Around the World in 50 Years (50 page)

The Somalilanders were so intent on preventing Islamic violence from infecting their country that they did not want to let me leave.

I'd checked out of my hotel in the capital of Hargeisa early, caught a minibus to the car park by the city limits, where the shared taxis waited to head for the border, and found myself in luck—an almost full car with room for one more. It was an old station wagon, and the mite of a room was in the seatless back compartment, where I'd be stretched out perpendicular to three guys who sat on the floor facing the dusty rear window. But at least I didn't have to wait hours for another car to fill up. I slithered in and started to get comfy, when an authoritative guy in a khaki outfit waved me to come out. What luck! He was going to tell one of the guys in the front seat to yield it to the venerable foreign visitor.

Not.

The guy was a cop who politely, but firmly, asked me to grab my luggage and follow him, which, much dismayed, I did, for 200 yards—to the local police station and jail. No problem, he told me, but he needed to see my identity papers. After a half hour of that he ushered me into a blue police car, and off we went on a ten-kilometer drive to meet the chief of police of Hargeisa. He was equally polite, shook my hand warmly, told me, in a most circumlocutory manner, that he was concerned with general security, asked me a potpourri of questions about my travels and the U.S., looked a little incredulous when I insisted I was an American citizen—Hey, we can't all look like Brad Pitt!—and then told me that the chief of police for the entire district wanted to meet me—just for a short chat, you understand. I had no idea what was going on: Had I forgotten to pay for my hotel? I racked my brains, but could not noodle it out.

So off we went, across town, for a 30-minute ride, to meet two charming, gracious men in blue who welcomed me warmly, assured me I had committed no crime, asked some seemingly innocuous questions about the National League baseball standings (which I had not followed since the Dodgers left Brooklyn), and told me the chief of police for the entire nation of Somaliland wanted to meet me. During all this time I'd tried to explain I had a plane to catch in Ethiopia, places to go, people to see, deadlines to meet, etc., etc. All to no avail.

But if the chief of police for the entire country wanted to have a friendly chat with me about his cousin in Hoboken or whether I thought the Giants could win the Super Bowl, how could I refuse him? So off I went on a 30-minute ride to the military encampments outside of town, where the chief of police shook my hand, took one look at me, and said, “You are free to go,” which was my first realization that all this had been more than idle curiosity or a courtesy call. When I pumped the chief, after showing him my Obama Presidential Partner card, he told me they were searching for a large-nosed, pot-bellied, bearded Saudi jihadist recruiter they'd been tracking, and that the police underlings thought I fit the description. Thanks, guys!

My fate could have been much worse: That same day, five European tourists were murdered, and four more kidnapped, in the volcanic wonderland of northeastern Ethiopia, at the
same place and time
I'd planned to visit had I not, at the last minute, opted for the arduous trek to Somaliland.

You just never know when the fickle finger of fate will beckon you, so grab all the gusto you can while you can.

 

CHAPTER 29

Plan X and the Gray-Blue Eyes

Once back in New York, I devoted much of a year to trying, in vain, to obtain a visa to Angola to complete my mission.

But I had run into an even more momentous problem. I had met, started dating, and was falling deeply in love with an amazing young woman named Nadezda Dukhina. She had been a journalist and TV reporter in her native city of Astrakhan on the north shore of the Caspian Sea, and had relocated to the U.S. four years earlier because she could no longer tolerate the corruption and political situation in Russia, which impinged on both her career and her soul. She was exceptionally smart, gentle, warm, considerate, beautiful, passionate, realistic, nonmaterialistic, and loving. But there was one huge problem: She was
49
years younger than I was.

I wanted her to share my future, but I knew that was actuarially limited, and I did not want to mess up her life or deprive her of the opportunity to start a family with someone more suitable. I had no idea how to resolve this dilemma. But first I had to get Angola finished.

I concocted five plans for getting there:

Plan A
was to take courses about diamonds at the Gemological Institute of America to qualify as a buyer of diamonds and enter Angola on a business visa. But, after the first week, it was apparent that my eyes (which had been damaged by Lyme disease) could no more distinguish the color, or clarity, or imperfections in a diamond than they could read a telephone book at forty paces. Abandon A.

Plan B
was to ask my British friend Nigel Page, who was in charge of all the African routes for Emirates Air, to “hire” me as an expert on international travel and send me to Luanda, the capital of Angola, to inspect the airport facilities. But Nigel—even though he owed me big time because I had, long ago, parted from my girlfriend Claire, which left her free to become his wife, as she happily did—was too impeccably upright a gent to risk sullying his sterling reputation by aiding and abetting such chicanery. Banish B.

Plan C
was to fly to Windhoek in Namibia, rent a 4
×
4, head north for a day or two, find an unpopulated spot near the Angolan border, and just sneak over, as I had done in Yemen and Equatorial Guinea. But after I read an article on the wretched conditions in Angolan prisons, this no longer seemed a reasonable option. Cancel C.

