Waiting to exit the plane at Addis Ababa, I could look out and see the mist from cooking fires rising into the city twilight. A bent-over woman with light skin looked curiously at me across the seat, a white cotton shawl covering her contoured face as she extended a hand with a tattoo of a cross on it. She smiled at me knowingly, both of us having returned to a place we had once called home. Out the oval window, fireworks burst in the distance, no doubt from the Addis Sheraton to celebrate that their former favorite guest Gray Germy had finally landed. I stepped from the plane, memories firmly in tow…
I spent the night in Addis with an old DC friend, and was back at the airport the following morning to catch a flight to Djibouti. On the plane, I sat next to a nervous American who was traveling to the country for the first time to do some work at the U.S. camp. When she realized I had no such intentions and was actually returning to Djibouti for fun, she looked at me like I had been raised by a herd of camels. As our plane landed, she took a look at my unimposing frame and obviously sensed my impending doom. “Have fun and be careful,” she said. Minutes later, the plane’s door was open and that familiar blast of warm sticky air came swirling to greet me.
So...I didn’t really expect everything in Djibouti to go smoothly. Once inside the airport, I stood in back of one of the customs lines, where agents were collecting passports that needed visas. After 20 minutes of going nowhere, lunch break somewhere ended, and a group of official Djiboutians suddenly appeared and entered the nearby visa office. They took with them the customs officer working my lane (of course), forcing me to go to an even longer unmoving customs line. When my passport was finally collected, I walked to the visa office, where about 30 other visa-seekers were crowded around the locked door. Every now and then, the door would open—hands and voices would explode into the air as a solitary passport made its way out. Mostly, however, I watched 6 knuckleheads on the inside argue about something immensely important while our stack of passports sat innocently on the desk. A European forced his way into the office, then came out to announce to the group that his passport had been lost—unleashing a new round of chaos.
Finally (after 2 hours), all passports were found and taken care of, and I left for the baggage claim. Waiting for me there was my old American friend John, whom I had met five years ago at the camp chapel on base. We chuckled briefly about the customs dustup, and grabbed my solitary bags. I scanned the terminal, feeling a slight tinge of disappointment as we walked…then felt a tap on my shoulder. Al Capone’s face screwed into a beautiful smile, his jagged teeth poking through as he waved at me. He was wearing a blue baseball cap slightly askew, which I almost knocked over as I jumped to embrace him. John laughed and ushered us towards his car. As we left the airport, he pointed out a group of Somalis standing on the steps. Turns out they were an illustrious collection of Somali warlords and suspected war criminals that were arriving in town for a Somalia peace conference—all of whom had been on my flight. Nice.
We dropped Al off in town, then went back to John’s house. I spent the remainder of the day with him and his wonderful family, driving around town and soaking in the familiar sights and sounds. The next morning, John had business to attend to, so he called Al Capone to see if he could take care of me for the morning. Al was quite delighted, eagerly meeting me in the center of town and leading me to the bank where he had work to do. John had helped Al get a job assisting a money-changer—he could be trusted to deliver money to banks without taking any for himself (honesty not being the most abundant quality in Djibouti!) As we walked around town, we talked about his job, life, and dreams. His English was still a bit halting, but passion resonated as he spoke of one day becoming a doctor, a lawyer, any position where he could make a difference in the lives of others. The workers at the banks we visited all knew him well and welcomed us when we entered—Al introduced me as his “best friend,” and talked one of them into giving me a free poster and currency booklet that he proudly presented to me. His work complete, he excitedly led me to see and take pictures of nearby city havens--a new government building with a war monument, a leafy green garden rising out of a litter-strewn square, a market stall where he used scarce money to buy me a wooden African souvenir. It was a beautiful morning, coming to a wistful end when John picked us up after lunch. There was one more place to visit prior to my return to the airport.
