Crossing the Line

It has never occurred to me that I should be afraid of crossing borders. Borders are these imaginary lines, drawn on maps that indicate some figurative division of space. At times, these lines even blur time or reality. Of course these lines can be significant; lines that divide enemies or ethnic groups. But the lines themselves seem so arbitrary and the crossing of said lines, even more so. They’re just ink on paper. But recently I spend all my time thinking about lines. Thinking about the ways in which we cross them all day long—important lines, imaginary lines, emotional lines. Thinking about the ways we ignore them; the ways we exploit them. I talk about lines in abstract ways—in how we build our communities, and how we rebuild relationships. How we relate to each other; how we disrespect each other. How we learn and how we heal.

These lines remind me of traveling. There is a moment when you’re exploring new space when you just let go of the lines—when you just move organically and let what happens happen. It’s this magical release of order; a letting go from the systems that run our lives. Two January’s ago, I traveled to West Africa with a dear colleague. We were scoping out our next adventure. We were crossing borders. We’d just come to the western border of Benin, traveling into Togo.

Approaching the borders, there is a distinct sense of authority in the air. There is also an overwhelming sense of chaos. There are unwritten rules in the body language of armed police officers and border patrol agents. There are signs written in French. Some have been translated to English, but most have not. And this is most definitely intentional. They’d rather you not know the protocol. There are gates and lines and bizarre fenced off areas that are full of people waiting. I’ve gotten used to this lifestyle of waiting. It is part of the culture here. You wait. Sometimes there are things you’re waiting on—people you’re waiting for—but sometimes you’re simply killing time. Sometimes this is just a part of the day. During my first trip to Africa, this made me nuts. Now I almost relish in this delicious nothingness; it’s such a treat.

My first West African border crossing was completed from the comfort of a 30 passenger bus. Our guides and professors handled all the details, marched away from the bus with a furious sense of authority, and somehow managed to come away with stamped passports and smiling faces. We sat on the bus, in the air-conditioning, watching the people around us. It was oppressive. I remember hawkers coming to the window and putting their fingers to their mouth, mouthing chop, begging for food. I remember children, most of whom were severely disabled, looking up at us with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen asking for money. There were unbelievable things for sale in large baskets and rolling carts—black market DVD’s from China, knock-off designer handbags, gum, tissues, chocolates, homemade foods, and more. People bought things through the windows—peanuts and pineapples and luggage sets. I thought it was incredible.

But this time, it’s just the two of us. We get out of our rented car, a black Mercedes-Benz sedan, and are immediately approached by beggars. This time there is no glass divider. No window for me to shut. No blinds to pull down. I have to avoid eye contact and quickly dismiss hands that reach out for mine. Once the contact has been made, it is much harder to walk away without this lousy travel companion of mine: guilt. This whole experience of coming back to Africa, without a group, is so different. I feel less like a spectacle and more like a traveler. There is less structure to my day—fewer lines. The dark blue document in my hand, this precious passport, is like gold here. An American passport is a luxury many strive for in these small rural countries. This passport represents autonomy, opportunity, and prosperity.

We approach a dated, dusty outpost that looks more like something from an old Western film than an official border crossing station. A dark-skinned man sits with his feet propped on the wooden army-style desk. His green uniform has been starched. It is snug across his obviously muscular frame. He has deep dark marks on his cheeks, generally a tribal affiliation of some sort, marks leftover from childhood ceremonies. His odor is prolific. His tall military-style black boots are tied tight over his uniform. I wonder how he doesn’t stroke out from the heat. I’m sweating profusely in my tank top and skirt. He wears a wool hat. Sweat lingers on his forehead. Mine, however, is dripping. Also, did I mention the array of weaponry on his person? A large gun is slung around his shoulder. Something metal is attached to his leather belt. A holster is on his belt that holds a knife, a knife that seems to look more like an Elizabethan dagger than an official border-patrol pocket knife.