Plan D
was to join a group of bird-watchers on a once-a-year tour of “Angolan Endemics,” organized by a well-connected birding company in South Africa. This had serious drawbacks because the company did not guarantee I'd receive a visa, and my further inquiry disclosed that two of the four Americans who'd applied the year before had in fact
not
been granted visas. If I was declined, the birding company would keep $4,200 of my deposit, which I decided was too high a price to pay in view of the odds. Moreover, even if this stratagem did enable me to acquire a visa, I'd have to spend 18 days camped out with a bunch of bird nuts, which my previous experience with members of this species in New Guinea convinced me was an even higher price to pay. Dump D.

Plan E
was to sponsor a child in Angola through a charity, and then arrange to visit him. Since I enjoyed my relationship with the kids I was supporting in Ethiopia and Uganda, this seemed like the perfect option. I contracted with SOS Children's Village International to support a young boy in far eastern Angola. But when I later wrote to take SOS up on the offer set forth in their promotional literature, which said they'd gladly arrange for a donor to visit his child, they informed me—without any explanation or rationale—that their policy firmly prohibited them from sending me the letter of invitation I'd need to visit Angola. A bizarre policy and the end of Plan E.

After this year of frustrations and failures, Plan X materialized. It required the cooperation of three Angolan citizens, one Portuguese, and one expat in the Middle East, all of whom splendidly carried out their tasks. After a few fits and starts, and some correctable misunderstandings and delays, Plan X succeeded, and on November 27, 2012, exactly 50 years, two months, and 14 days after I had visited my first foreign country, my TAP Airbus 330 touched down at Angola's Quatro de Fevereiro Airport in Luanda, and I was able to visit my last.

I have pledged not to reveal how this was arranged or the names of those who assisted me, because it would get them in very hot water with the government. But if you apply some of what you've learned in the previous pages about dealings in Africa, you can probably figure it out. (Just keep it to yourself.)

From the touristic standpoint, Angola offered little. There were no breathtaking scenes of natural beauty, just miles of boring fields. The people wore dull Portuguese-style clothing instead of the exotic or brightly colored garments favored in so many other parts of Africa. The food was similarly bland. Most of the animals in the game parks had been killed during the long civil war. And most of the locals were so busy scrambling around in their oil-boom economy that they had little time to fraternize. Luanda was growing so rapidly that everything was under construction or reconstruction, resulting in an unscenic forest of cranes and so many torn-up streets clogged by so many new cars that the traffic jams were the worst and widest-spread I'd ever been caught in, often consuming 15 minutes to drive one block.

The prices were the world's highest because the oil companies paid whatever was asked, with apartments renting for $4,000 to $20,000 a month. A miniscule room in a lowly motel cost at least $200 a night. A one-day round trip to a nature preserve socked you for $500. Wood carvings that sold for $20 elsewhere were priced at $200, and my souvenir shopping was hampered by the take-it-or-leave-it attitude that prevailed among the vendors, who refused to bargain. Fish and chips from a shack cost $25. Most offensive of all, when I asked for a little bag to take home my uneaten food, they charged me three dollars for it. For a doggie bag!

But none of this was of any personal consequence or diminished my feeling of fulfillment.

On 12/12/12, four days after completing my quest to visit every country on earth, I embarked on “life's greatest adventure,” by marrying Nadezda Dukhina, a Russian writer and poet who was born twenty years
after
I had already finished my first expedition around the world.
Michael Alden

On December 9, 2012, with my travel mission accomplished, I landed at JFK, where the glorious Nadezda was waiting for me with open arms. I mumbled a jet-lagged and embarrassingly inarticulate marriage proposal in the middle of the crowded terminal as tears welled into her lovely gray-blue eyes. She pressed her warm and welcoming body next to mine and assured me that—for reasons that to me remain inexplicable but wonderful—she loved this old dude with all her dear young heart and would be filled with joy to be my wife.

Three days later—on 12/12/12—we were married in City Hall and I embarked upon my last—and life's greatest—adventure.

THE END

 

CHAPTER 30

… And One More for the Road

When people learn that I've visited every country on our big blue marble, they often ask me one of three questions:

Q. Which is my favorite country?

A.
The United States of America. Not because I'm chauvinistic or xenophobic, but because I believe that we alone have it all, even if not all to perfection. The U.S. has the widest possible diversity of spectacular scenery and depth of natural resources; relatively clean air and water; a fascinatingly heterogeneous population living in relative harmony; safe streets; few deadly communicable diseases; a functioning democracy; a superlative Constitution; equal opportunity in most spheres of life; an increasing tolerance of different races, religions, and sexual preferences; equal justice under the law; a free and vibrant press; a world-class culture in books, films, theater, museums, dance, and popular music; the cuisines of every nation; an increasing attention to health and good diet; an abiding entrepreneurial spirit; and peace at home.

My favorite foreign countries are, for scenery: Switzerland, France, Canada, New Zealand, Peru, and Nepal. For food: Mexico, France, Italy, China, Thailand, Vietnam, and Lebanon. For the type of women I like: Belarus, Russia, Germany, Ukraine, and the Czech Republic. For tranquility combined with hospitality: Ireland, Burma, Bhutan, Morocco, and most Pacific Island nations. For cultural heritage: England, Egypt, India, Cambodia, France, Spain, Italy, and Mali. For unspoiled beauty: Mongolia, Dominica, Costa Rica, the Sahara, and Antarctica. And for wildlife: alas, only Kenya, Botswana, and Tanzania are left.