The Reality of Being Back In My Homeland
Tales from the airport: scammers and dealers. It's Africa Baby!
I hadn’t been back in my homeland for more than fifteen minutes when I heard, “I want coffee, buy me a coffee.”
Coming into landing at O. R. Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg, South Africa, I was filled with mixed emotions. I definitely needed a break from travelling. Period! My connecting flight to Cape Town would deliver me into the arms of my elderly parents and a chance to settle for as many months as I required to rest.
I also knew, however, that heading back to my parents’ home meant I was about to be a teenager again. At fifty years of age, being treated like an adolescent was not something I was looking forward to.
The conundrum was real!
Throughout the eight-hour flight, I had been sitting next to a fabulous woman from Zimbabwe and we chatted almost non-stop for most of the journey. It was comforting to hear the gorgeous African accent again, as well as the Africanisms like adding “what, what” to the end of many sentences.
In those moments I thought, this is going to be good. It feels strangely familiar.
Little did I know what was waiting for me after touchdown.
Together, we walked towards our separate paths, my new friend heading to the left and into the international transfers hall, me to the right and down the escalators towards passport control. We gave each other a tight hug and promised to message after arriving at our individual destinations.
For any regular readers, you will know that I’ve been living in, and travelling through, countries where I hold no residency or local passport for the last six years. Entering these countries can be tiring and stressful as your validity in their country is tested.
Why are you here?
Where are you staying?
How long are you staying?
How long have you known XY and Z?
Where is your return ticket?
As I said, it can be exhausting.
I had no fear or trepidation of approaching the cubicle in passport control. I had the passport I needed. The experience was very easy and VERY South African.
It’s Africa Baby!
Walking up to the window I noticed three other officers in the back of the booth and a fourth hanging out in the narrow entrance while the officer on duty chatted away in Xhosa.
He turned around and greeted me.
“Hi, how are you,” he said after finishing his sentence with the crew hanging out in his booth.
“I’m good and you?” I replied.
“Very good,” he said as he scanned my passport, checking the screen and tapping his keyboard.
He turned back to his squad and rejoined the conversation, saying something and laughing before righting himself to grab the stamp and bang it down on my passport.
It’s Africa Baby!
“Thank you,” I said as he handed it back to me.
I took his offering and headed for baggage claim. The ease with which I had just entered the country felt strange, and although I knew I held a local passport, I’d forgotten how simple it could be.
Next step, baggage claim.
I checked the board to see that luggage from São Paulo was heading for carousel 7. After I located the carousel, I looked for a bathroom nearby. I knew that nothing was going to be coming through any time soon.
It’s Africa Baby!
As I passed a woman leaning against a pillar with a luggage cart, she looked at me and said “How are you?”
“I’m fine and you,” I replied. As I waited for her answer before I asked for the location of the bathrooms, she replied, “I want coffee. Buy me a coffee.”
Welcome to Africa, I thought.
The sharpness of the statement floored me. I’d gone from the kindness and gentleness of the Brazilian people to an outright demand in a matter of hours.
It’s Africa Baby!
I found the bathrooms and then returned to Carousel 7. No movement! I sent a few messages and felt relieved when the belt finally started moving.
After waiting for what seemed like an eternity watching the same bags go round and round, I asked the nearest staff member where the carousel from Sao Paulo with Latam Airlines was.
“Latam is number two, Latam is carousel two,” I was informed by an agitated man who didn’t have time for my questions.
I headed to carousel two and scanned my eyes across the luggage that had been pulled from the belt and placed in a row.
Nothing.
I scanned the crowd, my eyes falling on a young woman standing nearby dressed in the airport uniform and asked her where I could find the luggage from the Latam flight from São Paulo.
“Go over there,” she pointed down the hall. “Go down and find the Latam window on the right side,” she said turning around and promptly walking off in the opposite direction.
It was there I found my precious luggage.
The bags had been taken off the flight and brought to the window for collection, not placed on a carousel.
Well, okay then!
It’s Africa Baby!
There is no Customs in South Africa. Yes, there are signs for goods to be declared, but if you walk the green path (nothing to declare), there are a couple of people and one sad little scanner. If these folks are bored, they’ll stop the nearest passenger and haul their luggage onto the slow-moving belt, but chances are slim.
