Africa has a particular smell. There’s the musky hint of woodsmoke from cooking fires, the ricocheting fragrance of damp breezes meeting red earth, an enticing blend of grilled meat and corn from nearby outdoor restaurants. All three of these smells greeted me as I stepped off the small plane into Togo on September 29th.
I had expected to disembark and then leave the airport by way of the usual arrivals terminal. What happened instead was my Air France compatriots and I stepped out of the cabin and immediately entered a warehouse-like room that was pulsing with the movements of other travelers. Men in white coats stood next to the door checking the temperature of each passenger and squirting dollops of sanitizer into each outstretched hand. There was a long line snaking up from where we were to what seemed to be the exit and the customs line. I noticed several officials holding signs with names of passengers on them, but not seeing my own name among them, and not being very good at waiting, I decided to join the Great Line.
There’s something about lack of sleep that makes some tasks oddly simple. I was jet lagged—my pretzel imitation had failed me on the night flight from Detroit to Paris, and a jolly Ghanaian kept me talking from Paris to Lomé—and there’s something about functioning at 45% capacity to make decisions strangely easy. There’s no brainpower available for the work of indecision. Because of this, the experience invoked a sense of giddy amusement in my brain at the sheer strangeness of it all. Instead of debating what to do next, I stood in the line simply contemplating. How many people had inserted themselves into that room. How humid it was. How I should never eat baked pasta on a plane ever again.
I stood in The Line for a few minutes, taking in the bustle that would rival any Black Friday sale in the U.S. Suddenly a hurried official appeared to my left side. He greeted me briskly as my contact and ushered me to a waiting room off to the side marked ‘VIP.” It was full of comfortable seating, and (oh glory!) very air conditioned. The official took my paperwork and baggage stubs and disappeared. If he hadn’t had been so calm in his manner I may have refused to allow those precious articles out of my sight. As it was, I was content to sit and return to contemplation of the new environment. (Again, decisions made easy).
Before ten minutes had passed, he returned, and we made our way to baggage claim. While silently, and sometimes not so silently enduring the heave-ho motions of the baggage handler who loaded the embassy van (Don’t put that one on the bottom—it’s elderly and probably can’t handle it!), I looked around at the glimmer of lights at the edge of Lomé just beyond the airport. I continued to smell woodsmoke, and the stars seemed to close in with either caring or malevolent pulses of energy—I wasn’t sure yet. Then the van gave a startling kerrarrrr as it roared to life and we were off into the city. As we bumped along through the darkened streets of Lomé, I tried to take in all that was new and different to my Ameri-Euro sensibilities. There were the streetside shop doors propped open to let in the night breezes, the gatherings of friends and neighbors relaxing under awnings or trees. I noticed more than one crowd of young people gathered around a rabbit-ears television that was set up outside of a shop door. The lights from the partially-open door squinted out as we passed.
And suddenly we turned onto a side street. Dusty pavement gave way to earthen bumpiness. My house seemed to greet us warmly, a single street lamp pointing the way to the door. The driver helped me ger-thump ger-thump my suitcases into the tiled entryway, handed me the key, and was off.
I was in Togo. 6200 miles. 25 hours. 3 ½ packages of sour gummy worms.
CHLOE GOES 