June 26-27, 2014
Help! Monica and I have been taken hostage by the ruthless terrorist organization, Ethiopian Airlines. As retribution for Gitmo, no doubt, EA operatives are denying us food and water while forcing us into stress positions. Can’t hold out much longer. Send Dennis Rodman .
The day had started so innocently. We were up at 5:00 am and on the shuttle by 7:00, each with two carry-on bags and one giant duffel full of mountaineering gear. Packing had been a challenge because airlines insist that carry-ons be small and light, but Deirdre advised us to jam as much gear as possible into ours so that we could climb Kilimanjaro even if the airline lost our bags. As a result, we’re wearing our clunky hiking boots all the way to Tanzania, and our carry-ons are bulging with fleece sweaters, wool socks, down jackets, extra meds, sleeping bags, and even sleeping pads. If this plane makes an emergency landing on a mountaintop or a polar ice cap, Mo’ and I will be heroes.
Even though Dulles International Airport is only a 40-minute drive from home, it took nearly 5 hours to get to the runway from our front door. The bulk of the morning had been spent dragging bags through the terminal, doing an awkward striptease for the TSA, and smiling inoffensively at Immigration agents from behind our passport photos. And now we’re in the hands of EA operatives who shackled us in the upright fetal position and then disappeared behind curtains where they can’t see us begging for water. In the most extraordinary of renditions, we are rocketing toward Ethiopia at 600 mph, wondering when someone’s going to come down the aisle to feed us.
Although a Boeing 787 holds enough people to repopulate a planet with minimal inbreeding, each passenger in economy class is allotted less personal space than a Mercury astronaut. The prisoners in Con Air had more leg room. Just an hour into the flight I’m already fidgety and numb-butted – not to mention hungry and thirsty. Pinned down like a bug in a display case, I can neither straighten my legs nor cross them. My forearms already feel bruised and sore against the unpadded armrests. Panic rises in my throat as I struggle uselessly against my restraints. Monica, too, has nowhere to run, no way to escape when I Hulk-out and lose control. She’s right at my elbow, and I fear for her safety. This is a 12-hour flight!
We've been awake now for 19 hours and we still have another flight to catch.
Despite my expectation, Addis Ababa International is not a First World airport. During our two-hour layover in Addis, the terminal loses power twice. Each time it happens, several white people gleefully shout, “This is Africa!” and I wonder why no one punches them. Even though all the signs are in English as well as Ahmaric, the airport is deeply confusing. After much reading, interpretative discussions, and questioning of heavily-accented uniformed officials, Mo’ and I conclude that there’s only one line for security, and it stretches half the length of the terminal. We’re afraid that if we don’t get in that line right now we’re going to miss our connecting flight. But we’re also in desperate need of bathrooms and water.
After a long search, we find what appears to be the only set of restrooms in the entire airport located in a corner of the building next to a set of Muslim prayer rooms.* In a weird twist, there’s a long line for the men’s room but no waiting for the ladies’. Monica stands watch over our bags and I get in line. I immediately notice that the floor is wet all the way from where I’m standing into the bathroom, and I start to feel queasy, wondering what kind of exotic experience awaits me around that corner. I’ve been mentally preparing for Africa’s toilets for months, but I didn’t think I’d have to face one until we got to the mountain. What in god’s name am I going to encounter when I pass through that door?
As I finally round the bend and peek into the bathroom I can see that it’s dimly lit with greenish fluorescent lights, like a scene from The Matrix. The whole room, walls included, is as wet as a swimming pool locker room. I can only hope that most of it is water. Despite their thick Vibram soles, my hiking boots feel like a paper-thin defense against the pathogens squirming under my feet. I want to flee, of course, but I really need to poop, and I know that if I turn back now I’ll have to wait at least two more hours before we’re in the air again and the seat belt sign goes dark. I ball my hands into fists and resolve that I’m going in. And then it hits me. No toilet paper! Bathrooms in developing nations are rarely stocked with toilet paper.
I step out of line and return to Monica, who’s stunned that I’m back so soon. “Well,” she asks, “how bad was it?” “Tissues,” I mutter, rummaging through my pack. “Need tissues.” She nods grimly and pats my shoulder: “Once more into the breach, then?”
I step back into line and screw my courage to the sticking place. Just ahead of me is a distinguished-looking elderly Muslim gentleman in a flowing white tunic, a white kofia and horrifyingly thin-soled sandals. I want to buy him a HAZMAT suit, but he seems to know what he’s doing so I watch him carefully for survival tips.
