Kisumu to Addis Ababa
Kisumu airport is tiny, with a front waiting room where a TV is showing a Ghanaian reverend preaching about how Afrian blacks value whites more than themselves. I move to the departure lounge on the other side of a glass wall and watch our plane land. People disembark in the beautiful, windless sunniness. Our luggage is piled high on a walled cart and two men push it to the two-prop Kenya Airways plane. We follow and climb the steps from the tarmac to the plane. When I find my row, a fat mama has taken my window seat. She knows she's not in the right seat and I say nothing. She's so big, she keeps bumping me and takes up some of my space. She won't speak to me, though, even when I nod and say hello.
The short flight takes 50 minutes. Kisumu is quite lovely from the air. Lake Victoria is massive. When Kisumu ends, there are green fields leading to the hills of the Great Riff Valley escarpment. At least that's what I see in the tiny landscape view obstructed by the large, inconsiderate woman.
We land at the Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi and though it's not yet 10:00am, I go to Ethiopia Airlines, hoping to check in and relax. But a flight just left for Addis and they're not checking in for our 8:00pm flight until 5:00pm. Instead of going to the international concourse, where there are duty-free stores and a Starbucks-like coffee shop, I must wait in the ticketing area for hours.
Soon, passengers for a flight to Saudi Arabia fill the space. The women all wear burkas, with only their eyes showing. Their hands are painted with henna in two or three colors, their fingertips coated solid. While the women sit or stand in groups around their luggage, the men hurry to and fro getting their families checked in. Children push luggage carts into each other and run and climb noisily, unless they're running to fetch water for the women.
The large group has brought food. The men put a tray of assorted dishes on top of a luggage rack and they stand in a circle, eating with their right hands from the same tray. Some of the men wear slacks and western-style shirts while others wear white tunics to their knees (with slacks underneath). Several men wear a full white, dress-type robe with a white scarf draped over their head. One old man, accompanied by a thin Arab in a Western-style suit, has a black cord tied over his head scarf, like Yassar Afrafat. At the end of the terminal, six men stand shoulder to shoulder forming a diagonal line and facing a wall of windows. They're facing Mecca. One man stands in front of them and leads their afternoon prayers. They stand, then knell, putting their foreheads to the floor. Their prayer takes a while and people walk around them on their way to the restrooms.
At 5:00pm, I stand at the Ethiopian Airlines counter and a young man walks to the next console, preparing to open. Suddenly, a woman with a teenage boy and a man approach and begin to push their tickets in his face. He takes the man's ticket and the woman, who feels she should be helped first, says something in a perturbed tone. I say, "I've only been here since 11:00am waiting to check in." The airline guy smiles and says, "We'll get you ticketed." He hands the woman her tickets and she moves out of the way. I step up the counter. She asks the man where gate nine is and he asks to see her ticket again. He notices she's exceeded her travel time on the return trip. She becomes frantic and pushes back to the counter, knocking me out of the way.
"Let me take care of her," he says to the woman while motioning to me, "Then I'll look at your ticket." She doesn't move, leaving me to stand between counters. Sarcastically, I say, "I'll just stand over here." Of course, my sarcasm has no impact on the woman. In all my months in Africa, I can never get over the irritation of how people push and shove and cut in line and stand very close when there is no need to stand close. Men do not give women courtesies such as allowing them to walk through doorways first. Not even if the woman approaches the door first. The men will pass through with power, leaving anyone less forceful in their wake. I never get used to such rudeness. But the airline guy does ticket me soon enough, with a smile, and I'm free to relax until the flight.
Entering the international concourse, I'm a little overwhelmed by the shops with their fancy goods. It's much like shops at Heathrow or Atlanta or Amsterdam airports. When I go to the restroom, however, there is no water for flushing the toilet or washing my hands. The restroom attendant confirms the water is not available throughout the airport. A reminder that even though we're surrounded by fancy shops and lots of people waiting to fly to Dubai, Zanzibar, London and Mumbai, we're still in third-world Kenya.
I go to the Java House coffee shop at gate 14 and buy a macchiato and large brownie, both of which are delicious. There are mostly white people in the booths, watching CNN on several overhead screens. Two white women, who seem to be American, take the table next to mine and I notice one is carrying a bottle of Rwenzori water. I cannot resist asking her where she got the water. Uganda, she says. I tell her about the boys in Rwanda calling out from the roadside for empty bottles. She asks if I'd like to join them, so I do. They live in the American South and are both married with children. Both of them also worked as volunteers in Africa when they were younger. The three of us are about the same age.
