Remembering my trip to Berbera in 2016. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
The flight attendants made their way through the cabin. I stockpiled the small cups of water they handed out and added them to my bottle in case there was an unanticipated delay and I got thirsty. The flight, however, was short and we soon touched down in Addis Ababa. The lights of the city glowed around its hills as the sun set over Ethiopia. Across the aisle, a chatty expat UN worker asked her seatmate if it was worth leaving the airport to hit the bars during her layover. Even though I had six hours before my flight to Washington DC, I would not be venturing outside of the terminal. I didn’t want to pass through security with all my camera equipment any more than necessary.
We departed through the back exit of the plane and descended the stairs down to the tarmac. Workers in faded blue jumpsuits shouted out to us which bus would take us to the international departures gates. Not everyone listened or understood. Eventually I found the correct bus and crowded in with the other passengers. Inside, I grasped a plastic ribbon that hung from the ceiling with my index finger to balance myself and my luggage in the packed vehicle as it swerved and maneuvered around the planes to the terminal.
Bole International Airport wasn’t exactly state of the art but it was light years ahead of Hargiesa’s. After disembarking from the bus, staff guided us to elevators. They didn’t work but they still were a sign of development. As we climbed up to the terminal, airline personnel asked everyone on our flight to visit the customer service desk to claim a voucher for a complimentary meal.
The desk was just at the top of the elevator and the voucher line was short. Actually it was just me and one other lady who missed her connecting flight. I assume the other passengers were suspicious that the free meal offer was just a CIA scam. The lady and I waited for 20 minutes until we politely shouted in the direction of the airport personnel who continuously darted back and forth behind the desk. Once we caught their attention, they resolved the situation of the passenger in front of me quickly.
“Your flight has already departed,” a representative told her. “You’ll have to make other arrangements and unfortunately, there is nothing we are able to do about that.”
It was my turn to approach the desk. My request for a complimentary meal was a rare one so a manager was called. Five minutes later, one appeared. After scanning my passport and reviewal of my itinerary, a voucher was printed and handed to me.
I made my way across the terminal to the United lounge for dinner. After having my ticket, voucher, and passport scanned again I was directed to a lonely buffet. There was not much there except some rice and old lamb stew. I decided to look for dinner elsewhere.
I made my way through the airport passing by the shoe shiners, the cultural gift shops, the exclusive Chinese sky lounge, and a lady brewing traditional coffee over coals. At the far corner of the terminal I found my old haunt, New London II. I settled in and got the attention of the gossiping waitresses long enough to order some shiro, injera, and a large St. George, my first beer in nearly two weeks. I took in the view from the brasserie and watched travelers from Africa, Europe, Asia, and the Middle East, circulate through the airport as if they were extras in the Star Wars cantina scene.
After my delicious meal, I took a turn rotating around the terminal myself, over and over again like a goldfish in a large but crowded bowl. I had three hours left before the flight. I staked out the bathrooms. The first one I visited was near the airport’s designated smoking area, a glass enclosure packed to capacity with Chinese workers heading home on furlough. There was so much smoke that plumes seeped out across the concourse and into the adjacent Men’s room. Inside, old women in veils scrubbed the toilets with squeegees. Smokers gathered at the sink in a vain effort to rid themselves of the residual tar that had accumulated on their skin, hair, and lungs.
After a few more circles around the airport, I stopped at the restaurant on the other end of the terminal. This one was also not without challenges. It was located next to a mosque and every sink was occupied by someone washing their feet after their prayers. Beyond the security checkpoint were more restrooms, however, once you crossed over, you lost the amenities of the terminal such as the ability to buy a bottle of water. I took my chances with the bathroom by the mosque and with a little patience I was able to move through the crowds, get my business done, and wash my hands.
For the next couple of hours I continued to circumvent the great terminal; going one way a couple of times and then reversing course in the other direction. My backpack, heavy with my electronics and bags of coffee I bought as I passed by gift shops, pinched my shoulders and made me hunch down. It was better, however, than sitting. I would be doing plenty of that over the course of my 16 hour flight.
Timing when to go to security is tricky in Addis. Too soon and you are stuck in the boarding area, too late and you face crowds and panic. During my first visit to this airport, on another layover from Nairobi a few years ago, I mistimed my approach to the gate. I arrived at security 45 minutes before my flight and had to wait in a long line. Three flights were scheduled to take off around the same time. Then someone announced over the PA that the doors on the planes were closing. Tensions arose amongst the diverse array of travelers; cultural differences led to misunderstandings followed by yelling, hysteria, and then, all of a sudden, there was a mad rush.
