmother's funeral. I'm sure I'll still grieve from time to time as things come to the surface or I see something that reminds me of her, but it will probably lessen with time.

This must have topped a new record for length but at least I've relieved some of the pressure to post!