They're in Kenya and Uganda to check out programs set up by their church to feed orphans. I tell them about TICH's newest program to feed orphans in Western Kenya. I also tell them about TICH's upcoming nutrition workshop that will focus on nutritional needs of people living with HIV/AIDS and promise to get info to them about the programs. Talking with the women is energizing. It's rare that I get to be around people from the U.S. I have no idea of the time and only realize, once we've parted, that my plane is already boarding. The plane is new and extremely comfortable. Ethiopian Airlines' inflight magazine says the airline gets calls from clients asking if there will be food on the flight.
It's been a while since I've been on a big plane with a TV. They show episodes of Home Improvement with Tim Allen. Wow. America. Americans. I sometimes forget what it's like to be around my fellow country men and women. Most of the time, I'm surrounded by Kenyans who speak English with accents. All I see are black faces and all conversations are passed through cultural filters. I work hard to avoid misinterpreting their words or meanings and and work equally hard to ensure they won't misinterpret mine. Also shown during the flight is a travel piece on Zanzibar, which is extremely helpful and puts me in the mood for visiting the island.
We arrive in Addis Ababa, at their lovely glass and steel airport, at 9:00pm, though getting a visa takes nearly an hour. Michelle is there to meet me, accompanied by Yiberta, the director of RaDO. It's a little cold in Addis because the elevation here is approximately 8,000 feet. We take a quick tour of Addis, through the relatively empty streets, passing the Italian Piazza. Mussolini invaded Ethiopia in 1936 and wasn't driven out until the early 40s. In the interim, he stole many of their cultural artifacts, like the mysterious obelisks constructed centuries ago. But with the help of the UN, Ethiopia is now regaining those obelisks, which are being shipped from Italy and reassembled in their oringinal locales.
What the Italians left behind in Ethiopia that few other African nations have is excellent, excellent coffee.
Yiberta drops us at Michelle's place, which is a very nice two-bedroom, one-bath townhouse with a tiny courtyard and a guard. Yiberta lives four houses down across the lane. Michelle and I stay up late talking about our experiences as volunteers. We discuss the cultural differences and getting used to new languages and new foods. In Ethiopia, the official language is Amharic. Some people speak English, but not many. Because East Africa (Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania) was colonized by the British, English is one of the official languages and is taught in schools, along with Kiswahili. But English is not an official language in Ethiopia. The few people who speak English speak very broken English. But Michelle seems to have caught on to many Amharic words and is able to communicate efficiently.
The short flight takes 50 minutes. Kisumu is quite lovely from the air. Lake Victoria is massive. When Kisumu ends, there are green fields leading to the hills of the Great Riff Valley escarpment. At least that's what I see in the tiny landscape view obstructed by the large, inconsiderate woman.
We land at the Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi and though it's not yet 10:00am, I go to Ethiopia Airlines, hoping to check in and relax. But a flight just left for Addis and they're not checking in for our 8:00pm flight until 5:00pm. Instead of going to the international concourse, where there are duty-free stores and a Starbucks-like coffee shop, I must wait in the ticketing area for hours.
Soon, passengers for a flight to Saudi Arabia fill the space. The women all wear burkas, with only their eyes showing. Their hands are painted with henna in two or three colors, their fingertips coated solid. While the women sit or stand in groups around their luggage, the men hurry to and fro getting their families checked in. Children push luggage carts into each other and run and climb noisily, unless they're running to fetch water for the women.
The large group has brought food. The men put a tray of assorted dishes on top of a luggage rack and they stand in a circle, eating with their right hands from the same tray. Some of the men wear slacks and western-style shirts while others wear white tunics to their knees (with slacks underneath). Several men wear a full white, dress-type robe with a white scarf draped over their head. One old man, accompanied by a thin Arab in a Western-style suit, has a black cord tied over his head scarf, like Yassar Afrafat. At the end of the terminal, six men stand shoulder to shoulder forming a diagonal line and facing a wall of windows. They're facing Mecca. One man stands in front of them and leads their afternoon prayers. They stand, then knell, putting their foreheads to the floor. Their prayer takes a while and people walk around them on their way to the restrooms.
