"Africa: Going Home "
Meredith and I had been in Africa for nearly a month, and, at least according to the dates printed on our tickets and our painfully thin wallets, it was time to leave.
You know what sucks about traveling? The travel.
Meredith and I decided that we had no interest in taking another vomit filled ferry to Dar, only to spend another 12-14 hours in a variety of crowded, smelly, and bumpy busses, taxis, and shuttles back to Nairobi. We decided to fly.
This took some doing as my flight out of Nairobi left a day after Meredith's. We had to bounce from agent to agent in Stone Town in order to figure out how to change my arrangements and how to book a flight with Air Kenya off the island. There are no 1-800 numbers in Tanzania. It's not quite that easy. After several trips to several buildings and several meetings with several people, we finally arrived at the office of Air Kenya and had our tickets. However, I would not be able to change my flight until I arrived in Nairobi.
Our flight from Zanzibar left at 11:30 AM, but check-in was scheduled for 8:30. So two days after our return to Stone Town from Jambiani, we were picked up again by Bob Marley and the ever stoic Snoop, again we played a short game of mobile musical chairs, until eventually we found ourselves at the airport. Snoop even waved goodbye this time. I'd swear I almost saw him smile.
By 8:00 AM we were camped and waiting at the gate, only to wait another three hours before we were allowed board the plane. From Zanzibar we flew to the coastal city of Mombassa in Kenya. There my favorite Kenyan immigration authorities extracted another twenty bucks (halleluya) from my now nearly empty wallet, and we spent another hour at this airport. Shortly after, we were back in the air and en route to Nairobi.
When we landed sometime after 1:00 PM, we were greeted by the usual throng of taxi drivers, touts, and tour operators. They promptly pounced on all the unsuspecting tourists. Meredith and I, however, had become accustomed to the star treatment, and surprisingly enough, they recognized this and for the most part left us alone.
We found our bags and walked to the British Airways terminal. Keeping with our current pattern of hurry up and wait, the customer service counter was closed, and I wouldn't be able to change my reservations until 3:00 PM. As a result, Meredith and I got to spend another two hours at an airport.
We settled into an airport café, ordered some lunch, and spent the time in our continuing game of gin. Aroundt three, I headed over to the customer service counter and spent fifteen minutes in an effort to convince the agent to accept my credit card so I could change my flight. She wanted cash (big surprise). I didn't have enough, and she wouldn't take a traveler's check. I argued. Once she was reasonably convinced that I didn’t have enough to complete the transaction, she accepted my VISA card, reluctantly processed my order, and I finally had tickets on Meredith's flight.
However, that flight didn't leave until roughly 10 PM. It was just after 4 PM.
Meredith didn't want to take a $20 cab ride into Nairobi only to take another $20 cab ride back a few hours later. So we got to spend another five hours in the airport, another five hours of novels, gin rummy, and African airport food.
But surprises abound in Africa, and Kenya didn't disappoint even at the airport. During our dinner a pipe on the roof burst, and it suddenly began raining inside the restaurant. A drop here, a trickle there, and then water was pouring from the acoustic tiles all across the ceiling. One side of the restaurant was getting saturated, and a half dozen employees stared blankly upward, wondering how to stop the deluge. Thankfully, our table on the other side of the room remained dry and comfortable.
We sat in the restaurant, despite the odd inclement weather, and spoke of our trip. We remembered the summit, the safari, and our friends in Arusha. We remembered the elephant that chased us, and the lions that thankfully did not. Neither of us really wanted to leave, but both of us were running short of funding. I could stay, but I couldn't stay and continue to pay my rent back home. Meredith had been on unpaid leave for four months, and things were starting to look grim for her as well - besides, Steve was returning from South America soon. Just about the time we felt comfortable in Africa, just about the time the sights, the smells, and the sounds began to feel familiar and we were confident in our ability to travel safely, it was time to leave.
I suppose nothing lasts forever. But I still longed for a bigger slice of temporary.
Sometime after nine, we boarded our plane and settled in for our overnight trip London. Our flight landed sometime after dawn, and we made way to the BA service counter. Meredith had originally scheduled to spend two weeks in Europe after Africa, but now felt she wanted to return before the fourth of July. She tried to get a seat on my flight out, three days later. Unfortunately, with the busy European vacation season in full swing, her only decent shot at an earlier exit was to fly standby on a flight leaving that morning.
Meredith ran off to that gate, and I settled into yet another airport for another three hours of waiting. I lay down on the bench, dirty, unshaven, and about ten pounds lighter than when I first lay down on a bench in Gatwick, nearly a month before. Meredith soon returned and informed me that she found a spot on the flight, and was leaving momentarily.
I didn't want her to go. I had spent every waking moment with her for the better part of a month, and had grown rather fond of her companionship. I knew I was going to miss her. Hell, I was missing her already and she wasn't even on the plane. But again, I suppose nothing lasts forever.
We said goodbye, promised to meet soon in California, and she boarded her plane. Meredith was going home.
I was going to London first.
So roughly 24 hours after leaving the Malindi, more than half of which was spent in four different airports in three different countries on two different continents, and what seemed like totally different worlds, I left the terminal and bought a train ticket into London. I sat on the train, reticent, and watched the English countryside flashing by. I thought of acacia trees. I thought of Alan in Arusha. I thought of the sixteen rolls of film in my bag and the memories they contained. I thought of all the places I had been, and all the places I still wanted to go.
And I thought I needed a shower and a Laundromat.
Three days of London architecture, art and alcohol later, I reluctantly boarded another train and another plane. It was my turn to go home.
