The sunshine penetrates through the skylight in the early morning. As I wake up, the wooden floor of the old house in Inchicore creaks at the my every step while my friend prepares herself a cup of coffee.
Having vacated my apartment in Portobello, I have spent the last four days here as a guest of somewhat refreshing uncertainty, of a future yet to be defined in the next weeks.
I rush to Dublin Airport in the mid-morning. The day, now warm and bright, painting a heartwarming scene of a place that does not want me to leave, of a place that waves goodbye while wearing its best outfit, confident that its charm will make me eventually return. My stomach forms knots at the excitement of what is ahead and my brain sends chills through my body at the fear of it.
The Swiss Airlines flight takes off and soars over the housing estates of South Dublin. We are served a ratatouille and a bar of Swiss chocolate. My seatmate, a friendly Irish lady, talks to me about life in the ‘land of clocks’, and of a lifetime of goodbyes on both sides of the Irish Sea.
In Zurich, the memories of a previous cabin crew layover assist in navigation. This time, I stop and look. I look at a sunny Zurich extending over a deep valley mushroomed with low-rising buildings. The houses , colourful and uniformly-shaped form belts of green hills that elevate up to the base of glaciers and high mountains. I meet my friends and walk down to the town centre, hopping on blue noisy trams.
A small boat cruises along the lake to the Chinese Gate, where we stop for a hot chocolate and pastries, and a steep funicular journey elevates us to the University city-level, where the view of the largest city in Switzerland mixes aromas of Americanos and melted cheese rising from the Old Town.
At night, my anxiety subsides at the comfort of a homemade lasagna and copious amounts of laughter. The sound of badly-produced Youtube videos echoing through the apartment in Seestrasse.In the cold mountain mourning, I take two trains and join schoolchildren wearing neat plaid shirts. At Zurich Airport, an apology for the ten-minute delay is recited -the Swiss punctuality- and once all passengers board, the aircraft is cleared for push back.
The greenery of Kloten rapidly vanishes amongst a layer of thick morning clouds and soon, the Matterhorn guides our course South towards the Balkans and across the Mediterranean Sea. Lunch is served over Montenegro and coffee is poured over the Santorini. At nearly two hours into the flight, the Egyptian coast extends as far as the eyesight can reach. The brown land against the blue sea becoming the arid welcome into Africa.
I watch ‘The Lion King’ over Sudan. The tropical convergence zone aggressively grabbs the aircraft by the wings and rocks it sideways over the border with Kenya, point at which an announcement is made:
‘ We have now started our final descent into Nairobi International Airport’
At late afternoon, a thick layer of fog covers the high-altitude plains below. Outside my window, nothing but grey can be seen. A distant light becomes two, three, a dozen, a road, a runway.
Touchdown, ‘Waka Waka, this time for Africa’.
At Jomo Kenyatta Airport, the outdated terminal adds a touch of drama to the late afternoon arrival. The sunset hides through the cracks of the tinted windows at the immigration room, which resembles a Middle Eastern souk of colourful backpacks and floral dresses. Once a visa stickdr is affixed to my passport, Euros for Schillings are exchanged. The room doors open to the public area and my heart pounds. I think:‘Night arrivals are daunting. The darkness conceals the real colours of the newly reached place, whilst the mind, fragile in its thoughts, panics at the very idea of the hidden, for this is where the danger might reside.
Nairobi is perhaps the most daunting night arrival I have ever had in my life. The taxi touts form messy crowds around me and their eyes protrude from their sweaty faces as they offer their informal services into the city.’
‘I take note of the taxi’s license plate and gamble my luck for a bit, or at least I think I do, and we start our journey through the Kenyatta Highway while we fight our space on the road with worn-off buses, taxis, moto-taxis -namely boda bodas- and matatus.’
Once I pick a taxi, the car cruises through heavy traffic. The lights of thousands of cars submerged in the gloomy landscape of a scarcely-lit city.
Tall pink walls adorn the entrance to the hostel in Millimani and the heavy gates finally open when I announce my arrival. In the end, the razor wire fences soothe my sense of awareness, the cold bottle of Tusker freezes the butterflies on my stomach and the mosquito net will protect my sleep from the Equatorial malaria.It is indeed a long journey to Africa. Good night for now.
THE FLYING CAMBA 