At 5:00pm, I stand at the Ethiopian Airlines counter and a young man walks to the next console, preparing to open. Suddenly, a woman with a teenage boy and a man approach and begin to push their tickets in his face. He takes the man's ticket and the woman, who feels she should be helped first, says something in a perturbed tone. I say, "I've only been here since 11:00am waiting to check in." The airline guy smiles and says, "We'll get you ticketed." He hands the woman her tickets and she moves out of the way. I step up the counter. She asks the man where gate nine is and he asks to see her ticket again. He notices she's exceeded her travel time on the return trip. She becomes frantic and pushes back to the counter, knocking me out of the way.
"Let me take care of her," he says to the woman while motioning to me, "Then I'll look at your ticket." She doesn't move, leaving me to stand between counters. Sarcastically, I say, "I'll just stand over here." Of course, my sarcasm has no impact on the woman. In all my months in Africa, I can never get over the irritation of how people push and shove and cut in line and stand very close when there is no need to stand close. Men do not give women courtesies such as allowing them to walk through doorways first. Not even if the woman approaches the door first. The men will pass through with power, leaving anyone less forceful in their wake. I never get used to such rudeness. But the airline guy does ticket me soon enough, with a smile, and I'm free to relax until the flight.
Entering the international concourse, I'm a little overwhelmed by the shops with their fancy goods. It's much like shops at Heathrow or Atlanta or Amsterdam airports. When I go to the restroom, however, there is no water for flushing the toilet or washing my hands. The restroom attendant confirms the water is not available throughout the airport. A reminder that even though we're surrounded by fancy shops and lots of people waiting to fly to Dubai, Zanzibar, London and Mumbai, we're still in third-world Kenya.
I go to the Java House coffee shop at gate 14 and buy a macchiato and large brownie, both of which are delicious. There are mostly white people in the booths, watching CNN on several overhead screens. Two white women, who seem to be American, take the table next to mine and I notice one is carrying a bottle of Rwenzori water. I cannot resist asking her where she got the water. Uganda, she says. I tell her about the boys in Rwanda calling out from the roadside for empty bottles. She asks if I'd like to join them, so I do. They live in the American South and are both married with children. Both of them also worked as volunteers in Africa when they were younger. The three of us are about the same age.
They're in Kenya and Uganda to check out programs set up by their church to feed orphans. I tell them about TICH's newest program to feed orphans in Western Kenya. I also tell them about TICH's upcoming nutrition workshop that will focus on nutritional needs of people living with HIV/AIDS and promise to get info to them about the programs. Talking with the women is energizing. It's rare that I get to be around people from the U.S. I have no idea of the time and only realize, once we've parted, that my plane is already boarding. The plane is new and extremely comfortable. Ethiopian Airlines' inflight magazine says the airline gets calls from clients asking if there will be food on the flight.
It's been a while since I've been on a big plane with a TV. They show episodes of Home Improvement with Tim Allen. Wow. America. Americans. I sometimes forget what it's like to be around my fellow country men and women. Most of the time, I'm surrounded by Kenyans who speak English with accents. All I see are black faces and all conversations are passed through cultural filters. I work hard to avoid misinterpreting their words or meanings and and work equally hard to ensure they won't misinterpret mine. Also shown during the flight is a travel piece on Zanzibar, which is extremely helpful and puts me in the mood for visiting the island.
We arrive in Addis Ababa, at their lovely glass and steel airport, at 9:00pm, though getting a visa takes nearly an hour. Michelle is there to meet me, accompanied by Yiberta, the director of RaDO. It's a little cold in Addis because the elevation here is approximately 8,000 feet. We take a quick tour of Addis, through the relatively empty streets, passing the Italian Piazza. Mussolini invaded Ethiopia in 1936 and wasn't driven out until the early 40s. In the interim, he stole many of their cultural artifacts, like the mysterious obelisks constructed centuries ago. But with the help of the UN, Ethiopia is now regaining those obelisks, which are being shipped from Italy and reassembled in their oringinal locales.
What the Italians left behind in Ethiopia that few other African nations have is excellent, excellent coffee.
Yiberta drops us at Michelle's place, which is a very nice two-bedroom, one-bath townhouse with a tiny courtyard and a guard. Yiberta lives four houses down across the lane. Michelle and I stay up late talking about our experiences as volunteers. We discuss the cultural differences and getting used to new languages and new foods. In Ethiopia, the official language is Amharic. Some people speak English, but not many. Because East Africa (Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania) was colonized by the British, English is one of the official languages and is taught in schools, along with Kiswahili. But English is not an official language in Ethiopia. The few people who speak English speak very broken English. But Michelle seems to have caught on to many Amharic words and is able to communicate efficiently.
posted by Cindi at 3:56 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home