The embassy expeditor Hajji Hussein, dressed in a flowing white robe and crocheted skullcap, stepped forward to guide us. We expected him to flash our diplomatic passports and ease our way past the formalities in the manner to which we had become accustomed.
A gray metal door opened into bedlam. Screaming, gesturing, shoving madmen crammed every square foot of floor space in the gymnasium-sized arena. Fred moved close to Hajji Hussein and got a firm grip on Dakota's hand. With Tina in tow, I stepped up behind Fred and wrapped my fingers around the back of his belt. I kept my head down and avoided making eye contact with anyone, especially the wild sixteen-year-old boy soldiers waving their fully loaded AK-47s and shouting unintelligible commands above the din.
Hajji Hussein pushed, shoved, and shouted his way through the mass of bodies. We trailed behind like the tail of a kite. Our destination appeared to be at the center of a siege by hundreds of raving lunatics. Who were these people and what were they doing in this restricted area?
As we inched our way closer to what I assumed was the customs desk, Hajji Hussein turned and gave us an encouraging smile. If he was happy with our progress, that should be good news, I hoped.
When at last the customs official saw and recognized Hajji Hussein, he beckoned us forward, stamped our passports with a flourish and cleared a path to the luggage area, which seemed like a tranquil oasis of bliss compared to the loony bin behind us. Two other embassy employees waited with our bags in hand, holding open the door to our new reality.
Fred reached out to shake hands with Hajji Hussein. Overcome with gratitude, he pulled the Hajji into a brotherly hug. Hajji Hussein's face portrayed a series of emotions from perplexity to embarrassment to shy pride, and a new friendship was born.
