A Wave of Warm Air

Our eyes were glued to the tiny window, such a small access to view this land new to us. The plane taxied to its gate and we waited patiently to grab our bags. We exited the plane and felt the warm air embrace us. "It's not that hot," we said to each other as we made our way down the stairs, across the pavement and into the terminal.

We walked up the ramp and into a larger hallway. Right away a new reality set it for us. We were in a place where we didn't speak the language, we couldn't understand the announcements, read the signs, or communicate basic needs. Learning Arabic, which up until now had been an interesting challenge, instantly became an urgent need. In other countries, English is clearly seen as the universal language through which people of different nations can communicate. Here, in Libya, I got the impression that Arabic was put above English, and that all entering should realize that they weren't going to be catered to. It's a notion that I'm sympathetic too, that I support when I travel in countries whose language I understand. But, now, being on the receiving end of the message and not having the tools to navigate the culture, I still agree, but with a sour taste in my mouth.

Not knowing where to go, we made like sheep and followed the crowd. We found the customs lines and waited for our turn to present our passports. After a few minutes, maybe more, a man in a striped shirt, horizontal stripes, walked by asking if people were with the American school. He had a hand written sign, on a single sheet of line paper, American School, it read.

Should we trust this guy?

He asked for our passports and told us to wait on the other side. He pointed to a small but growing group of wide-eyed, lost-looking Americans.

Sure, why not?

We continued past the counter and joined the other group. We introduced ourselves and exchanged hellos and all that stuff. Meanwhile, we kept a close eye on the gentleman who held our very identities in his hands. Soon enough, though, we were all on our way out to pick up our luggage, and our passports were returned to us. 

We walked downstairs to an open room and began to collect our luggage. 1, 2, 3 pieces of luggage. So far so good. 4, 5, 6 pieces of luggage. Almost halfway. 7, 8, 9, 10, feeling like the count from Seseme Street.  Alright, looks like everything is here. 11, 12  . . . . . . 13?

Carolina's backpack didn't show up that day. Some of the other teachers who arrived with us also had one or two pieces missing. Chances were that it didn't fight on the significantly smaller plane that brought us to Tripoli. Especially since about 6 other teachers and their families also were on the plane, and they also carried more than your average amount of luggage too.

It took quite a few rotations of the luggage carousel to realize that it wasn't going to show up. Carolina filed a report and we hoped for the best. The airport officials got a kick out of Carolina's passport thought, it was as if they had never met a Mexican before.

Before we could leave the luggage area, we had to pass through another security checkpoint. This time to make sure that we weren't brining in any contraband, drugs, alcohol, who knows what else. But we exited into the airports main entrance and found the school director, Judith, who hired us in February. We gathered together, and received some greatly appreciated bottles of water.

Walking out of the airport and into the open we felt another wave of warm air come over us. The bustling traffic, the conversations in a foreign tongue, the reality of where we were, it all came rushing at as just like the air coming from the hot desert to the south. But in that moment, we had our three cartloads of luggage to maneuver through the crowds and to the waiting trucks.

Judith had arranged two big trucks to load all the teachers' luggage and vans to take us to our homes. This is when we met Mafaud. An older man of about 50 years or so, he could pass for any Mexican grandfather. Somewhat short, chubby, but healthy looking. He speaks pretty good English, and was eager to converse with us newcomers. Mafaud is a professional driver, he works for Shadi, a company that provides passenger vans for private companies in Tripoli. We were told to follow him to his van. I introduced myself to him, and he asked if I spoke Arabic. Not yet I told him.

Where ar ru fram?

California . . . the United States

Ah well, you have an Arab face,  he said. This is a conversation that I've had with many other Libyans since we've been here.

We got in the van, and witnessed first hand the awesomely terrifying thrill that is driving in Libya.

Have you ever spoken to someone who doesn't really seem to understand the concept of personal space? Even when you slyly back away, they fill in that gap you created between you with their own body. Well, imagine that experience in a car, on narrow roads, traveling at highway speeds. That's driving in Libya. Luckily, Mafaud is an excellent driver.

Traveling through this land one begins to see a certain absence of color. The desert sands, a dull orange with shades of yellow and brown, dominate everything. Small plots of farms lay between brick houses, the vegetation seems to struggle against suffocation.

As we began to enter busier neighborhoods, the streets became more crowded, and the buildings were more clustered together. Still, the desert sands are everywhere, like some force that simply will not be denied.

We left the airport and traveled through the outskirts of the city until we arrived in Janzour, one of the many suburbs that surround the city of Tripoli. We began going from one house to the next. The van would stop in front of a house, and the truck behind us would stop to unload luggage. Eager to get out of the van, stretch my legs, and plant my feet on the ground again, I helped out with some of the luggage. When we continued I jumped into the passenger seat, and struck up a conversation with Mafaud. I told him more about us, and he shared some Arabic words with me, which I've forgotten by now. He talked to us about Libya, about how quickly things have changed in the country over the last few years.

Soon, it was our turn to see our new home. We turned off of a main road and onto a dirt road. We've since named this road, Nopal Ave, not cause we're mexican, but because of the cactus growing there. There is a lot, A LOT of cactus here, growing like weeds along almost every street. So, once on this dirt road, we turned a corner into an alley, then another right, and finally reached our house.

Our house is similar to many other houses in the neighborhood. It has a high wall surrounding the property. There is a metal door to pass through. Once inside the property, there is a green lawn surrounding the house, with lots of different trees, and a swimming pool. This is our oasis in the desert. The house itself is huge, 2 bedrooms, an office, a spacious living room, dinning room, kitchen, and a parlor room with its own bathroom for a total of 3 bathrooms. We're told that the parlor room, which has its own entrance, is used when men come over and visit the home. They come in through the separate entrance so as not to enter the space where the women are at, hence its own bathroom.

Once we unloaded our luggage and toured the house, Judith and Mafaud left with the van and truck. She told us she'd be back the next morning for orientation, but to enjoy the roasted chicken in the fridge, along with some of other food already bought for us.

We were happy to finally be there, in our new country and new home. But at that moment I think we were too tired to really understand that. Our first instinct was to sleep, we but relied on our better judgement to get some unpacking done.

After a few hours of unpacking and eating, we showered and finally rested our bodies on our new bed. There was a new world just outside the walls of our little oasis for us to explore. It made itself known to us even as we readied for bed. Penetrating our walls with ease, was the unmistakable sound of the Adhan, the Muslim call to prayer. From the myriad of minarets (towers next to Mosques) that pierce the sky, the voices of the many different muezzins (singers/callers) filled the air and call an entire nation to attention. It was a reminder of how alien we were to this land. It was a reminder of just how much there is here to learn, to witness, and to experience. It too was like a wave of warm air that night.