Another continent

For fewer words and more pictures, go to my 

Malawi album on Google Photos. 

As I write this, I am looking at a very large cockroach on the white crown molding at the apex of our ceiling, high above our front door. My roommate Marine said she squashed one earlier today, and this morning I flushed a slightly smaller cockroach down the toilet after watching it flail upside down for a couple minutes, upset from its hiding place when I lifted my basket of toiletries. Last weekend when I saw my first cockroach here scuttle across the bathroom floor, I hoped it might be the only one — but despite our cleanliness and conscientiousness, that is obviously not to be.

Maybe they are coming out more because they sense that I am starting to feel at home. I first had that sensation only two days ago while cycling back from the CARE Malawi office. The sun was low, I was in the midst of many vehicles, and was about to exit one of the four two-lane traffic circles I have to navigate for my commute. As I looked up and saw the sky, trees, and more distant cars and pedestrians, I had the thought, “This is my home!” It surprised me.

Feeling at home seems premature and possibly naïve so early in my time here. I’ve been in Lilongwe only sixteen days, and every one of those has been filled with new experiences and learning. I’m already getting what I came for.

Departure

My dear Bubba dropped me and my bags at the airport the Monday night I left Vancouver. The overnight flight to Toronto was on a larger plane than I usually fly on, but was otherwise familiar territory. One of my former colleagues and his family were even on the plane with me, on their way to New York.

Andrew, his wife and daughter with me in the Toronto Pearson International Airport

With the next flight, Air Ethiopia transported me through the looking glass. 

We fly with the earth’s rotation through accelerated day and night for nineteen hours. I sit in a window seat beside a large woman returning to Angola after a visit with her son, now living in Edmonton, Alberta, and his family there. We don’t speak each other’s languages, but she proudly shows me photographs and expresses how relieves she is to be returning home. Almost everyone else on the plane, whether white or black, seem to be missionaries.

We land at the airport in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia at 8:00 Wednesday morning. I slept on the plane and brushed my teeth in the bathroom, but my hands and feet are swollen from the changes in air pressure, and I feel tired and grimy. After walking off the plane onto the tarmack, we are boarded onto very modern buses and taken to the terminal. The airport is smaller than I expected. The long, narrow second floor is divided along its length with a glass barrier. The passenger gates are on one side; shops and restaurants are on the other. At three or four points along the glass wall, small mag-and-bag security entry and exit points connect the two.

Morning in Addis

I am most obviously on another continent now. People’s clothing is much more diverse. The men in particular are no longer wearing only western clothes, but also Arabic robes, long cotton tunics with matching pants, or bright colours and patterns. Despite the modernity of the airport, the washrooms on the second floor are the type of wooden trailers that might be at a fairground, one side for each gender, with long line-ups. I am heartened to see water coolers, but when I try to fill my water bottle, I find they’re all empty.

As consolation, I decide to treat myself to breakfast in Ethiopia. I walk through one of the security gates to the shop and restaurant side, and explore the possibilities. There only seems to be one actual restaurant business which has four separate locations: a bar or lounge (almost empty at this time of day), a counter with breads and snacks, a fast-food meat counter, and a buffet restaurant. The buffet seems the only promising option for me, so I cart my carry-on luggage — laptop case, backpack, and ukelele — to one of the tables and settle in. 

A server approaches, and I tell her I’d like breakfast and a tea. She tells me this will be US$20. I’m astounded. But also hungry and curious. After debating with myself for a couple minutes, I ask her whether they take MasterCard. She says they might, but I’ll have to come with her. She reassures me that I can leave my luggage here, pointing to the security guards casually stationed at both entry points to the restaurant. So I leave my bags, including two laptops — something I would never do in a North American airport — and we walk to the lounge a few doors down. She and another server try to process my transaction, but the connection doesn’t seem to be strong enough. Reluctantly I pull the small amount of U.S. dollars I brought with me out of my wallet and fork over $20.

For this, I get Lipton’s tea, a small amount of papaya and watermelon, lots of steamed vegetables (fresh and crisp), nicely seasoned beans, one piece of injera, and a freshly-made omelet. It’s more food than I really need, but I've paid too much to be satisfied with less.

Finally, the time comes to board the plane. The gates of waiting passengers are much more crowded than I’m used to. I’m at the far end of the airport on the first floor in an area that has real washrooms, for which I’m grateful. Boarding is done by colours rather than numbered zones, undoubtedly in recognition of the diverse number of cultures and languages represented here. We are bussed to the plane on the tarmack, get onboard, and the flight crew play a recorded safety announcement over the intercom. Then the safety announcement appears on the television screens on the backs of our seats, but without any sound. They turn it off, and announce that there’s a problem with the audio-visual system that will need to be resolved before we depart. 

We wait half an hour on the plane before they decide to de-board us. No one complains. We are all, I think, mindful of the two recent airplane crashes that killed all passengers and crew. 

Eventually, we’re bussed back to the terminal, which is much quieter now that the other flights have left. The water coolers are still empty. Someone from the Air Ethiopia crew drives a golf cart with flats of bottled water and plastic-wrapped vanilla muffins to our gate, and people dive in. I am relieved to finally have water.

Arrival

When we finally arrive at the Kamuzu International Airport outside Lilongwe, it is 3:00 p.m. Already well-loaded with my three carry-on bags, I collect my three full-to-overweight suitcases from the baggage carousel, stack them on a cart, and quickly move through immigration. At customs, I see a big sign asking people to declare fruits, nuts, and seeds. I approach the customs agent and let her know I have dates and almonds with me. She seems curious, so I lug my largest bag onto the table beside her and start routing through it. Almost immediately, she stops me, seemingly appalled at the prospect of me emptying my luggage in search of the groceries I’ve brought. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” she says, and waves me through.

By Sean Mendis - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0

The airport is, of course, very small. There is a wall of bank machines, two or three mobile phone booths, and a crowd of people waiting to greet or transport passengers. I see a man holding a sign that says “CARE International” and approach him. Yes, he is my driver, and has been waiting over three hours. Nonetheless, he is patient enough to wait half an hour longer as I withdraw money (the first cash machine won’t accept any of my cards), and buy a SIM card for my phone before I rejoin him.

A man approaches us and takes my luggage, indicating that he’ll carry it to the car. When we get there, he turns to me and says, “Bakshish.” I ask the driver how much I should tip him, but the driver tells me, “They get paid by the airport.” Feeling uncertain — everything is strange — I get into the car.

Despite fatigue, I am excited to finally be seeing the place I’ve been wondering about for so many months. The land beside the highway is wide and open. Soon I notice people walking on dirt paths beside the road, and many more trees around us. Gradually, I realize that as rustic as it seems, we’re in Lilongwe, the capital city.

The trees recede, we go through traffic circles, see billboards, and suddenly here is the very modern parliament building my uncle showed me on Google Earth. We pass it, and the driver turns off the main road into a complex of shops and offices.

To my horror, I realize he has taken me to the CARE Malawi office. I am feeling completely unprepared to meet anyone, but he escorts me inside to the third-floor office space. We walk past a small reception desk to six rows of open workstations where about a dozen people are at their laptops. Exhausted, unkempt, and undoubtedly smelly, I introduce myself to the program manager for the Southern Africa Nutritional Initiative, Clement Ndiwo-Banda. He, in turn, introduces me to two of the other Cuso International volunteers, Marine and Jonathan. They are mercifully brief, and then send me off with the driver, who finally takes me to the hotel.

Copyright © 2019 Lynn Thorsell, All rights reserved.

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