I arrived at Djibouti-Ambouli Airport on January 29, 2017. My first observation, upon stepping off the small regional aircraft and exposing myself to Djibouti’s sweltering heat, was that I had packed incorrectly. My luggage, which would be notably missing for the next three days, was filled with light sweaters and jeans — the usual fare for a California winter. Ignoring the fact that I was already struggling, I made my way across the tarmac and entered the airport, where I was met with signs in French that I barely understood. After some initial missteps, I joined a line of foreigners to wait for my visa. That was when I first saw them: the crowd of women dressed in black abayas and niqabs facing the customs office expectantly. There was a palpable sense of urgency and confusion emanating from them.
Unsure of what to make of this, I handed my passport to the immigration officer. After inspecting it, he asked what I was doing in Djibouti. I responded in Arabic and told him that I was there for work, and after a pause, he disappeared with my passport. I tried not to panic. After all, I was a citizen of the United States and people knew I was arriving. What was the worst that could happen?
