It was only a few minutes past 6 am when the aircraft touched down at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam . It was a very comfortable flight, I must confess, such that we couldn’t even explain how the hours flew by. Imagine a seven-hour flight seeming like just an hour or two hours journey.
For most of us who were lucky to have our seats close to the window, honestly, we did not know the kind of weather that awaited us as we peeped out of the window. The weather was bright and the yellow rays of a May sun was what we thought was a promise kept - of a good weather; but we were wrong. After getting off the airplane, it was a different story altogether. The weather was very cold in spite of the shinning sun.
It was a bit of a walk from the foot of the plane to the arrival hall, considering the fact that Schipol is a rather big airport, one a friend considered perhaps the best in Europe . I had to do some metres walk before finally arriving at the customs post. There were four long queues and I had to look at the instructions on the board to know where I actually belong, considering the kind of passport I was carrying. “All Passports” “EU” reads two well-lit black coloured notice boards. There were two lines each for those carrying passports of other nations except the one for the European Union (EU) while there is another for citizens of the EU.
I took my time to look carefully at all the people on each line and I discovered that there were more whites on two of the lines than blacks.
I was also surprised at the manner in which the few blacks on the line conducted themselves. They were completely different from the Nigerians I met at Murtala Mohammed International Airport . It was as if they were not the same people who were in a hurry to get on the plane when it was delayed for some minutes in Lagos . I couldn’t believe that they have refused to jump the queue here in Amsterdam . At the customs point back home in Nigeria , they questioned the authority of the KLM officer who asked that the elderly, pregnant women and parents with young children should be the first sets of people to board the plane.
This incidentally is the practice anywhere in the world but our ‘Naija’ brothers would hear none of this. They were bent on getting on the plane at all cost even though they were very sure the waiting craft was theirs and would sure accommodate all.
“Me too, I be above sixty o,” joked one middle-aged man. “Don’t mind him, jare, forty-something no go enter too, abi which one you dey, oga?” teased another man.
The exchange between the two men went on for some minutes before the officer called those travelling on Business Class and Premium. This caused another discomfort for our dear gentlemen who went into another long exchange, joking about the discrimination.
Even though they are aware there was no basis for their arguments. “Passengers with seat numbers between 44 and 20 should go on board,” announced the officer again.
“What is all this again?” asked a woman who had also been angered by the whole process. “Is economy not economy and what has seat numbers got to do with it?” As expected, the other two men joined in and the “rebuke” continued once again, only to last for another few minutes. My sympathy, funny enough lies with the officer. For me, there’s nothing wrong with the method he adopted. He’s just trying to prevent the expected obstruction caused by passengers whose seats were at the front for those whose seats were at the rear. It’s just a smart way to make boarding faster and easier for all.
But trust Nigerians, we are always in a hurry to get things done, and in most cases, we don’t care how we get them done, we just want them done.
So, when the same people who were eager to get on board by all means in Nigeria patiently waited for their turns at the immigration point in Schipol, I was too surprised at the new spirit which had suddenly taken over them. Here, in Europe , there was no room for such untoward behaviour, hence our people quietly stayed on the line.
My ‘Naija’ experience was not the last I would encounter on my trip. Last Monday, as we journeyed back to the guest house after classes, I had another funny experience with other African folks in the group. Tony, one of the course instructors, had earlier educated us on the code of conducts and some rules governing transportation and road usage in Hilversum . He told us the route number of the bus we were to board to and from the guest house, so that we would not find ourselves on the wrong bus.
And so, after classes, we got on the right bus actually and got off at the right bus stop. But shortly, after the bus drove off, more than half of those of us standing by the roadside crossed to the other side of the road without taking the Zebra Crossing which was further down the road.
“Stop right there!” shouted Mary, another Nigerian from Voice of Nigeria who was also a member of the course group. ‘That’s not how to cross here,” reminded Harry, another journalist from Senegal . “Africans, when are we going to change?” I screamed at the group of defaulters who were already almost half way onto the other side of the road. “It’s not only Africans, the Pakistanis are there too,” corrected Harry.
That was how we made it to Hilversum with our impatient attitude. It’s saddening that we were too impatient as a people to walk only a few metres down the road to use the Zebra Crossing which the Dutch themselves use. It is just a disciplined society too organised with law abiding citizens. I just hope that some day, as a people, we would realize the importance of keeping to law without unnecessarily defaulting as a result of our impatience. I do hope that someday, the disobedient ones won’t get arrested by traffic officers before the end of the course.