I approach him sheepishly, keenly aware of his arsenal of weaponry and my missing franc phonic tongue, and I pull my little piece of gold out. I shoot him a flirtatious, giggly smile. He smiles at me, aware of my sheepishness. He can probably smell how afraid I am of his gun. Can’t he tell? I freaking majored in Peace Studies!? My travel partner is a short American professor who was born in India. Few people acknowledge him as an American here. He is “Indian”, no matter where we go. He smiles at him, too. We’re an odd couple. I’m loud and plus-sized and quite clearly American. He is quiet and short and unbelievably thin. We present our passports, opened to the appropriate page, so that he can see our pre-paid visa’s, stamp it, and we’ll be on our way. He flips through our golden books like a small child would a picture book. Have you ever watched a child who is learning how to read? I love when they become impatient with the reading and just start violently charging through the pages and start making up the rest of the story to get to the end. This is how he proceeds.

He leans back and sighs. It is obvious that he is going to need some time to think about letting us pass. Which is fine. I’ve become good at waiting. I can wait. Look at me, waiting patiently. But what happens next is what terrifies me. He begins speaking to us, angrily, in French. I know about five words in French. I can say oui or non. I can ask parlez-vous anglais? Or, je voudrais un tonic s’il vous plait? What he is asking or telling or shouting, I could not possibly understand. Umm, hello!? Je suis Américain!? Allow me to ask again: parlez-vous anglais?

Here is what terrifies me more—my travel partner is pretty fluent in conversational, street French. He tends to make people angry. He challenges them. He questions why we’re being asked to do certain things. This doesn’t amuse anyone but himself (okay, it amuses me most of the time...but not right now). He begins talking back. I can tell by his body language and tone that he is questioning this agent’s demands. He begins gesticulating wildly and pointing at our small, blue, precious books. K takes them from him, flips through and points at the series of previous visa’s we both have (clearly trying to tell him that we’ve been here before, I'm guessing). This man smiles, leaning back even further in his squeaking, wooden chair that is practically bending from his frame. He obviously wants to ignore what he is being told. I tend to feel that whatever this man wants—he gets. I’m horrified by his power. He wants a dash; he wants money. We’re used to this. The padding of the pockets is a regular occurrence at these crossings.

Suddenly, I’m aware that the two men, one of whom is supposed to be on my side, are no longer talking money and are now talking about me. Once again, I’ve become K's bargaining chip. This amuses him to no end. The agent eyes me up and down and winks. I give the agent a shy smile (and shoot K a death stare). He laughs boisterously at my grin. I know, I know. I shouldn’t be smiling back. I shouldn’t be feeding this masculine greed. This man could rape me. This man could take me into the unmarked office behind him and give me that African baby I’ve always wanted. But my option is what? Got any better ideas?

It is important to note that in Africa, my physique is what makes an ideal wife and mother. African men love me. I have hips and an ass and breasts. I have thick thighs and full arms. These things can keep a man warm at night (although who would want that in this heat?). I’m stopped constantly by men who want to marry me. Women touch me adoringly. They grab my stomach and my upper arms. They pat my fat rolls. They tell me I’m beautiful. This is reason number two hundred and seven that I think I may move here someday. Who needs a diet? Just take a vacation to Africa. Besides, you’ll probably lose weight from the inevitable stomach bug you’ll pick up at some point during your trip.

Suddenly this previously exclusively French-speaking man is asking me, in English, when and where we should host our wedding. I play along, insisting that I’m ready whenever he is. I remind him that he’s at work, however, and ask him how his wife would feel about his new American bride. He laughs. We’re both aware of how much we’re joking. I breathe an internal sigh of relief that I won’t be taken home with him this evening and presented to his family as their newest addition. He stands. He wants a hug. I hug this man. This large, brut, odorous man with weapons. This man who has the power to detain me, rob me, and take away my dignity. He sits back down, pulls out his stamp, and grants us permission to cross these lines, these terrifyingly important lines, and does so with a smile on his face. Of course, this was after we’d already given him lunch money. We had one border down. Three to go.

And one hell of a lesson in line-crossing.