After a quick business trip to Namibia (Windhoek), I returned to South Africa for a brief day and a bit. Exhausted, yet excited, I made my way to the airport once again, awaiting my flight to Madagascar. When you fly, you see the duration on the ticket and prepare yourself for that. I saw the time, knew that I had a connecting flight, but it’s just a flight like the hundreds I’ve been on before. It’s a matter of fact; it cannot be nearly as bad as many of my previous flights. Its three hours for flight number one and then an hour and a bit for flight number two, so fairly short.
I don’t think that anyone can be blamed for thinking that that is to be expected from the flight and travelling from Johannesburg, South Africa to Madagascar. Trying to check in is where the first problem started. Starting off, I went to the wrong airline. Clearly there was a reason why I could not check in online the night before; although I could see my flight on the airline’s website. I was supposed to fly business class. As one does, I went to the business class counter, only to find it non-operational. I preceded my check in and was greeted by the rudest ground staff. This was one of those lovely flights that make you take a bus ride to the plane. We got on and I noticed that there were only about 20 people on the bus. Odd for a flight, but here we go. Sign number two should have been when the bus kept on driving and driving. Passing hanger after hanger. The military ground staff shouted: “Nobody leaves the bus until I say so!” As we got off the bus – another military like ground staff shouted that all hand luggage shall be hand in. The woman with red hair, red framed glasses, a different shade of red shirt and short studded cowboy boots announced firmly in her foreign accent that she shall not hand over her luggage. I stood firmly behind her and concurred. Insisting to take my hand luggage with me – I entered the very small plane with my small suitcase proceeding up the narrow seven steps. I showed them how my suitcase can fit into an overhead compartment, comfortably!
We had a
complement of three flight staff. The
captain (a lady), the guy sitting next to her in the cockpit; who knew that
that was no cockpit and madam flight attendant.
I continued with my normal flight rituals. Sunglasses on, my travel pillow next to me
and my phone on flight mode. The tiny
plane made its way into the air, after giving way to a monster plane. On serving brunch, madam asked me if
everything is alright. With little sleep
and the Joburg city in my bones, I had no choice but to indicate that I’m
highly irritable and frankly, pissed off!
She politely apologized and the captain made her way to Antananarivo
with thirty minutes to spare (Note the star announcement). Arriving at Antananarivo, I quickly realised
– this is not exactly Africa as I’ve seen it.
This is Africa as I haven’t seen it before. Remembering the porter trick from Bali, I
strongly indicated that I’m an African woman who does not require
assistance. From the second I set my
foot out of that door, I had beggars surrounding me. It was nearly impossible to move around
without either a woman with a baby on her back begging for money, or a child
that cannot be older than three years begging or grown men, begging for money
for beer. Yes, beer. They said it that bluntly.
I managed to get
some cash from the local ATM (after bribery to show me where it was of course)
and a woman hitting me while drawing money, saying that I can now give her
money as she’s seeing me draw money. Hot,
tired, hungry and still Jozi pissed off, I spotted the only coffee shop at the
airport. I immediately saw that all the
waitresses have nose rings. Another
universal trend very quickly revealed itself to me. Internationally it is believed that you, as a
woman, have money or are seen as wealthy if you have long lightly coloured
hair, long nails, thin eyebrows, wear high heels, paint your toe nails a shade
of red and wear yellow gold! If you then
have the ability to throw some animal print or leather in the mix, you know you
have arrived. At the table next to me, I
could clearly see a very wealthy woman seated.
She had a small boy with her.
Apologies, two. The one was her
son and the other, her boyfriend. They
could not have been older than three and nineteen respectively. She could easily be forty.
Eventually the
gate opens to check in. Search number
one. Standing in the business class
line, I identified that this flight must mainly have business class seats. The number of people lining up was
staggering. The Arabian prince standing
in front of me had six bags with him. In
one, Johnny Walker Blue Label. I saw he
had a very thick wealthy passport. Lots
of gold on it to match his tight shirt and thick gold chain around his neck. I think his hair stood up that way because
his shoes were so pointy. I think it was
the blood circulation to his hands that got impaired due to his tight jeans
that made them flap flap flap. Who knows
what the story is.
Now for search
number two. I made my way through
probably twenty search officers to the delightful area of one corrupt coffee
seller and wooden chairs. There is only
one terminal. Every flight in
Antananarivo departs from there. The
ground staff finds their way onto a chair and then shifts the name from the
board and shifts the new name in. Almost
like you see high schools change the name of the rugby teams at a match on the
match board. Now I know my
destination. Tulear; which I’ve seen
spelled in three different ways and all seem to be acceptable.
At last, I have
a business class seat. Seat 19 A. I had no concept of a row 19 in business
class, but given the amount of people that stood in that line, I had nothing
else to think. I make my way up the six
narrow steps with the prince, the wealthy lady with the boy and the woman with
the two cats. I’m seated in the very
last row. Business Class! In Madagascar, it seems like the last two
rows are business class. Ultimately, the
prince was seated in the front, along with the wealth lady.
