Terminal One, Addis Ababa Airport. There seemed to be a few issues; the sign here says, “We are under a major and complete roof maintenance. We sincerely apologize for the inconveniences caused due to any leakage that may occur during the rainy season.”
There was a half-hearted security check. I think a camel could have walked through and they wouldn’t have cared. Then it was up the elevator—no, cancel that. There was no way I was taking an elevator in Ethiopia. I chugged up the stairs and assessed my options. I had less than an hour before my flight left, and no souvenirs. I ran into the biggest shop I could see and after making sure they took credit cards, started throwing bags of coffee and wood carvings into a basket. For good measure, I bought a necklace made of old Ethiopian coins with the image of Haile Selassie on them which weighed about five pounds.
Sated, I took a seat in the vast hall that served as a waiting area and people watched. There was a line of a hundred people shuffling toward the gates. There were people wearing turbans and fezzes and long flowing robes and skin-tight jeans. There was a big group of white Americans taking home their adopted Ethiopian kids. There were missionaries and mercenaries and every kind of misfit.
An Asian woman sat next to me and started telling me her life story. She was Philippina and had been working in Brazil for the last eight years. She loved Brazil but for family reasons it was time to go back home, so here she was transiting through Ethiopia.
My sore throat had turned into a full-blown head and chest cold. I was blowing my nose and coughing my lungs out so I just nodded as she talked on and on. Suddenly she stood up, wished me “good luck” (for what?) and went to join the queue.
An extremely large black woman sat down next. Everything she wore, from her shoes to an elaborate hat, was bedazzled with sequins and rhinestones and feathers. I didn’t catch where she was coming from but she had a French accent and was headed to Paris.
After she left a tall white guy sat next to me. He was quite attractive and had what at first sounded like a British accent. “I’m taking my mother home to South Africa,” he said, “from Sheffield.” That explained that his accent sounded more British than South African, if he had lived in Sheffield for a long time.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I said. “She misses the home country?”
“Aw, no, she’s dead. I’m taking her body home for burial.”
He had a large duffel bag and I almost made a joke and asked if his mother was in it but I caught myself. He started to tear up, then stood abruptly and walked off to join the line.
On the plane to London. Whoopee, it was less than half full and I looked forward to stretching myself out across all three seats, especially since a small boy behind me kept kicking my seat. I believe in being direct, so I stood up and turned around to talk to the mother. She had already moved to another row and left him and his sister sitting there on their own.
“Don’t kick my seat,” I said with a smile. They looked at me as though they didn’t understand English. I would guess they were Pakistani. I sat down again and he continued kicking. Then I heard the sister tell him in very plain British English, “Don’t kick the lady’s seat, Russell!” He stopped. Good girl.
Before I could lie down, a woman in what appeared to be Ghanaian dress sat down in the aisle seat. “I will sit here,” she informed me. Damn. I tried blowing my nose and coughing extra hard. She not only failed to be repelled, she propped her feet up on the middle seat. Half way through the eight hour flight I nodded off and my hand fell onto her foot. She glared at me as though I was a pervert.
Is it me? Is it people? Is it travel?