GETTING TO ROOM

For the first time in my life I think I had a glimmer of what it must have been like for my grandparents when they left Italy and landed at Ellis Island.  I had listened to their tales as well as read descriptions of immigrants trying to find their way in new lands. 

There we were standing at the water’s edge in Conakry with hundreds of other folks, on New Year’s Eve Day.  Tex had arranged for us to be transported to the Island of Room, where we would ring in the New Year among folks we had yet to meet.  Even with Tex’s expert assistance, I was discombobulated as negotiations took place which I couldn't follow.  The seesaw of starting and stopping, hurry up and wait, left me wondering if we were indeed going to get to Room. 

I couldn't help but wonder if this is what it feels like for folks waiting to board a ship to emigrate to a foreign country or upon arrival feeling completely lost.  Was this brief experience we were having a taste of what my grandparents went through?  Being in a strange land, not speaking the language, nor understanding the customs, and being at the mercy of those who seem to be in charge?   Trying to find the balance of not being taken advantage of while not pissing off the officials?

Much chaos, being shuffled from one spot to another and then back again – this boat that boat yes no wait come -  loud voices getting louder as we failed to respond to words we didn't understand, animated gestures trying to fill in where words had no impact.  The saving grace for us was that we could indeed bale out at any time before getting on the boat. We had charge cards and could walk back to the “European Hotel” where they spoke English and get a room for the night.  My grandparents and many immigrants who come to this country don’t have that option and genuinely are at the mercy of others.

But we wanted to go to the island of Room, a little bit further off the mainland than Kassa.  It was New Year’s Eve and we had paid for a boat ride, a party and a place to sleep for the night.

In the midst of scurrying around, picking up our belongings again and following yet another person out onto the pier,  seeing more gestures and hearing more unknown words, there came a familiar yet out of place sound: in perfect English a voice asked “may I share your boat?”  It wasn't until much later that I came to understand that we had actually paid to charter a boat and therefore could determine who else shared our boat.  This woman, a German ex-pat who had lived on Room for at least a decade was trying to get back to the island and wanted to hitch a ride with us.

More flurry and movement and then we were walking through the garbage strewn water and being hoisted onto a boat. As we pulled away from Conakry the din and confusion gave way to the gentle rhythmic lapping of the water.

Sabine –our German hitchhiker – turned out to be a font of knowledge, and became our tour guide of sorts.   Grateful to have a ride home  she was eager to make it worth our while…..She pointed out sights, explained the off-shore foreign fishing boats and their impact on the local economy, told her personal tale and intervened when our captain, T-boy, tried  to charge us extra for our life jackets.  As we approached Room she explained the different folks who had settled on different parts of the island, and how to get to the village in which she lived, should we want to explore.

Initial relief at landing on the island and finding our way to our lodging blossomed into wonder and delight as we were shown our room and offered dinner.   The earlier confusion at the dock in Conakry faded as the hospitality of the people we met on Room took hold.  And while my grandparents had it a lot harder for a lot longer than I did this New Year’s Eve, I remembered snippets of stories of people who extended themselves to my grandparents as they found their way in America, the kindness of strangers so very welcome.