Driving towards the orphanage, we passed a group standing on the side of the street. In the side view mirror, I saw one break away and start running towards our car. As he got closer, I recognized “Rocket”, one of the (many) boys who had frequently embarrassed me on the soccer field years earlier. He reached in the window, pausing to kiss me on the cheek as he rattled through a selection of English phrases. I laughed and pointed towards the gates of the orphanage, as John started the car and we drove onto the property. Much of it matched the images preserved in my mind—the cool shaded driveway, the rock-infested brown soccer field, the crumbling white paint that covered the handful of buildings. I was happy to see that the trash dump we had started to clean at the far side of the field had finally been completely removed. As we parked the car, the boys—young men—came sauntering out to greet us. There were hugs, smiles, and even a moderate amount of English (a couple of them had taken class quite seriously, and were proud to display it!) Some of the guys had found jobs on the American base, some were bodyguards for government officials, and others were still looking for work. The boyish exuberance from years ago had mostly worn off, and a few seemed already weighed by life’s responsibilities and hardships. I had brought a stack of postcards with pictures of Washington, DC , which I handed out to the group (they were especially excited to see pictures of Obama’s new residence). After chatting for a period of time, my friend Abdi took out a dusty photo album and showed me a few of his pictures, mostly taken during our baseball games of five years ago. Seeing the pictures was a special moment, leaving all of us in a posing mood--standing to take a number of pictures until my time was complete. We exchanged words, touch, promises to never forget each other, until I again found myself on the way to the Djibouti airport. As before, Al Capone accompanied me those last few steps, his mere presence a gift that transcended the moment. We smiled and embraced, a warmth that lingered as I turned towards the terminal, a bond once more drifting back into loving memory.
“A bird builds his nest, one branch at a time.” This was a proverb Al Capone quoted to me as we walked around Djibouti that morning. In a society where personal connections and bribery carry much greater weight than hard work, he knows well the imposing mountain upon which his dreams rest. Yet he possesses a simple hope and faith, and patience within his yearning that seems so foreign to my Western sensibilities. He has worked to build his life and his friendships with acts of generosity, integrity, and sacrifice--true eternal “branches” that can create something glorious and unimagined, illuminating the Holy Spirit working within him. I pray that I might be able to one day truly understand dependency as he does, and come close to emulating his example.
I spent the night in Addis with an old DC friend, and was back at the airport the following morning to catch a flight to Djibouti. On the plane, I sat next to a nervous American who was traveling to the country for the first time to do some work at the U.S. camp. When she realized I had no such intentions and was actually returning to Djibouti for fun, she looked at me like I had been raised by a herd of camels. As our plane landed, she took a look at my unimposing frame and obviously sensed my impending doom. “Have fun and be careful,” she said. Minutes later, the plane’s door was open and that familiar blast of warm sticky air came swirling to greet me.
So...I didn’t really expect everything in Djibouti to go smoothly. Once inside the airport, I stood in back of one of the customs lines, where agents were collecting passports that needed visas. After 20 minutes of going nowhere, lunch break somewhere ended, and a group of official Djiboutians suddenly appeared and entered the nearby visa office. They took with them the customs officer working my lane (of course), forcing me to go to an even longer unmoving customs line. When my passport was finally collected, I walked to the visa office, where about 30 other visa-seekers were crowded around the locked door. Every now and then, the door would open—hands and voices would explode into the air as a solitary passport made its way out. Mostly, however, I watched 6 knuckleheads on the inside argue about something immensely important while our stack of passports sat innocently on the desk. A European forced his way into the office, then came out to announce to the group that his passport had been lost—unleashing a new round of chaos.
Finally (after 2 hours), all passports were found and taken care of, and I left for the baggage claim. Waiting for me there was my old American friend John, whom I had met five years ago at the camp chapel on base. We chuckled briefly about the customs dustup, and grabbed my solitary bags. I scanned the terminal, feeling a slight tinge of disappointment as we walked…then felt a tap on my shoulder. Al Capone’s face screwed into a beautiful smile, his jagged teeth poking through as he waved at me. He was wearing a blue baseball cap slightly askew, which I almost knocked over as I jumped to embrace him. John laughed and ushered us towards his car. As we left the airport, he pointed out a group of Somalis standing on the steps. Turns out they were an illustrious collection of Somali warlords and suspected war criminals that were arriving in town for a Somalia peace conference—all of whom had been on my flight. Nice.
