It is Sunday as I sit here in a hotel called Nexus in Addis Ababa, while for you, it is Friday - or
already October - as you read this; so in a real sense, this is the past speaking to you.
I am also thanking the Lord that we were on air to Addis in the exact 90 minutes that Chelsea got played by the Arsenal at the Emirates, and got walloped for the first time in five years by those perennial pretenders to the EPL throne. Our Blues’ team, at the back, is a motley collection of wannabe defenders.
But what I wanted to let you in on, today, is the sort of wannabes you will sometimes find on the fly.
There is always that one person who gets that middle seat on the airplane, but because they don’t want to get squashed, they board very fast and plant their wannabe bums on the window seat, hoping that the ‘rightful owner’ of that chair will be a meek person who will give them a pass.
But, ohh, ‘ole gwao!’ as Mzee Moi used to say. The rightful owner will coldly say ‘that’s my seat’ with a sharp finger. And the wannabe interloper will feign armchair surprise, and she will shuffle in wannabe shame out onto the aisle, as rightful owner claims their assigned airplane seat.
Then there is the talkative traveller, and woe unto you if this wannabe happens to be your neighbour, especially on a long haul flight. You sit and whip out your own in-flight Newsweek magazine, looking forward to reading that story about how Trump has no ‘electoral path to victory’ in November.
Then there goes wannabe motor mouth, who starts with a loud ‘hello.’ She says a warm ‘hi,’ because she is a nice and polite person. And that is all the encouragement the wannabe needs. He will tell her his entire life story, and that of his relatives. How he’s worked on contract in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, Dubai (those odd, mundane and slightly dangerous jobs miros do), how there is nowhere to spend the money there (of course there isn’t, it’s a bloody desert!), so he has invested it in a ‘plot and project in Mlolongo.’
In desperation, polite lady hands Mr. Motor Mouth the in-flight entertainment magazine and says – ‘there are some great movies in there,’ but the wannabe just places it on the seat tray without a glance, and continues yapping and yakking away.
My own personal airways wannabe hell began last weekend when I landed at Bole Airport in Addis.
They have the most chaotic gate security check in system I have ever seen, with lots of travellers handled by too few people at the go-through portals. The time on the plane ticket is often at odds with the times shown on the terminal displays, making many unwitting travellers miss their flight connections.
For me, by the time I had made it through security, my flight to Madrid had long departed. Thus began a six hour nightmare at Bole Airport in Addis Ababa, and I soon found out that tulikuwa wengi in the same dire straits caused by the Ethiop airline, and compounded by their airport agency whose agents don’t even bother with ‘last call outs’ to passengers.
At the truly horrible Customer Service desk was this short lady – with a thin upper lip moustache –
who had absolutely no answers for anybody, and a bad attitude to boot. She told a sick middle-aged lady that she is not a nurse. A Nigerian guy from Enugu was literally calling her a nugu. She sneered at Ugandan notes from another woman (yes, carry Euros or dollars when traveling, but it must hurt to see someone look at your national currency like used toilet paper). An angry mzungu kept screaming – “I gotta get to Shanghai!’
I had a long argument with wannabe witch at Customer Care (she wanted to penalize me $270 for
Monday re-book of flight to Madrid, where we hopefully are as you soma this), before a ‘people manager’ supervisor waived it, and I got a 4am shuttle to the Nexus.
Now I know why they call their airport ‘Bole.’ They are apologizing in advance for the sorry service.
tonyadamske@gmail.com
