I ventured to the airport this week to pick up my roommate as she returned from her two week trip to the states. Pick ups from the airport are a special process here, as are many things. We have to hire a car to take us, and the cheapest cars do not have air conditioning. So, around 11:00 pm I got picked up from my flat and made my way, windows down through the city to the airport. I had sprayed myself with bug spray in anticipation of the mosquitos, brought a bottle of water because the lows these days are in the 70’s, and my trusty iPod. After my driver tried to drop me off for departures (wrong, I do not have any luggage even!), and then circled around once before he understood that I meant park and wait, we finally slid into a parking spot sandwhiched between other people waiting.
I texted my roommate in hopes of her phone being charged enough to respond back to me, and waited in the back seat of the car until I knew she was close to coming out. She called me once she made it to baggage claim, and it was time for me to move.
I now needed to make my way up to the arrivals section of the airport. It is entirely outdoors, there is nowhere you can go inside the airport to meet arriving people. There is a long guard rail that lines about 100 feet of the arrivals area, so its kind of like a Hollywood Premiere type of walk from the exit door of the airport to the end of the section where you can finally greet your friends and family-except it is far from the glamour of Hollywood. A world away both literally and figuratively.
The rail to the airport walkway of fame was lined by about 300 people, and 98% of them were men as it was around midnight, and most women are in by about 9:00 here. I of course, was the only Westerner on that side of the rail. I managed to make my way up to the front so I could easily spot my roommate and we could find each other among the masses. People looked on in bewilderment at my lone white face in the sea of south asian skin tones.
My front row spot proved to be the highlight of the night, as I watched all of the bewildered Western businessmen clumsily making their way down the walkway in a jet lagged, culture and climate shocked condition, while the flight crew knowingly makes their way down the concrete carpet and into their travel van.
The business men meanwhile frantically searched for their names on all of the placards, and listened as men would call out, “Mr. Frieberg, Mr. Frieberg!”. I could not help but be amused by this process, as well as feel glad that after being here for about six months I am comfortable on the side of the rail that I was on. I have crossed over. I am no longer the Westerner walking around in a constant state of confusion and shock. Rather, I feel comfortable in my own skin here.