It’s nine pm at Nairobi’s Kenyatta Airport. I have been here once before- three years ago, when I first set in foot in Africa. I came all by myself, and I had a half an hour layover. I remember the screen that showed the gates was broken, and I had to walk down the entire length of the airport to look at each individual gate and see if it was mine. Good thing there were only ten gates. Now that we have been sitting here for over three hours, I’ve had time to observe things I didn’t notice in my rush through the airport three years ago.
Airports are fascinating places. A waiting place. People going, people coming. All different countries, religions, ethnicities, languages, foods…. Everyone is united in this in between place, this place of waiting. Nothing to do but just be.
I watch people getting off the plane. I can tell which ones are arriving in Africa for the first time. They try to hide the wideness in their eyes, they wear shorts and tank tops even though its hardly 70 degrees, and safari hats.
There is a group of Muslim women waiting to go back to Zanzibar. That island, though part of Tanzania, has it’s own laws and flag, and is 97% Muslim. I wonder what it would be like to live there.
Camera bearing Asians just walked by. When I think of tourists in Africa, I usually forget about the Asian ones, which is silly. There are so many affluent Asians in the world, Africa is definitely popular destination for them. Who wouldn’t want to go on a safari?
There are a lot of children. Amanda and I discuss what it would be like to take children to Africa… we both decide that our children with be cultured and traveled, not matter the cost.
I see a little girl wearing a purple shirt with Princess Jasmine on it. I had a shirt that looked almost exactly the same, except Ariel was on it. I remember standing in the kitchen at daycare (where I wasn’t allowed to be) and pretending to sing like Ariel. I wonder if this little girl loves her Jasmine shirt as much as I loved mine.
I walk in and out of the Duty Free shops that I don’t remember being here three years ago. Maybe I was just too frazzled to notice the $70 bottles of perfume and $10 American magazines as I rushed to catch my flight to Kilimanjaro in 2009. Today I peruse the books, the magazines, the chocolates. I selfishly hope that one day I will be able to spend way too much money on a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates and Kinder eggs to bring home and share with my family.
We’re traveling in a group of almost forty people. We are everywhere, yet passerbys can probably not guess more than 8 of us that are together. Nathan is playing worship songs on the guitar and people continue to walk by, but for us the sound is like a lighthouse, bringing us all to the same place through the waves of people.
People in airports are mysteries. Where are they from? Where are they going? Why? For two months I worked in a coffee shop in a tiny airport in Minnesota. It only had flights to five different destinations, and I often found myself wiping invisible dirt off the clean countertops, hoping that someone interesting would come in early before their flight. I would love to work in an international airport like this, even if it was just at Wendy’s.
Traveling through airports seems like a means to an end, but I’ve always found it an interesting time of reflection and people watching. An opportune time to do nothing but, sit, wait, watch, and listen.
