By the time I was actually sitting in my seat on my overnight flight from Entebbe, Uganda to Amsterdam, Netherlands I was already 6 hours in to my journey back home to DC, and it had barely just begun. Through the course of the day leading up to just getting on the plane, I had sat in about 2 1/2 hours of traffic for the 33 km (20 miles) ride. The car ride consisted mostly of my driver and I being stuck in roundabout traffic. No, I actually mean traffic within the city's many roundabouts. (and for my New England friends that refuse to understand anything outside of New England vernacular, I'm talking about a rotary. And to everyone else that comes from places that just have normal intersections, I mean "one of those traffic cirle things"). There are very few stop lights or crossroad intersections in Kampala/Entebbe. Instead, intersecting roads are dealt with via traffic circles, and during rush hour or anytime anyone needs to go to the airport things get pretty backed up.
My driver didn't seem to care, he was probably annoyed that it was the third muzungu this week he had to take to the airport for the 11:30 pm KLM flight out of dodge. About 45 minutes in to the trip, having only driven about 3 or 4 miles within Kampala, trying to ignore street vendors tapping on the windows wandering through traffic selling toilet paper, children's floaties, screwdrivers (the tool, not the cocktail), and a few cell phone cases, he smiles positively to me and says "Only three more roundabouts to get out of Kampala and then the real jam starts". I started to notice that sun was setting quickly. And remembered that it was tropically bright when I left the hotel a while back.
Finally on the road to go to the airport, traffic was free and clear. No street lights, lots of night markets zooming buy and very minimal beeping. Hadn't really remembered the drive from the aiport being so long. Then again, that drive was coming off a 24 hour trip, arriving at midnight, and barely even realizing that someone was trying to walk off with my suitcase right in front of me at baggage claim.
Everything's going good, smooth sailing, and then of course, a detour. A big sign on the road directed us to the "airport detour road" off left. And by "road" we mean, dirt road. And by "detour", we mean random security check point before entering the airport compound. Luckily, I'm traveling in a Save the Children marked vehicle with multiple "no guns" stickers on the windows, so I'm thinking this really shouldn't be a problem. No guns, no bombs, no problem, right?? Wrong.
The guard comes over, the driver rolls down the window. The obligatory African cordial greetings of "good evening" and "you are welcome" are exchanged. And then the security guard/soldier/rifle gun armed man of justice and order asks us, " 'Save the Children' from what?". Hmm...actually a pretty good question. I was cursing myself that I hadn't yet downloaded a mobile PDF version of Save the Children's Strategic Plan for Impact for Children through 2017 so I could rigorously explain our 7 strategic initiatives to create lasting impact for kids across the globe at this moment. I knew that I should have spent a bit more time wandering around the intranet before my first trip with Save.
Nevertheless, I (and not the driver, just me) was made to get out, on the dirt road, pitch black of night, on the side of the airport road (of which no airport was in site) to walk through a metal detector and searched for firearms. A lot of good those "No Guns" stickers do on our vehicles.
Ok, ok, this is a lot of time spent describing a car ride. Let's fast foward to the airport terminal business lounge. It was lovely. There was a waterfall, a massagey chair (like those ones at Sharper Image...it probably was from Sharper Image, actually) and an open bar and a samosa bar. Yep, a smorgasboard of samosas. Well this is just fantastic. I plopped myself down on one of the leather couches in front of a huge flat screen tuned in to CNN International, supplied with a cocktail and plate of samosas and settled in for my two-plus hour wait until it was time to board. A quick scan around the lounge revealed no one else pining over a USAID branded proposal document and no other generally "NGO-ey" type personas, so I knew it was just me and the samosas and Anderson Cooper for the win.
