Looking down on clouds

Tuesday was absolutely crazy.

At 1.10am in the morning I was still up tidying my room to prevent rats from breeding in a pile of clothes and old psychology notes while I’m away on holiday. By 9.35am I was writing my final Science and Technology Studies exam, trying desperately to defend Mbeki’s questioning of the causal link between HIV and AIDS - a rather difficult task with only 4 hours of sleep behind you. By midday I was running back and forth between bursary office and geography department to finalise overdue applications so I can get funding to save me from having to admit I still live at home when I turn 27 next year. By 1.50pm I was nervously tapping my fingers on the desk of the travel agent who took down my personal details for an ISIC card so painfully slowly that it was a pure miracle I didn’t go postal and started snapping pencils and tearing up Contiki Tour brochures.

But I made it. In fact, when I got to Cape Town International Airport I was one of about 3 lonely souls hanging around a deserted check-in hall. By 4.10pm I was snoozing away on my Air Namibia flight to Windhoek.

Talking about crazy. Hosea Kutako International Airport is an experience on it s own. Situated 50km outside of Windhoek, the view from the air reminds one of a type of mission station setup from one of those Hollywood desert movies (the Flight of thePhoenix variety). Several Americans from different walks of life work at some mission station and an adverse situation occurs which leads to several of them dying, at least 2 of them falling in love, and, after having encountered and fought off vicious Arab or African tribes and endured a sandstorm, the most attractive ones finally reach civilization or are rescued and airlifted out of there by military helicopters.

The size and remote location of the airport has a strange charm though. The sun was setting as we walked across the landing strip to the terminal building and there was a warm wind blowing over the remote flat landscape that made me like Namibia instantly.

What made me like Hosea Kutako slightly less though is the fact that the flight to London had suddenly been moved on two hours. Now, this would not have been problematic had there been an ATM where I could draw money in order to buy a phone card to let Julian know that he need not be at Luton Airport at 5am (!) to pick me up. But they had no ATM in the transit waiting area and the (rather unfriendly) airport staff refused to let me through the gates to the other side to go draw money. But what do I always say in these situations? Luckily I am a Boer and we are known for our problem-solving skills! I took some time to survey my surroundings and fellow passengers and finally targeted a friendly-looking young man busy typing something on his phone. So I swooped in with my worried face and big scared puppy eyes to ask him if I could send an sms from his phone.

If I may say so, I couldn’t have made a better choice. He happened to be from Paarl (15km from Stellenbosch) and had been doing contract work in Namibia for two weeks, all the time desperately wanting to go home to see his wife who is 8 months pregnant with their first child. I sent my sms and we had a very pleasant conversation for about 30 minutes until he had to board his flight to Cape Town.

The two-hour wait for the next flight was excruciatingly boring except for a fantastic thunder and lightning storm that broke loose around 8pm. The airport lights went out for a couple of minutes, which made one of the check-in staff scream really loudly, but it all added to the third world experience (which had taken on a new meaning for me, already familiar with several aspects of third-world life).

Around 9pm, the hall started to fill up with newcomer passengers from Windhoek, amongst who were a large group of rugby players (all wearing red shirts). Of course I didn’t recognise any of them from a bar of soap and only discovered they were the national Namibian team when the air hostess wished them good luck over the intercom system 20 minutes before landing inLondon. The rugby teams manager made a fuss about the inadequate seating arrangements, rudely and loudly informing the hostess that the newspapers would hear about the disappointing service first thing Monday morning. As if it was her fault! Pompous idiot.

The next morning, whilst waiting in the baggage claim area I saw him again and heard him asking another guy if he knew where the bathroom was. I knew. And I found it utterly satisfying not sharing the information and watching him frantically search the hall.

England is still grey, the people are still in a hurry and the tube is still crowded.Oh how I’ve missed this place!