At the airport, I both messed up and got into a mess. First, I handed the car over at AVIS. I'd gotten a small scratch in the car, but the representative told me the damages would be "around a thousand rand". Well, I later got billed for over 5K and had a hell of an email exchange with them. It's not the money, it's the principle (it's really the money… it's always the money) and long story short, I will never again darken the towels of AVIS in Johannesburg.
Anyways, little did I know about this back then, so I went on my merry way. In the elevator up to the arrival hall, however, I got stuck for a minute or two as the doors would not open. At first, I made some comic relief, by scratching on the glass like I was desperate, and it made some other travelers on the outside laugh. Then I pushed the alarm button and explained my predicament and after a few seconds the doors were opened remotely.
Then it struck me… I had forgotten my leather jacket in the back of the car. In the 30C temps of an African summer it had lain untouched on the back seat for almost two weeks and I had forgotten about it until now.
I first enquired at the info booth if they would just please watch my stuff while I went down to get the jacket, but they refused. There was no way around it, I had to push the trolley with all my stash (plus of course my bloated self) back onto the elevator, then go down to the ground floor and over to AVIS.
Having retrieved the jacket, I found the Ethiopian Airlines desk, checked in and went into the terminal proper. I immediately sought out the nearest eatery, a place called Jackson. Here, I bought a sandwich and a bottle of Sprite and engaged in some small talk with the girls behind the counter.
However, my feeble attempts at Swazi didn't really work on them as one was Xhosa and the other Sotho. South Africa is indeed a confusing place and nowhere does this become clearer to a European tourist than when discussing languages; the country has 11 official ones and fuck knows how many unofficial.
I went to a table and stuffed face on the sandwich, then went over to the counter again to talk some more and they lit up when I mentioned sweet, sweet Malva pudding. Much to my surprise they said they did indeed serve the dish and it was only then that I discovered the huge restaurant area in the back.
I was ushered in and they yelled some orders to the other workers in the area. Less than ten minutes later I was stuffing pudding and custard into my breadhole, a fitting conclusion to almost two weeks of indulgence and gluttony.
Sweet, sweet Malva Pudding. Oh, how I heart thee.
They didn't have loudspeakers at the gate, so the stewardess had to scream out that only business passengers could go now, all others had to wait. You would think everybody already knew this, but it is Africa and everybody rushes forward as one. As chaotic and stwange as Africa is, I think I could get used to it. I was sad to go home to snow, darkness and cold; I knew that much.
Cosmic balance was restored when I was on the plane and fumbled with my seat belt. One of the stewardesses came over with an extension belt which she cheerfully clipped on, despite my best protestations. I had been officially declared a fat fuck by an airline and I immediately vowed to go on a diet when I got to Norway.
Also, I secretly enjoyed the extra breathing room the extension belt afforded me, and I felt guilty because I enjoyed it. Ah, Martin Luther, you magnificent bastard, you still manage to fuck me up with a guilt trip every now and then.
At the airport in Addis Ababa, I went into a souvenir shop and asked for a packet of the strongest coffee they had, Ethiopia being perhaps the place of origin for the coffee plant. Since I couldn't really read the descriptions on the packets, the shop assistant may instead have opted for the most expensive one, and that… would be a fitting conclusion to a trip to Africa.
Landing in a cold, snowy Norway. I could cry.
