Memoir | Challenges in Jet Lag | Part V of VI

This was my first official journey to the continent of Africa. The direct overnight flight from Dulles International Airport in Dulles, Virginia, to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, France, lasted an exhausting eight hours. I landed in Paris at 7:00 AM, facing a six-hour layover before boarding an Air Afrique flight to Côte d’Ivoire, Abidjan. The flight to West Africa added another eight hours to my travel time, and I finally arrived at 9 PM in West Africa. I was completely worn out from the lengthy trip and feeling quite irritable, and the native airport staff didn’t make matters any better. As a result, they witnessed a side of me that wasn’t very friendly.

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I was greeted by my American contact, along with two local native staff members who would assist us with our tasks. We moved efficiently and coordinated our efforts to get the job done, making for a seamless transition.

Throughout the process, I noticed two native airport staff members lingering nearby as we worked. Once we finished, we all climbed into a couple of small cargo vehicles to head to a secure area where my other American colleagues were waiting.

To my surprise, the two airport staffers followed us in their vehicle. I found it odd that they were trailing us since they hadn’t contributed to our work on the tarmac.

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As we approached the entrance to the secure area, I was taken aback by the dark and imposing atmosphere, especially with a police officer standing guard, wielding a machine gun!

My heart started to race at the sight of such a formidable weapon. I certainly hadn’t been briefed on encountering a machine gun during my trip briefings.

I took a deep breath to steady myself and smiled at the officer, who returned it. I took this exchange as a positive sign. He carefully inspected my badge hanging around my neck and those of my colleagues before granting us access to the secured area.

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The two local staff members who handled most of the work on the tarmac and in the secured area moved effectively and completed our task promptly. I rewarded them with a generous tip.

However, the other two native airport staffers stood idly by and did not contribute, so naturally, I didn’t tip them.

Suddenly, the two airport staffers, who had been standing around, approached me, became visibly angry, waving wildly, and yelling at me in French. Although I didn’t understand the language, their anger at me was unmistakable!

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Already exhausted from a sleepless night and suffering from jet lag, I had no patience for their outbursts! I started yelling back at them, my eyebrows furrowed, eyes bulging, lips tight, and my hands flailing in the air, filled with exasperated anger!

I exclaimed,

“Oh, brother, give me a break!”

“You didn’t do any work, so why should I tip you?”

“Why?”

One of the local staff members translated my words to the men in French.

Following my eruption, the men hurriedly jumped onto their cargo vehicle, kicking up a cloud of dust as they sped away along the dirt road.

My American colleagues were horrified by my behavior.

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Meanwhile, back in Washington, D.C., detailing my experiences from the trip to Abidjan during the debrief, it became clear that my supervisor had already been informed about my unprofessional conduct.

Yet, he chose not to mention it until I did, seemingly assessing whether I would candidly acknowledge what had happened in Abidjan at the airport.

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After recounting the events that unfolded at the airport, his sharp response, laced with a subtle jab at my behavior, truly took me off guard.

He said,

“Mia, we won’t send you to the Middle East next.”

“You’ll have to hold your tongue and let the men take the lead there.”

“And you’ll need to wear a hijab.”

“I’m not sure you’ll manage to stay quiet in the Middle East.”

We both erupted into laughter at his remark!

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