The International Terminal

The lopsided, deliberate gait of an African woman catches my eye as I wait in line to check bags. Averting her eyes from the happenstance gaze of others, she slowly comes to a halt and patiently waits for her husband. He is wearing black leather shoes with cuffed pants that are a little too big. His two large canvas suitcases have the words “Port Harcourt” printed on paper and taped to the suitcases’ sides. As he lifts his leg to the baggage belt for footing I see he wears no socks. He stands like this for a moment, watches for the weight to register, and begins to shake his head.

An attendant beside this man signals for me. It is my turn to check in. I only have one bag for my 3-week trip and my load is light. I hand over my passport as I hear the soft yet full-timbred voice of the man in leather shoes and no socks. He tries to negotiate an extra 5 kilos for his canvas bag, filled no doubt with gifts and goods hard to come by in Nigeria. My passport is handed back to me and the African woman looks at nothing as I walk toward the security gate.

In front of me in the security line are two women, friends, both dressed in black. The woman closest to me wears tight plaits in her coarse hair which are pulled back halfway allowing for the plaits to hang low down her back. Her friend wears a high pony tail or bun, I can’t tell which, nor can I tell her hair color. The scarf she wears over her head is unnaturally pushed up in the back, like a bustle, concealing the details of the hair I cannot see. She caries a North Face backpack over one shoulder, but soon slips a silk-covered arm through the unoccupied strap. Her scarf is caught underneath. The woman with plaits touches the head scarf with perfunctory movement and pulls it from the tangle the backpack has caused.

We pass through security and I look for my gate. The waiting area is large and I choose from the more secluded seats behind a partial wall at the back. A final call for the flight before me is announce in Mandarin. I listen to the announcement, only understanding the Chinese numbers, then wait for the English translation. I watch people come down the escalator into the waiting area for my flight. I can tell which passengers are American and I see the Nigerian couple from Port Harcourt.

I am distracted from the escalator by movement behind a nearby pole. Another passenger, a man, has slipped into the same secluded area as me. Paying me no notice (or perhaps not noticing me) he begins to kneel, then falls prostrate. The direction the man faces seems skewed within the infrastructure of the surrounding room. I look away since there is no prayer room to offer him privacy.

My flight is announced in German, then English. Boarding pass in hand, I approach the attendant at the jetway. He thinks I’m German and exchanges the appropriate pleasantries then points me through the door. My trip has begun.