Wind Scattered IV: Plane

Read Part 3

I have had what I'm guessing is the very unique experience of discussing the logistics of packing a carved sword cane for an international flight.  There are competing constraints - it doesn't fit with the blade hidden in its sheathe, but what if the blade were to puncture the bag in transit?  There was possibility for unintentional homicide.

Why sword canes?

Before we even left Guinea, the four of us had participated in a traditional Peace Corps ritual - rampant purchasing of regional souvenirs to distribute to loved ones upon making the return migration.  Andrew's crop included an exquisite collection of fine wooden sculpture, including a roaring-mouthed lion-headed sword-cane intended for his grandfather, a man apparently estimable enough to pull off such an accessory.

Jeneca and Kevin left first; their meanderings were done, and they were ready for a sincere return.  Andrew and my trip continued northward, to a new continent.  We sat in the gate area of Dakar's small but surprisingly modern airport and contemplated the twists that had brought us to the threshold of exit from this part of the world.

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

Only months ago, discovering that I was bound for Guinea had filled my whole body with electric tingles.  Almost since that moment I had felt like my life had begun to move along with some tremendous invisible inertia, like I was flotsam that had suddenly drifted into the Gulf Stream.  Leaving for the Peace Corps was like being spirited away to a Neverland where all the banal externalities of life are stripped away and you live only your immediate experience - going to a new place and immersing yourself, entering a state of constant discovery with a small group of people who share all the novelty and mystery of this liminal life space.  That swirling, intoxicating natural high carried me through months of training and an uncountable collection of vivid months that would take a thousand pages to tell; I careened through the now until I found myself delirious on the couch of a regional Peace Corps headquarters with a spider bite on my arm, overhearing an administrator in the next door office discussing political events in the capitol that would soon cause the Peace Corps (and most other NGOs) to exit the country, plucking us up along the way.  The arc of the journey had already been so chaotic, the new

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

twist could hardly strike me as that unexpected.

And so we were brought over the border, to roost in an artificial village for a month, until they finally pulled the plug and we called the taxi that took us to the bus that brought us to the city whose airport we currently occupied.  As simple as that.

And as if to prove the marvelous unquestionable serendipity of life's messy little gambits, who else did we encounter at the airport bar, waiting to board the very same flight but Amaury, the frenchman from our bus ride!  We all sat and bought each other manly drinks, and although I was revved up with the coincidence of meeting him again, I was more grateful to have an immediate distraction to take me away from the awkward, melancholy tension that flowed to all my extremities when I thought about

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

getting on the plane and leaving the last few months behind.

But of course, eventually, it happened.

Our ultimate goal destination was Frankfurt, but we changed planes in Lisbon.  We had a few hours to kill, so we bought tickets for the bus and road it down the main drag.  Perhaps Portugal softened the transitional blow of return to the First World, its stately buildings wide promenades cracking around the facades; the whole place was touched with a feeling of empty quiet, and finding no particular reason to get off the bus, we let it turn around and take us back to the airport.  Returning through security, Andrew was stopped and his bottle of Tabasco sauce was confiscated.  He was prepared to debate them for a hot minute, but he came to his senses and realized he had to pick his fights.  He left the bottle on their little table, telling the gate agent on his way through, "You're right - this stuff is dangerous."

photo by Kevin Roche.  trefpool.com

Another plane flight, this time into the darkening night with Europe sliding by below us.  There was no fear of the unknown, being carried by the happy-go-lucky tide.  I knew the plane would carry us where we needed to go, and it did.  And when we arrived, we found the train to take right to the heart of the hostel district, which was just where we intended to go.  And when we got off the train, the two of us ascended the big concrete stairs out into the darkness of a night wide open, pregnant with possibility.