It’s a chilly, rainy morning in Belfast, Northern Ireland. I’m camped under a comforter, hot coffee in hand, enjoying the view from a large 2nd story bedroom window. I’ve been working since 5 am – editing photos, jotting notes to self on various projects in Madagascar and Malawi, writing a list of stories yet to tell. The internet connection issue in Malawi was frustrating because I so wanted to share the stories and pictures realtime, but for whatever reason that wasn’t happening this year. No worries though – it just means there are many stories left to tell in the weeks ahead. I haven’t even finished with the Madagascar travel tales yet! But first let me tell you about my journey from Malawi to London via Zambia and Nairobi.
The African flights and layovers are hot, crowded, and, as always, interesting. My seat doesn’t recline and my video screen is broken, but I’m still in Africa mode so it’s no problem. I’m stunned by the changes in Jomo Kenyatta airport in just the last month. At the beginning of October it was a graveyard. This weekend the place is hopping, with all shops renovated and open for business. White-clad muslim men kneel on patterned prayer rugs in hallway alcoves while Christian missionaries and tourists in transit try not to stare. A young woman from London waits in line for coffee next to me, complaining non-stop and loudly into my ear about the lack of a proper queue when the sign clearly says queue here. She remarks that I appear incredibly relaxed considering the desperate situation facing us with this messy queue and assures me that she is on the edge of a nervous breakdown if she doesn’t get her refreshments in a timely fashion. I believe her but my mind is wandering. I’m wondering whether my sweaty shirt still smells of old straw and zebu or if that distinct odor is just stuck in my nostrils.
I miss Africa already and I’m still here.
The flight to London is blessedly uneventful but I land in Heathrow with a proverbial thud. It starts at passport control where the combination of my Africa origins, my Belfast destination and my spanking new passport raises red flags. My old, nearly-expired passport is chock-full and looks like it’s been through a decade of wars, but this one is crisp, pristine. I swear it looks counterfeit. As people sail through neighboring lines, I remain stuck, answering endless questions: who do you know in Belfast and why are you going there? Ah, I see you are Belfast born- do you have alot of family there? Do you visit them often? When was the last time you traveled to Belfast? Your passport is obviously new…
My thoughts drift to the muslim woman grilled by security in Nairobi. She was in line just ahead of me and they took her apart. They even made her remove, with great difficulty, all of her bangle bracelets. I wear an equal number of silver bracelets on my right wrist that always set off alarms but am told no worries, you can leave them on. I felt sympathy for the woman at the time, being treated like a suspect simply because she was dressed in muslim garb. I feel more sympathy for her now as I’m snapped back to my current reality with more questions: Where else do you intend to travel in Northern Ireland? What were you doing in Africa? What is your profession and when will you return to the States?
By the time I get to the baggage claim I’ve lost my African no-problem vibe and am a bit distracted. The Kenya Air guys in Malawi had decided to check my bags as far as London instead of Belfast to save me an excess baggage fee. It sounded good at the time, but I didn’t take into account the need to change terminals while lugging two 50# suitcases, a 40# briefcase and a 20# purse on and off of trains without a luggage cart. At 5:30 in the morning, as I stand staring at the squeaking conveyor belt through glazed eyes, it no longer sounds like such a good deal. But what’s done is done. I fight the crowds, grab my bags and struggle to inch them through customs, into elevators, down hallways and onto a train for terminal one. It takes awhile and though many people stare, no one helps. This isn’t Malawi.
Finally, I triumphantly disembark the train and inch up the hallway to my terminal. Thirty minutes later as I’m rounding the corner to the British Air desk I look down at my bags and discover with horror that one of the bags is not my bag at all. It belongs to a man named Mohammed. I’ve just been grilled at passport control and now I’m running around Heathrow airport with Mohammed’s bag. Great.
I turn around and head back to terminal four which takes me a full hour. Once there, I look for people to help me solve my problem. An official-looking woman in a purple suit points me to a wall phone, gives me the number for Kenya air and assures me that a representative will soon appear to guide me through security and back into baggage claim. She runs away as if she already knows that Kenya Air will never answer their phone. The dirty-white plastic handset hangs cattywonkus on the wall, looking like it has been beaten by many a frustrated traveler. I take a few swipes at it myself when no one is looking and twenty minutes later go off in search of someone else to help. This time I am directed to metal door leading to a secure control area but there is no way to open the door or to communicate with anyone inside. This is completely useless. Countless scenarios begin to play out in my head, all related to Mr. Mohammed. He could well be a successful businessman, an Oxford professor, or a wonderful father and loving husband who stuffed his bag full of gifts for his family. He could also be a drug mule or Osama bin Laden’s 2nd cousin twice removed. I really have to get rid of this bag.
Finally, I decide to stand in the middle of the concourse and simply pray for God to send the right person to me. Duh. Five minutes later a gray-haired gentleman appears and, after a bit of good-natured chiding about poor Mr. Mohammed’s bag, he ushers me to a secure area where I am searched and every bag is x-rayed. I remind them multiple times that I have absolutely no idea what is in Mohammed’s bag…honest. Everyone looks at me like I’m an idiot. I want to tell them that I have never, ever, ever grabbed the wrong bag in all my years of travel but what’s the point? Today I am an idiot. Finally, I make it back to my starting point, locate my Swiss Army suitcase with the huge hot pink tag that looks absolutely nothing like Mohammed’s bag. I sheepishly ask the Kenya Air reps to convey my sincere apologies to Mr. Mohammed and slink away. Now, three hours after landing, I’m standing in front of the customs door…again. And it’s back to the trains and terminal one. Groundhog day.
The rest of my 6 1/2 hour layover is a blur. Beautifully dressed women glide by brightly lit shops in warm coats, colorful scarves and high-heeled boots. I’m feeling scruffy and cold in my thin brown cotton shirt, leopard print scarf , khaki cargo pants and ugly-but-comfy shoes. I pay too much money for a cup of coffee that is nowhere near as good as the yummy boiled-over-an-open-fire brew in the villages of Anjabetrongo or Sakalava. I open the photos on my computer, plug in a South African CD purchased the day before at a Malawian market stall, and tune out my surroundings. On another day I can pray for London, but today I’m tired and missing my African family in both Madagascar and Malawi. Today the glistening Christmas decorations gracing the fancy shops look tacky and even the classical music purring from the ceiling speakers grates on the ear. My plan for the next few hours is to enjoy the faces and sounds of Africa on my laptop, pray that Mr. Mohammed has been united with his long-lost bag and sprinkle a few drops of this tasteless coffee onto my passport, for effect.
