Airports, Airlines, and the Fun of Arrival

It seems I left London the day before all hell broke loose. I suppose to a Brit the handover from Blair to Brown could have counted, but after our hanging-chads, recounts, and Supreme Court decisions, I thought Tony stepping down was rather tame. Of course the ensuring chaos of car bombs and flaming jeeps the following day showed how fragile the peace can be. But as I said, I left the “safety” of England for the “danger” of Sudan the day before. But upon arriving at the airport I was not sure I was ever going to get out. Entering terminal 3 at Heathrow airport I was overcome by the sheer chaos that was before me, it was as though by stepping through the sliding doors I had some how teleported directly to Sudan. With the thousands of people standing in ling waiting for check in I had nearly concluded that I would never make the flight in time. Lucky I quickly realized that all of these people where waiting for check in on Indian Airlines going to Delhi and Mumbai (of course!) and that no one was waiting in line for Qatar airlines (again, of course….who goes to Qatar?) and breathed an odd sigh of relief that I was going to Sudan and not India.

While waiting to board the plane that would take me to Qatar then onto Khartoum I noticed that the other passengers where an odd mix Arab men and women and young British University students. Nearly half the people there where 18 or 19 with goofy hair cuts and lots of piercing. Fully perplexed why Uni students would want to go to Qatar I finally asked some young girl who bubbly informed me “like I guess students just love Thailand!” Which I guess made since, but the sheer mass number of them was amazing. I suppose it’s the British equivalent to Spring Break, although Thailand is a hell of a lot cooler then Panama City Florida. I kind of wished I was going with them…but then realized I was heading to Sudan instead…I felt old.

So after a brief 7-hour layover in Qatar I finally touched back down in Sudan. Arriving back somewhere is always an odd mix of excitement and the realization of why you left. This is no more true then in Sudan. There is the blasting heat that greats you when getting off the plane, the race to be the first to get on the transport shuttle (even though it won’t leave until everyone is on), then the ever amusing wait for the luggage. Sudanese (and many other African’s I have noticed) have an amazing ability to buy the biggest thing possible while over seas and then attempt to bring it home! And for some reason when waiting for this giant sized object at the luggage carrousel it is necessary to take as many carts as you can (some families had 8 or 9) while standing as close to the carrousel as possible (with all of your family) and then look confused and frustrated when you have no space to actually get your 500 pound box (no joke, one guy had a full size basketball hoop, backboard and poll) off the belt. It is slightly entertaining to watch…unless you have a bag you need to get, in which case you need to perch on someone’s shoulders to see over the masses and identify when your bag comes out, then fight your way through like a running back trying to pick up a first down.

After that you make your way back out into the blasting heat and hope someone is there to pick you up (which in my case they were not) or that you have enough money for a Taxi (which I did not) or that you can call someone to come and get you (my phones battery died). Luckily a wonderful women from the Dutch Embassy (just love those Dutch!) allowed me to use hers so I could call the Duty Driver to come and get me (ME: “This is Scott, I am at the airport please come and get me.” DUTY DRIVER: “Steve?” ME: “No Scott S-C-O-T-T” DUTY DRIVER: “Your are not on the arrival manifest?” ME: “I am aware of that, someone must have messed up in England, can you still come get me?” DUTY DRIVER: “Are you sure, I don’t see your name on the manifest?” ME: “Yes, I am sure that I am here and that I work for you, please come and get me!” DUTY DRIVER: “Ok Steve”)

In the end its not even worth getting upset, its better just to laugh and move on…besides if I spent my time getting upset every time something like that happened in Africa I would pissed for the next 50 years. So I now find myself back in Khartoum, visiting dear friends and trying to soak up the last bits of civilization (aka good food and a few drinks) before heading to Darfur in a few days. Is it good to be back? Who knows? But I feel like I am in the right place and I guess in the scheme of things that counts for something.