A West African Diary

My wife Jackie and I had the privilege of hosting and caring for Kwame Wreh, a 10 year old boy from Liberia, West Africa last summer. Kwame was here in the Syracuse area for medical treatment and needed to stay for several months while he was recovering. In early December 1998 I accompanied Kwame home to his family in Danane, Ivory Coast. For those of you who have not recently visited West Africa I kept an account so that you could come along with me.

AFRICAN MASKS
On December 2nd Kwame and I began our journey to West Africa. Once in the air and on the way to Newark on the prop plane Kwame kept singing, “I am holding on and I can’t let go just now.” He claimed all along to be scared of flying. We make our way through the Newark air terminal using rides on a golf cart type vehicle, which he was thrilled about, and then a small mono-rail train which reminded him of Atlanta and the Atlanta airport where he had gone with us to pick up our son a few weeks before. He especially delighted in the recorded voice, “ The train is about to start, please hold on.”

Once we arrived at the KLM gate and finally got aboard the plane for Amsterdam, he did not say very much other than to occasionally ask, “ Mr. Steve, what time is it now in New York?” Other than an interminable wait of five hours in Amsterdam our flights were without incident all the way to Abidjan. Having not taken an international flight for several years, I was amazed at the amount of selling the airlines do with their “duty free” privileges. Prices are better at the local mall.

THE UNCHANGING MASK

Approx. 24 hours after leaving Syracuse we are landing in Abidjan, a place that I visited as a Peace Corps Volunteer 33 years ago. My first impression is,
“ It has not changed.” Actually it is smaller than I remembered. We deplane directly onto the tarmac in 33 C (90 F) and 100% humidity at 7 PM local time. The air just seems to engulf me and for a moment I am not sure what is wrong. We proceed across the pavement toward the terminal and the arrival sign in both French and English. We are greeted by the men who would “help you get through the immigration.” You have a choice of standing in a long line as one beleaguered clerk checks Visas and Yellow Cards for vaccinations or you can pay small money ($5) to have a
semi-official fellow get it stamped at the front of the line. We opted to pay the money. Then comes the baggage claim area . Kwame holding tight, we get near the conveyer and are surrounded by “fellows who want to help”. A young Ivorian women and fellow traveler sees that we have several bags and secures a cart for us as a courtesy. Amazingly all of our bags appear, having not seen them since Syracuse. Now comes the dreaded “CUSTOMS”. I am beginning to ask myself how will we get all of this stuff through without having to pay some kind of duty? Still no sign of Father Wreh or anyone who seems to know that we are coming. My French is nonexistent at this point and Kwame is not saying one word. We approach the low counter and the Customs Officer motions to put everything off the cart and onto the counter in front of him. The two large cartons, one with choir robes and the other with school supplies go on first.

They are well taped and the official has no knife to open them so we stare at each other for a moment and then a passer-by says “give me $20 American and you will go without a problem.” I turn and see one of the baggage handlers and he repeats in English, “Give me $20 American and you will go through.” I dip into my pocket and think “I have a $20 bill, so what can it hurt?” I pass it to the baggage guy who signals carefully to the customs official. Suddenly the customs guy motions for me to move on with my load and directs his attention to another incoming
passenger. About this time I see Father Wreh.

Page 2  Abidjan

Friends of Liberia

Steven Keenan

09/09/1999