As I arrived at the immigration desk, I wasn’t met with the typical stony-faced reception that should be the hallmark of border crossing impartiality.
“Hello my beauty queen,” smiled the agent as he took my blue passport from my hand.
It sounds a bit nuts, but this flavor of comment has worn to commonplace during my African tenure, and accordingly I respond to his salutation(which I’ve come to interpret as politeness) with a smile and remark about how everyone is so nice in Zimbabwe. I mean really, there is nothing about my appearance that screams bedazzled tiara. I’m sporting my typical travel uniform: a Bruins t-shirt, black track pants and black Nike Free sneakers. The fact that I have put on some jewelry and even attempted to blow dry my hair is the only sign that I might be traveling in style. I just wouldn’t call it beauty queen style.
“I hope you will come back again soon.”
I repress the urge to respond with the West African- friendly response of inch’allah– only about 1% of the population here is Muslim.
“The next time you come, I will give you a special tour. It will be an early Christmas present.”
The banter is nice, but it is also holding up the final stamping of my Zim visa page. My only ready response to this invitation is to say thank you and point out that it is only February- so indeed this would make for an extremely early Christmas present. Behold Exhibit A of my world composed of a series of awkward interactions with relative strangers.
Although I hold the coveted Eagle Arrows and Olive Branch passport, I am always happy to have it handed back to me so that I may pass to my next destination relatively unencumbered. While things here in Zimbabwe are more or less stable at the moment, some Wikipedia-level familiarity will clue you in to the fact that peace and order can be easily taken away.
Most of the citizens of this country have lived their lives with an above-average level fear and upheaval. This consideration has caused me to reflect on my own upbringing and my naïve assumption that everyone else must have been raised with the same relative stability. As Americans, we are incredibly fortunate to have an overwhelming part of our population whose lives have been largely free from external manipulation. I certainly take this for granted more often than I should.
Last part of my soapboxing: One day back in high school (class of 1995), I was driving in the car with my dad and listening to the radio. A song came on that slowly but surely caught our ear at the same time. It was a lovely guitar melody, but after a couple of bizarre verses, Dad and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows:
I turned the tap, there was cold, there was hot
I put on my coat to go to the shop
I stepped outside and I didn’t get shot
It’s a pretty good day so far
I put on my coat to go to the shop
I stepped outside and I didn’t get shot
It’s a pretty good day so far
The song with cryptic lyrics quickly drew us in, and we listened further to see where the story was going:
I walked through a park
you would not believe it:
There in the park there were a few trees left,
and on some branches
there were a few leaves.
you would not believe it:
There in the park there were a few trees left,
and on some branches
there were a few leaves.
“This guy doesn’t know how low he is!” exclaimed my dad.
As the song ended with no real clarification, we both laughed in puzzlement. Of course in true radio fashion neither the singer nor song title was announced by the DJ, so as soon as we got home my dad called up WCIB to recreate the lyrics. In no time at all we had the necessary details of the song.
“Pretty Good Day” was written by Loudon Wainwright III in response to what he saw happening to people during the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Upon hearing this explanation, my dad and I shifted from amusement over what we judged to be a singer’s warped mind to complete and sobering respect.
“Wow,” I said, “That’s a pretty powerful song.”
I don’t know what’s going to happen to this country in a few years- nor do I know what is going to become of Senegal in just a few days. Heck, nothing is promised anywhere and the same thing could be said about America or any other country on this planet (hello, Syria…Egypt). But I’m not saying all this because I’m pessimistic- I guess I just do it in order to remind myself to appreciate where I come from, as well as to appreciate the experiences that I have gained while traveling to places like Zimbabwe. Only through stepping outside our own front door can we learn more about what makes our country and this world so great- and more importantly we can learn bout how we are all fundamentally the same.
Maybe that immigration officer will find a real beauty queen in his line someday- but on a more serious note I hope that stability and protection of these wonderful people will become an enduring aspect of life in these parts. Here’s to more pretty good days.
On to the elections this weekend.
