The beautiful people await on the flip side. We will hug, holding on for a lingering moment – as if to say ‘never leave again’. We will drive home in happy, gleeful and noisy chatter – she telling of Miss Desirè, friend Gabbie and the concert night, him admiring my diminishing frame, and me telling of the pea-brained bigots. We will laugh with abandoned care. We will dance to Savage Gardens and Tina Turner. We will whisper late into the night, we will make love, fly kites. We will feel vulnerable, safe, loved – we …………………….
“Welcome aboard ladies & gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice jolts me to my current reality. “It will be a long tiresome journey today, he continues, “We will do four airports in three countries, bear with us. Airport Two is as usual, for immigration controls and re-fueling, however there is no fuel at Airport Two, hence we will re-fuel at Airport Three. We expect the whole journey to take five hours. We apologise for the extended travel times, but do enjoy the flight.”
Airport Two is usually unnerving- identification travel documents are handed over to a unofficial looking character, clad in casual jeans and t-shirt, no uniform, no badge to identify him – what if he disappears with the crucial documents? Today I feel no separation anxiety though, this is the eighth time I have been through this ordeal, and history has shown me that my document will resurface and will have a neat stamp showing I am legal. The “unofficial” official is efficient today, and within half an hour we are back in the 30-seater machine, the green book safe in my bag.
There are no skyscrapers to announce Airport Three, the city below looks like a war zone, fragmentary buildings, haphazard structures, no planning, a sprawling shanty town– what do they do with all the copper revenue? The refuelling is without incidence, and within another half hour we are buckling up for take-off. We are on the long stretch home. I bury myself in Tim Butcher’s “Blood River –A Journey to Africa`s Broken Heart.”
I absorb Butcher’s haughtiness and ego as he plods through the Congo. The book portrays a stiff and detached English man, who makes no meaningful human contact and records the journey in a patronising and even dismissive tone. The only credit being the regurgitation of the ‘Scramble for Africa’ history!
A disappointing, if not annoying read, but it sets me thinking; The story of the Congo typifies Africa, pregnant with resources, with potential – yet always miscarrying, delivering malady, demise, penury, corruption and dictators - it’s evident from up here! I look down at orphaned Zambia, (the wrong patriarch answered the call home!), she hosts one of the richest copper deposits in the world, and yet there is little evidence in her skyline to suggest she is endowed with such wealth. I look down on dying Zimbabwe, she tells the story of patriarchs gone mad. The irrigated lands that defined the homeland and provided photogenic sceneries from the air, have disappeared, telling a desperate tale of displaced, dispossessed farmers, scattered professionals, a tale of a hungry and angry nation, a lost generation.
The pilot rescues me from these suicidal thoughts, that have in the past, threatened to have me complete the American Green Card Lottery form. He announces our descent into Airport Four. I look down to see skyscrapers, beaming lights, a brilliant, vibrant world class, African city - the city that plays host to the beautiful people; And I wonder, for a fleeting second –
"How much longer will he hold out, before he succumbs to Africa’s darkness, Africa’s curse?"
“Africa is a bitch,” I say “a moody bitch!”
“Welcome aboard ladies & gentlemen,” the pilot’s voice jolts me to my current reality. “It will be a long tiresome journey today, he continues, “We will do four airports in three countries, bear with us. Airport Two is as usual, for immigration controls and re-fueling, however there is no fuel at Airport Two, hence we will re-fuel at Airport Three. We expect the whole journey to take five hours. We apologise for the extended travel times, but do enjoy the flight.”
Airport Two is usually unnerving- identification travel documents are handed over to a unofficial looking character, clad in casual jeans and t-shirt, no uniform, no badge to identify him – what if he disappears with the crucial documents? Today I feel no separation anxiety though, this is the eighth time I have been through this ordeal, and history has shown me that my document will resurface and will have a neat stamp showing I am legal. The “unofficial” official is efficient today, and within half an hour we are back in the 30-seater machine, the green book safe in my bag.
There are no skyscrapers to announce Airport Three, the city below looks like a war zone, fragmentary buildings, haphazard structures, no planning, a sprawling shanty town– what do they do with all the copper revenue? The refuelling is without incidence, and within another half hour we are buckling up for take-off. We are on the long stretch home. I bury myself in Tim Butcher’s “Blood River –A Journey to Africa`s Broken Heart.”
I absorb Butcher’s haughtiness and ego as he plods through the Congo. The book portrays a stiff and detached English man, who makes no meaningful human contact and records the journey in a patronising and even dismissive tone. The only credit being the regurgitation of the ‘Scramble for Africa’ history!
A disappointing, if not annoying read, but it sets me thinking; The story of the Congo typifies Africa, pregnant with resources, with potential – yet always miscarrying, delivering malady, demise, penury, corruption and dictators - it’s evident from up here! I look down at orphaned Zambia, (the wrong patriarch answered the call home!), she hosts one of the richest copper deposits in the world, and yet there is little evidence in her skyline to suggest she is endowed with such wealth. I look down on dying Zimbabwe, she tells the story of patriarchs gone mad. The irrigated lands that defined the homeland and provided photogenic sceneries from the air, have disappeared, telling a desperate tale of displaced, dispossessed farmers, scattered professionals, a tale of a hungry and angry nation, a lost generation.
The pilot rescues me from these suicidal thoughts, that have in the past, threatened to have me complete the American Green Card Lottery form. He announces our descent into Airport Four. I look down to see skyscrapers, beaming lights, a brilliant, vibrant world class, African city - the city that plays host to the beautiful people; And I wonder, for a fleeting second –
"How much longer will he hold out, before he succumbs to Africa’s darkness, Africa’s curse?"
“Africa is a bitch,” I say “a moody bitch!”
Great command of the english language.The story absorbs you,the description of the lands below almost moves you to tears for our home-Africa.Beautiful work!
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