Free Joseph Lemasolai Lekuton by Facing the Lion: Growing Up Maasai on the African Savanna Page A

city. At Kennedy Airport I was supposed to transfer to a plane to Syracuse. I’d written a letter to the YMCA in New York because they help international students with travel. Somebody was going to meet me at the plane, but I didn’t realize the person couldn’t come all the way to the gate. I stepped off the plane expecting somebody to be waiting right there, and when I didn’t see anybody I panicked. So I followed everybody else, and I figured out that you haveto go through immigration and pick up your luggage before you get to the meeting point. And eventually I found someone waiting for me—a young woman. I was so relieved, I gave her a hug—a big hug. I forgot all about those little guns!
    She was supposed to take me from the international terminal to the domestic terminal so I could catch my flight to Syracuse. I had my things. I’d brought everything I owned: T-shirts, shorts—so worn out that people in America would just have thrown them away. Everything fit in two suitcases. I was still wearing my three-piece suit. I was hot, I was nervous, and I was hungry—all I’d had for about four days now was water. It was a terrible combination for someone in an unfamiliar place.
    We started walking, and eventually my guide said, “Okay, Joseph. I have to leave you now. The terminal’s not far; just go around here, take a left and a right and you’ll be there.” Now in my home, if somebody told me that, I’d think it was pretty far away. The village is just there? I’d think, probably four miles. And when somebody gives you directions, it’s simple: “Climb the hill and the village is down below.” There’s no “left” and “right.” “You go past the big tree.” Simple—there’s only one big tree. But this young woman had helpedme and I didn’t want to be a bother, so I thanked her and set off. I took two or three rights, whatever lefts came along—and in a few minutes I was completely lost. By the time I found my way to the right gate, I’d missed my flight.
    It was about noon, and the next flight to Syracuse wasn’t until four in the afternoon. So I sat down, pushed my suitcases under the chair, and waited for check-in. I was still nervous—every time someone came close to me, I’d cross my legs to hide my bags, afraid they might try to take them. Even old men and children.
    I wanted to call the school to tell them I’d missed my flight. A student was going to meet me at the airport, and I wanted them to know I’d be late. I went to a pay phone, but I wasn’t sure where to put the money or exactly how to make a long-distance call. Someone on the phone kept saying to me, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and dial again.”
    I didn’t realize that it was a recording—I started arguing with the machine, saying, “I need to call this number. I don’t understand. Why can’t you help me?” This went on for a while. Finally, I saw a black man nearby. Back home, I’d been told, “When you see a black person, call him ‘brother.’” So I asked him, “Brother, can you help me?”
    “Are you from Africa, brother?” He could tell—my accent was so strong.
    “Yes, I’m from Africa. Can you help me make this call?”
    I explained my situation. He was sympathetic and he helped me get the call through to St. Lawrence, and I told them what had happened. Other people helped me out, too. A policeman watched my things while I went to the bathroom. I was in there for about five seconds—I went so quickly because I thought maybe he’d take them. Then finally check-in time came, and I was on my flight to Syracuse.
     
    WHEN I ARRIVED , two female students were there to meet me. They had a car—it’s about a three-hour drive from Syracuse to St. Lawrence—and we set off. It was a warm day, and they had the air conditioning turned all the way up. It was cold in the car, I was tired, and I hadn’t eaten—I was almost sick. There I was, someone who’d learned to survive out