As I “cleared customs,” I started looking for signs to a connection desk. In the past, any luggage that had to be collected at International Arrivals, despite being booked onto the final domestic destination, would need to be taken to a transfer desk where it would be sent on to the connecting flight.
Not anymore. All I could do was follow the signs to the domestic terminal and enquire there.
African signage
At the bottom of the escalator in Oliver Tambo International Airport, I looked up to see a sign reading, “Terminal B, 15 minutes” with an arrow pointing upwards. I stepped onto the moving stairs pulling my cumbersome luggage with me. At the top of the escalator, the sign had changed to read, “Terminal B, 5 minutes.”
Apparently, in South Africa it takes 10 minutes to ride up an escalator. Go figure!
It’s Africa Baby!
As I entered the check-in area, I looked around for more clues as to where I needed to go. Thankfully, an airport porter in an orange shirt saw the confusion on my face and like any person operating on tips, took me firmly under his wing and guided me the rest of the way.
He directed me to a kiosk and proceeded to tap away on the touch screen, getting me a physical boarding pass which he said I would need over the QR-coded PDF I had on my phone, also reminding me not to take the luggage tag off my bag.
I’ve checked in more times than I care to mention but I was only too happy to allow this man to lead the way. I was tired and in desperate need of a coffee so I followed willingly.
After he was finished he grabbed my bag and said, “Come with me,” weaving his way quickly through the throngs of travellers as he guided me to the correct check-in desk. He deposited my bag in front of the waiting clerk and then took a few steps back to allow me to retrieve his tip.
As I answered relatively redundant questions considering I was merely dropping my bag onto a connecting flight, I rummaged in my phone case for a tip in Rands (the South African currency), handing it to the angel in the orange shirt who had saved me a heap of time. He accepted it graciously and headed back to help the next traveller.
Luggage checked in and security protocol completed, I took a deep breath as I rounded the corner towards my gate. Coffee was the only thing on my mind.
Tired and fixated on my goal, I was a walking target.
“You are wearing my favourite boots,” came the voice from my right. I slowed down and looked at the beaming man as he said, “Those boots are from Texas!”
“Yes they are,” I said smiling back, just happy that someone recognized the beauty of my favourite pair of cowboy boots.
He was a shoe shiner as I found out fairly quickly. After protesting that I had no money on me, I was swiftly lured over to the chairs with his friend in tow to put a little shine on my very dirty and slightly scuffed boots.
I had been contemplating this very thing as I sat waiting for my airport shuttle in Terminal Rodoviària do Tietê just the day before.
I need to get some polish and shine them up when I get to South Africa, I thought staring at the dirt from Paraguay and Brazil still clinging to the leather.
And here he was, answering my thought form.
“I don’t have any money,” I repeated, “I just got here.” This was, of course, a lie as I did have Rands on me but didn’t feel like getting scammed less than an hour after arriving in my home country.
It’s Africa Baby!
“No, I will do it for free,” he said, knowing full well that he’d sweet talk something out of me, “I just want to touch my favourite boots.”
He was good and knew exactly what to say.
With me protesting that it wasn’t fair to give his service for free, I was guided into a chair and polish was being sprayed on my teal and brown cowboy boots before I could say any more.
His compadre sat down running his hand over my boots and bending back the top of one to read the label. What he was looking for and whether he found it I have no idea, but he soon turned his focus to my cabin bag, spraying it with white foam and cleaning it up to its pre-travel form.
As my beloved boots were sprayed and rubbed down to a smart shine, the two guys questioned me about my travels, joking and being as charming as they could to get a little cash.
I knew that I had been taken in but I also knew that I could have extracted myself if I’d really wanted to. I rummaged in my bag and pulled out a twenty (Canadian) dollar note, handing it to one of them as I repeated my lie about not having Rands on me. Foreign cash is better in these situations and more sought after.
“That’s all I have guys,” I fibbed once more. “Thank you,” I said still smiling from their antics and rapid conversation in thick South African accents as I extricated myself from the chair, vowing to be more vigilant as I made my way towards my gate.
I grabbed a coffee and settled at my gate to wait patiently for my connecting flight to Cape Town, safely tucked away from airport shenanigans.
It’s Africa Baby!