Suddenly, a middle aged gentlemen wearing denim shorts below the knee (gasp...male euro shorts) had situated himself in my area, with a Brussels Airline ticket in hand. I thought to myself, "Perfect, we're not the same flight so we don't have any initial commonalities that would warrant conversation". Until, in his American accent, he asked me, "Are you European?". I said, "No", he scoffed and went back to watching Anderson as well. Then, a very elderly Jesuit priest, soon to find out, his travel companion, came down and sat next to him. Well, I realized I was going to have to find out what this was all about, but I still had no desire to actually converse. And, I was even more happy that they weren't on my flight. Not that I'm opposed to being around priests, I actually am quite intrigued by their lifestyle. However, Lois (most know her as my mother) always told me to be uneasy with being on the same plane as a priest, because, by nature, they are always doing whatever they can to be closer to God, and being high up in a plane "physically" brings them closer, and God probably listens to them more, and....well, you can figure out the rest of this ironic tradgedy from there. I thought about calling Lois to make a joke about this, but realized we don't joke with mothers of only children while en route traveling from Africa in the middle of the night.
The priest's travel companion proceeded to throw down the free drinks like he was a one man focus group for testing a new make of communion wine. I mean, this poor waitress couldn't keep up with him fast enough. After eavesdropping on their conversations about bishops, orphanages, and business class tickets purchased by the archidioses, I realized they were both priests. Apparently euro denim manpris are the new reform attire. The un-eucharized communion wine kept flowing and very soon after, Father Euro Shorts decided he needed to take a break to use the facilities. Unfortunatley, he never made it. Where he did make it was faceplanted on top of me on a couch in the business lounge. I believe he passed out for a quick second or two before he rolled off of me on to the floor, in to the coffee table which in turn spilled my drink all over his euro shorts. Essentially, as a result it appeared as if he had urinated himself. Ironic, but not.
Welp, it was clear that spot wasn't working out for me, so I packed it up and moved closer to the waterfall. Spiritual peace wasn't in the cards for me this everning, so I thought I'd go for a more natural approach. The waitress brought me over a drink to replace the one that had spilled and asked me, "Just don't get as drunk as those priests over there, OK?". Now, I will admit, once or twice in my life, I have embibed myself a tad too much, and those faithful steads with me have had to, ON OCCASION help steer me back on course. I've gotten the, "Don't be that guy", the, "Hey buddy slow down, there's enough open bar for everyone", perhaps even the, "Jeff, it's really not acceptable to pop bottles at staff meetings", but never have I been advised to not to get as drunk as a priest. That one, is one for the books.
I finish my replacement cocktail and my replacement samosas (Ok, lets not lie, the orignial samosas were long gone before Father St. Jameson knocked all my stuff over), and headed to the gate to board my overnight flight to Amsterdam. I get on the plane and there's somoene sitting in my seat, my aisle seat. The lady politely told me to take the window seat, the aisle seat is for her. Don't mess with my aisle seats on international flights. Simple fix, I just pulled out my boarding pass, rubbed my knee caps a little bit and told her I'm sorry I really need to take the aisle because of my bad knees. Ok fine, I don't have bad knees, but I work for an NGO and we can't fly business class because "we're a charity" and so therefore I have to make sure I have ample access to the KLM wine ladies so I can drink myself to sleep. My seat pirate was not happy with this and got up and moved to someone else's aisle seat, and promptly got kicked out. I could tell she had travel companions around me as she went up to the flight attendant and pleaded her case gesturing towards me and everyone else on the plane.
We're about ready to push back, and I see the gate agent come on to the plane with that infamous "list". You know what list I'm talking about, the 1993 prefeorated computer paper print out with the holes on the side, when they have to awkardly pull somoene off the plane for some sort of "ticketing mishap". Gulp. I know things have calmed down since 9/11, but I still have a slight fear that sometimes my last name, tan skin, and usually non-shaved face create a perfect combo for a "ticketing mishap" right before take off. I see her coming down my aisle. Printout in hand, two boarding passes in hand, peering up at the row numbers, stopping at mine.
"Sir, boarding pass please". Looking at her as if she held my life in my hands, contemplating how I'm going to explain to my boss why I got thrown off the overnight flight out of Uganda, wondering why my love for free wine on long flights has caused me to act so ruthlessly, I hand my ticket over to her. She looks at, looks at her list, rips it it half, puts in her pocket.
"Its your lucky day, Mr. Haddad, you've been upgraded to business class". I actually said to her, "You're shitting me?!". Not good, not polite, I know, I'm sorry, Lois. She said, "I'm not shitting on you, and they certainly won't in business class either".
And, herein, as a result, my first complete blog post. Hope it was as enjoyable for you to read as it was for me to write. Cheers.
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