When a stall finally opens up for him, I can see that there is indeed no toilet paper inside. He steps in and picks up a little teapot that’s sitting on top of the toilet tank. He brings that out to the sinks but can’t get past the wall of men between him and the faucets. He politely taps the shoulder of a man who’s washing his hands and then shakes the teapot in his face when the man looks up. Instinctively, wordlessly, the man interrupts his washing, fills the teapot with water, and hands it back. Then the white-tunicked gentleman carries the little teapot into the stall and shuts the door. I can only guess at what’s going on in there. When he emerges a few minutes later his clothes are as white and as dry as when he had gone in. I can’t process this information. Everything in the room is wet. Everything. Men are cleaning their backsides in here with splashed water and no toilet paper, yet this guy comes out looking like Mr. Clean in a skullcap.
Head spinning, I take my turn in the stall, first using tissues to dry off every surface I might need to touch. Then I make my move. Hovering. Hovering. Holding my pants with one hand so they don’t drop all the way to the wet floor. Hovering. Grabbing at my loose belt, which is starting to flop over. Not enough hands. I’ve become a contortionist, a juggler, an acrobat. And all I want to do is poop.
When the deed is done I come out to wash my hands. Men are three-deep at the sinks, so it feels as if I’m trying to belly up to a trough. When I finally reach a faucet, there’s no soap, so I do the best I can with cold water – water that I know isn't purified enough for drinking. The guy to my right is washing his bald head, splashing water everywhere. The guy to my left is washing his feet, one at a time, splashing water everywhere. A white guy on the other side of him is brushing his teeth with the tap water, foaming at the mouth with toothpaste. I freak out and nearly shout “Stop!” But it’s too late to save him. “Antibiotics,” I think to myself. “Should’ve brought antibiotics.”
Drying my hands on my shirt, I make my escape and rejoin Monica. She can see that I’m shaken, so she doesn’t even ask. We somberly take our place in line at Security.
The flight attendants had been aggressively stingy with drinks on our flight to Addis. They rarely brought out the drink cart and assiduously ignored our pressing of the call button. When drinks were served, they were administered in tiny amounts, like precious medications. So Mo’s right: We have to drink as much water as we can tolerate before reaching the end of this line, at which point security officials will relieve of us any liquids in amounts greater than 3 ounces. I hold our place in line, shoving all our bags forward with my feet, while Monica races through the terminal to find bottled water. While she’s gone a rather belligerent-looking Ethiopian woman struts passed me wearing a t-shirt that reads, “Addis FREAKIN’ Ababa,” and I realize that I will no longer be able to hear the name of the city without mentally inserting the word “Freakin’.” For some reason – probably a combination of dehydration and sleep-deprivation – this delights me.
When Mo’ returns with water, we toast Addis FREAKIN’ Ababa and start guzzling, draining our bottles just in time to unlace our boots for Security. Once through the scanners, we find that everyone in the airport has forgotten how to form lines. People crowd the gates; they crowd the desks. They reach over each other’s heads and try to hand their paperwork to airport officials ahead of the people standing right in front of them. What’s worse, there’s no system to discourage this. In fact, most of the desks are located in corners where it’s impossible to create a traffic flow pattern. To get our boarding passes, Mo’ and I have to mash into the crowd and press relentlessly forward via osmosis. After that, we have nowhere to go but right back through the same crowd, but this time against the tide. With two carry-on bags apiece, it’s as physical as a rugby scrum.
By the time we board the plane that will finally take us to Tanzania – a two-hour flight – we’re too wired to sleep, despite the exhaustion. Our captors lock us back down and slip behind their curtain again. I tell Mo’ that I’m seriously concerned we might not recover from the flights in time to make a successful summit attempt on Kilimanjaro, and she says she’s been thinking the same thing. “We need to sleep now,” I say. “Yes,” she agrees, “but we also need to hydrate.”
When the drink cart finally appears Mo’ begs the flight attendant for a bottle of water. “Please,” she implores, “can I have a whole bottle? Then I won’t have to bother you again the rest of the flight.”
Our abductor smiles and shakes her head. Such a silly question. She hands Mo’ a tiny plastic cup no bigger than a shot glass. It's not even half full.
Monica looks at me as if she’s about to cry. “Oh dear god,” she says. “When does the waterboarding begin?”