It’s a long journey that starts in Cleveland, Ohio on Tuesday morning, where I encounter a few pleasant surprises. First the extra bag charge for the third suitcase of supplies is much less than expected, a nice boost to the budget. Then my boarding pass is marked TSA Pre-Check. I have no idea why or what it means, but that magic phrase allows me to breeze through security without removing anything from my bag, with all clothing in tact. I wish I’d known this before I took my computer out and removed my shoes, but I love this phrase. I hope to see this on all my future tickets.
The flight to JFK is uneventful but the flight from JFK to Paris is miserable. We are packed in like chickens in a coop in a hot, smelly cabin. The steward assures us the smell will evaporate but it is only joined by the equally bad smell of the food. I can do hot, cramped and bad food – but the inability to avoid a horrid movie showing on the antiquated video system dangling directly over my head is pushing the limits. But all flights end, even miserable ones,and I am happy to land in Paris. I never thought I’d ever hear myself say that. I historically get lost Charles de Gaulle and avoid this place whenever possible. However, renovations have made it easy to navigate and now even someone like me is without excuse.
I spent the flight reading a book entitled Where I am Wearing: A Global Tour to the Countries, Factories and People Who Make Our Clothes. So while I can appreciate the beauty of the colorful displays in stores with names like Hermes and Gucci and Dior, and can appreciate the photo-shopped perfection of the larger-than-life, models staring down at me from every wall, the glitter and glamour appears tawdry. One surreal but delightful sight is that of a hard-hatted airport employee carrying a huge bunch of orange balloons in a room across the way. Perhaps it is for a co-worker’s birthday, no way to know, but there will be a celebration of some sort today. After a good cup of tea and countless back and forth terminal meanderings, I gratefully board a Kenya Air flight to Nairobi. In contrast to the AA experience, these planes are intentionally built for human beings. Enough said.
The new international terminal at Jomo Kenyatta airport in Nairobi shocks me. I was there last year, not long after the old terminal was destroyed by fire. On three different layovers I walked the long, dingy hallway praying for God to bless the shopkeepers whose livelihood had been destroyed, to bless all the airport employees, to bless Kenya and help them to rebuild. I expected something better, but not this!
The first thing I notice as we taxi to the terminal is a building housing several fire trucks. There was no way to fight last year’s fire because there were no trucks, not at the airport or even in the province. Now I count five.
The interior of the new terminal is stunning and the merchants and employees can’t hide the joy and pride they feel. I buy a seriously overpriced paper book book from a young woman named Margarite who is just opening her bookstore. I don’t think I’ve ever paid $34 for a paperback book in my life, but to launch and encourage her, I consider it money well spent.
Hours pass and finally a long line forms for the delayed flight to Antananarivo. As we wait, a notice flashes on the board saying that the flight has departed. People laugh but no one minds. How can the plane leave when the people are still here?
Several hours later, just before dawn, we land at Ivato Airport in Antananarivo. Obviously concerned about ebola, every passenger is screened for fever. I am asked to produce a yellow fever vaccination card, which has never been required before and I don’t carry. The woman gives me a friendly warning to bring it next time, making note of it on my entry card. After another long line for visa, and yet another to pass police security, I make it to the baggage hall. All suitcases are there, a bit worse for wear, but present and accounted for. I take a deep breath, pray again, and head for customs. I really don’t want them to open the suitcase filled with medical supplies, but they are opening everyone’s luggage without exception. No problem, it will work out…it always does.
I finally reach the customs officer and reach for my letter written in French detailing all the contents of the medical suitcase. The gentleman asks me what i have in the case and I tell him medical supplies for a community clinic. He smiles and waves me through without opening one case. Prayer answered.
I see my friends and Ancient Path partners, Cathy and Ibrahim Ravoahangy, waving and smiling on the other side of the door. Outside the glass doors I can see that the sun is beginning to rise. I’m in Madagascar.
