Arriving in Africa

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New travel blog, my first in years! Here's to another continent that will remain half unblogged because I'll lose patience and enthusiasm half way through. For now though, here we go.

I’ve developed a bit of a fear of flying lately. I do realise this is ridiculous, having flown all round the world for years without a problem. It started around the time I graduated medical school, and realised that pilots and airports are probably about as fallible as doctors and hospitals. It annoys me like my fear of spiders annoys me, because it’s stupid and embarrassing and I know it makes no sense, but there it is. I don’t let either fear stop me hopping in an airborne metal tube and being propelled to destinations absolutely full of the massive eight legged bastards. I just accept the fact that occasionally it’s going to cause me to freak out a little.

Landing at Dar Es Saalam was one of those occasions. It was a bouncy descent then a rough landing in heavy rain, nothing too bad. A couple of people somewhat overcautiously adopted the brace position, I adopted my own landing position which involves digging my fingernails into both armrests and silently mouthing the word FUUUUCCCCCKKKKKKK.

I’m not sure if I’d recommend Ethiopian Airlines. I don’t blame them for the landing, but I do blame them for tipping an entire tray of boiling hot beef curry on my foot. I kicked out reflexively to try and get it off, sending my curry stained flipflop flying across the cabin. They then offered me a single ice-cube with which to treat the resulting first degree burns. I once knew someone who got upgraded to first class on another airline because a hostess chucked a glass of orange juice down them, so I was quietly hoping I might get some free stuff. Not so. I dread to think what kind of misfortune would have to befall you to get upgraded on Ethiopian. Maybe loss of limb or multi-organ dysfunction.

Also if you fly with Ethiopian to Dar Es Salaam, you have to change at Adis Ababa airport. Here I spent 4 hours sitting on the floor, eventually getting so bored I decided to burst my curry burn toe blister with a plastic airline fork, which I had attempted to sterilise using alcohol hand gel.

My final destination was the island of Zanzibar, for a week long holiday on the beach before I start my Tropical Medicine diploma at Kilimanjiro Medical Collage inMoshi,Tanzania. Getting there involved one more flight, on a tiny little twin propeller plane. The landing in Dar had left me very tempted to abandon this plan and get the ferry, but by the time I’d negotiated the visa scrum and retrieved my bag I had calmed myself down. I grabbed a taxi to head over to Terminal 1, which is basically a separate airport for teensy planes.

I was hours too early here, so I sat down with a notebook and started writing this blog (which only three people will read… hi, mum). When check in eventually opened the lady at the desk was struggling with my ticket. She couldn’t find me on the system, but thought it might be a problem with the computer. She went to fetch her manager. The ZanAir manager studied my ticket and explained that the reason I wasn’t on the list was because my flight was booked for three weeks ago. Me and check in lady were forced to agree that this would seem to be the case. Neither of us had actually checked. That is what you get if you book flights in an attempt to cheer yourself up when you’ve just finished a night shift. Feeling intensely stupid, I didn’t even attempt to argue, just handed my over my card to buy another $75 ticket. The manager guy smiled and said “hakuna matata” (I shit you not, it would seem people actually say this), then told me I could pay a $25 fee to change the date on my ticket instead. Change it from a date three weeks IN THE PAST, to today. This is so far removed from the behaviour of any airline I have ever previously encountered, I was genuinely speechless. ZanAir. They’re like the opposite of RyanAir! I love them.

The plane was a tiny little twin prop 12 passenger thing. I’ve flown on one similar just once before, in the Bolivian jungle, back when I was braver. I bagged myself a window seat. We took off late afternoon and stayed low to the ground, so you could clearly see the surrealistically elongated shadows of kids playing football on the beaches, stretched to 5 times their height across the sand. Strangely, I wasn’t scared at all. It was beautiful, and I felt totally calm. The flight was so smooth and the scene passing by the window too perfect, it felt safe and passive like a Disneyland ride. It was easy to believe that even if the plane came down it would settle on the water gently, like a giant metal seabird, and make its way slowly to shore. The landing was flawless. The pilot a true pro, even if he was dressed like something out of a 90s music video. When we got on the ground he let me sit in the cockpit and explained the controls.

Unfortunately I don’t have any photos taken in flight because my camera battery was flat and I was too scared to turn on my phone because it really did seem like the kind of plane where accidentally receiving a text message could reset the navigation system.

My taxi driver from the airport to Stone Town was a friendly guy, chatting about local history whilst cheerfully but not pushily trying to sell me tours I wasn’t interested in. He seemed pretty pleased with my reasons for being in Tanzania, and made a point of showing me the hospitals as we drove past. Half way to town we came across a traffic accident which seemed to have involved some combination of a van, a car and a tree. There were at least 40 people gathered around, all of them shouting. It looked minor, but instinctively I asked the driver to stop so I could see if anyone needed help. He shook his head. We’re not stopping here. I thought about it. I’d been awake for 36 hours, I was in an unfamiliar place where I don’t speak the language, and there was a lot of shouting going on. An awful lot of shouting. The injured parties were all conscious and yelling at each other, so I mentally triaged them as being probably unlikely to benefit from immediate roadside intervention by a British junior doctor with no first aid kit and no knowledge of Swahili. I bend to the superior wisdom of my taxi driver, and we moved on. Pick your battles.

My arrival in Stone Town coincided with a 48 hour long powercut. The hostel was lit with hurricane lamps and jars full of candles, which was very atmospheric but potentially a fire hazard given the wooden construction. I arrived just in time to climb five flights of stairs and catch an amazing sunset from the rooftop cafe, cursing my lack of a proper camera...

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Photos

Addis Ababa Airport
The highlight of this airport was this smoking enclosure, consisting of a wire cage with a single non-functional extractor fan.

Comments

[Home and Away]

Welcome back to blogging...
I just hope you keep it up recognizing the difficulties with the internet.

[Keep Smiling]

Be brave!
After many years in the travel industry with many and frequent flights, I too developed aviophobia. In my mind, the law of averages said that a plane that would one day go down when it was meant to go up, I guess. Facing the irrational fear, as you've done, is the only cure, isn't it? Almost as brave, was to visit the lovely island of Zanzibar just two weeks after that terrible acid attack on the two British teenagers. Do I hear 'Hakuna matata'?

[liliram]

Hope not....
Here's hoping you won't lose the enthusiasm and grow impatient. Keep writing, please. And here's wishing no more curry mishaps!