It was like crowd surfing at a concert as I was pushed from behind. I tried to stay on my feet and avoid being trampled. I felt myself floating with the mob toward the metal detectors and then, to my surprise, we went through them. This was in 2012, a decade after 9/11, and I was shocked that the passengers, including myself, had bum rushed TSA and were still allowed to dash into the bridge and find our seats on the plane. I worried the entire flight back home that a bomb would go off. Since that incident I noticed security at the airport had been beefed up.
Wiser from my previous experiences, I strategically emptied my bladder in a bathroom wedged between the first and second security checkpoints, a kind of no-man’s land for passengers. At the following screening I was given a slip of paper notifying me to stick around for enhanced security procedures. The agents asked me questions about the lavalier microphones in my backpack and then they treated me to a pat down.
Afterward, I had just enough time to stand in line with the last boarding group for my plane to Washington DC. Ahead of me was a large family, maybe 11 people of all ages. The women wore full burkas, even the young girls, and outnumbered the father and his two sons. I could tell they had been waiting at the gate for a long time and I wondered how their security screenings went.
The inside of the jetway was dense with passengers but orderly. In the plane it instantly felt like being back in America. TV screens on the back of every seat tried to sell you NFL Red Zone access and the booze in first class was already flowing. There were plenty of Africans on the flight too, perhaps elated and petrified at the same time. Donald Trump wasn’t even president yet and already, he was talking about building his big, beautiful border wall and instituting an immigration ban on what he would eventually call shit hole countries.
I found my seat and soon we took off. I tried to turn off my TV screen but it kept popping back on to get my attention about airplane safety and directions on how to access the pay-per-view. Negotiating with the apparatus, I switched the display over to the flight tracker. It still wouldn’t turn off but at least this programming was less intrusive.
I spent my time watching the little plane icon trace a slow arc from the Southern to Northern Hemisphere and then over to Greenland, incrementally making its way to DC. We made a pit stop in Dublin but were not allowed to deboard. Instead, a group of tattooed Irish cleaners came on board with mister bottles and shammy clothes. They worked in silence collecting the trash and spot vacuuming the aisle. Then we were off in the air again.
I sat near a group of teenagers; it could have been their first time traveling abroad. Once airborne, a young woman connected her phone to a large external battery and, from what I could tell, live streamed into her friend’s wedding using the plane’s WiFi. Music crackled over her phone’s little speaker. Somewhere else on this planet the party attendees passed the phone to one another while the woman on the plane chatted away. She spent a good portion of the flight in revelry with her remote companions at both the service and reception.
I was amazed that someone would think to dial into a wedding party as an active participant. And yet, I was more surprised that I was even shocked in the first place. Technology caught up to our globalized world. Taking long haul flights to events like the investment conference I attended was becoming less necessary with the advent of decent video conferencing apps. In a few short years the COVID pandemic would severely restrict international travel. Trips like this one would only exist as nostalgic memories.
In Dulles it was early in the morning. Security lines were still long but, as an American citizen, I whisked through them, even with all my electronic gear. The customs agent raised an eyebrow at my passport stamps, asked if I had been around any livestock, and then let me pass.
The last leg of the trip was typically American. Sleep-deprived, I wondered about the airport. Eventually, I sauntered up to the lost souls running the kiosks in the food court and ordered a greasy, processed, pre-packaged breakfast sandwich. At an overpriced bar I briefly chatted with another international traveler who was standing in line with me at 10:30 AM. She was on her way back to Afghanistan to do aid work. It would be her last drink for a while. She looked to be middle aged but could’ve been younger. Maybe the hard life on the other side of the world had worn her down or it could have just been the day-to-day rat race of Washington DC. Before I could ask, she gulped down her cocktail and whisked her wheeled suitcase off to a distant gate.
On my last flight, connecting me to Denver, the cabin was packed to the brim with passengers. Condescending flight attendants hawked credit card applications and cardboard snack boxes. It was evening by the time we landed at DIA. I called my wife to let her know I’d be home soon. Then came the last of the waiting: waiting to deboard the plane, waiting for the train to baggage claim, waiting for my luggage, waiting for the train downtown; missing my connection and waiting for the next one. Exhausted and barely able to walk, I pulled myself and my luggage off the train at my stop. I trudged up the hill through the park and to my front door. Once inside, I sighed with relief. I made it through the journey in one piece. In the shadows of the bedroom my wife, the dog, and the cat were asleep in bed. I rearranged the pets and cuddled up to my wife.
I closed my eyes and started to drift off to sleep. Then I remembered I never brushed my teeth. I maneuvered my way out of the covers and felt around in the dark for my duffel bag. I found the zipper and pulled it back. Afragrance filled my nostrils. Incense from somewhere on the other side of the world must have come into close proximity to my belongings during transit. It had permeated my clothes. I continued to unzip the bag and released more of the exotic perfume into the bedroom; one last gasp of air wafting in from the Somali coast.