We dropped Al off in town, then went back to John’s house. I spent the remainder of the day with him and his wonderful family, driving around town and soaking in the familiar sights and sounds. The next morning, John had business to attend to, so he called Al Capone to see if he could take care of me for the morning. Al was quite delighted, eagerly meeting me in the center of town and leading me to the bank where he had work to do. John had helped Al get a job assisting a money-changer—he could be trusted to deliver money to banks without taking any for himself (honesty not being the most abundant quality in Djibouti!) As we walked around town, we talked about his job, life, and dreams. His English was still a bit halting, but passion resonated as he spoke of one day becoming a doctor, a lawyer, any position where he could make a difference in the lives of others. The workers at the banks we visited all knew him well and welcomed us when we entered—Al introduced me as his “best friend,” and talked one of them into giving me a free poster and currency booklet that he proudly presented to me. His work complete, he excitedly led me to see and take pictures of nearby city havens--a new government building with a war monument, a leafy green garden rising out of a litter-strewn square, a market stall where he used scarce money to buy me a wooden African souvenir. It was a beautiful morning, coming to a wistful end when John picked us up after lunch. There was one more place to visit prior to my return to the airport.
Driving towards the orphanage, we passed a group standing on the side of the street. In the side view mirror, I saw one break away and start running towards our car. As he got closer, I recognized “Rocket”, one of the (many) boys who had frequently embarrassed me on the soccer field years earlier. He reached in the window, pausing to kiss me on the cheek as he rattled through a selection of English phrases. I laughed and pointed towards the gates of the orphanage, as John started the car and we drove onto the property. Much of it matched the images preserved in my mind—the cool shaded driveway, the rock-infested brown soccer field, the crumbling white paint that covered the handful of buildings. I was happy to see that the trash dump we had started to clean at the far side of the field had finally been completely removed. As we parked the car, the boys—young men—came sauntering out to greet us. There were hugs, smiles, and even a moderate amount of English (a couple of them had taken class quite seriously, and were proud to display it!) Some of the guys had found jobs on the American base, some were bodyguards for government officials, and others were still looking for work. The boyish exuberance from years ago had mostly worn off, and a few seemed already weighed by life’s responsibilities and hardships. I had brought a stack of postcards with pictures of Washington, DC , which I handed out to the group (they were especially excited to see pictures of Obama’s new residence). After chatting for a period of time, my friend Abdi took out a dusty photo album and showed me a few of his pictures, mostly taken during our baseball games of five years ago. Seeing the pictures was a special moment, leaving all of us in a posing mood--standing to take a number of pictures until my time was complete. We exchanged words, touch, promises to never forget each other, until I again found myself on the way to the Djibouti airport. As before, Al Capone accompanied me those last few steps, his mere presence a gift that transcended the moment. We smiled and embraced, a warmth that lingered as I turned towards the terminal, a bond once more drifting back into loving memory.
“A bird builds his nest, one branch at a time.” This was a proverb Al Capone quoted to me as we walked around Djibouti that morning. In a society where personal connections and bribery carry much greater weight than hard work, he knows well the imposing mountain upon which his dreams rest. Yet he possesses a simple hope and faith, and patience within his yearning that seems so foreign to my Western sensibilities. He has worked to build his life and his friendships with acts of generosity, integrity, and sacrifice--true eternal “branches” that can create something glorious and unimagined, illuminating the Holy Spirit working within him. I pray that I might be able to one day truly understand dependency as he does, and come close to emulating his example.
Link to pictures from Ethiopia/Djibouti:
Pictures
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