Time after time: the journey

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Time is so weird, and I am so jetlagged. A few days ago, I left from Lopez Island, one of the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington state where I was attending my cousin's gorgeous wedding. From there, I took a ferry to a shuttle to the Seattle airport to begin my transition to Zambia. At 10PM I boarded a red-eye from Seattle to JFK in NYC. It's been five years since I've been inside an international terminal, and when I arrived the next morning, I was working on maybe 2 hours of sleep. I forced myself to eat breakfast at the airport diner and waited until I could check in. Thus began my longest flight/travel experience so far.

Eight seats across (I had the window). A movie screen in each seat back. Eye mask, ear plugs, blanket and pillow provided. Oh, how I missed this pampering coming from Spirit and then Frontier Airlines where the water costs money and the tray tables are 5 inches deep (because a full size tray table was out of the budget). South African Airlines was posh. The first half of this 14+ hour flight was spent with the shades drawn against a blazing white sky so us passengers could settle in to the time warp of spending the equivalent of two full nights in a row in a reclined position, eating carbs, dairy and sugar (they ran out of the “chicken” meal option so I got the calorie loaded vegetarian meal) next to a total stranger who also happened to be traveling internationally to do the world some good. As I was marveling at the luxury of it all, I wondered: does one watch a string of bad movies in a row and then cry at the almost good one because she was already sleep deprived? Does she try to sleep, multiple times, and fail despite the doses of melatonin? Perhaps she repeatedly shakes her head for leaving all of her power chords in the bag they made her check before this flight because it’s full of books and why the hell did she pack like someone immune to gravity? Apparently, one does all of those things. And then one realizes about half way through her train of thoughts and free in-flight films that the ring of white light no longer lines the window shades and curiosity strikes.

When I opened the oval curtain to peak, instead of the sun blinding me, I saw a split sky. Since we were heading east, to my right (west) on the horizon sat a lip of blazing sherbet with a thin blanket of prom dress pink atop it, before melting upwards into various shades of navy blue and finally asphalt gray. This extreme and stunning color combination stretched from the middle of my view to the tail of this massive bird. To my left: bright stars filled a completely black sky. We were smack in the middle of night and day. Then the glass got foggy because I may have smashed my face up against it and cried some more. Damn you Jason Bateman and Tina Fey and your stupid Hollywood movie playing in my seat back that didn’t suck enough for me not to blame this flood of tears entirely on jetlag.

These past few weeks many wonderful people have asked if I’m excited about this trip. The answers varied between half hearted “I’m sure I will be” to "Um, yeah, theoretically", or something equally as trite as that well-intentioned question. To be frank, I had my own hurdles to contend with that preceded this new chapter in my career, and now that those were behind me I could appreciate what was outside my window in the middle of that flight. A visual thinker to a fault, having never been to the continent of Africa before, this adventure was a blank canvas in my mind. However, on the plane ride over, that sky cut through the emotional exhaustion and became something tangible. It also could have been the uncomfortable and hot compression socks I was wearing for the first time which must mean I’m a grown up doing something very important. Or it means I grew up listening to Madonna and she’s fierce but needs to stop with the facial enhancements already because she has aged and I apparently have too. Either way, shit was about to get real.

And how. I'm not a good plane-sleeper, so when we touched down in Johannesburg, South Africa, I was silly with fatigue. I still had one more flight, and a long car ride waiting for me. The "J-Burg" airport was fine, aside from the fluorescent lights and dingy ceiling tiles. I found my connection after having to go through security again, and settled in on the floor outside my gate. No electronic devices I had on me worked, and I was too tired to care. Travelers from all over the world gathered around as we loaded onto a bus that took us to our plane. I heard accents from Australia, Europe, South Africa, England, as well as languages I couldn't identify. This is partly why I love my job. These timbers of language thrill me. Mingling together like a cultural tapestry, the world became very small as all of us gathered in this bus heading towards our final destination. A man from Nigeria sat next to me. He introduced himself and asked where I was going. I told him, and he said he'd seen me in NYC, waiting to board for South Africa and I'd looked very busy typing away at my computer. He was headed to give a presentation on renewable energy and told me he'd lived in Baltimore for the last thirty years. Something about his easy demeanor soothed me and although I was so exhausted I could have stretched across that floor and passed out, I was thankful for his friendly conversation. Bless his heart and confident handshake.

The 2.5 hour flight from South Africa to Zambia was quick. One minute I was looking at the plump, adorable baby sitting on the lap of her mother next to me and the next we were touching down in Ndola. So much for not being a plane-sleeper. I literally blacked out.

The terminal in Ndola is tiny. Two rooms: one for customs and the other for baggage claim. I didn't have to fill out a single form, just showed my passport, paid the man, and told him how long I intended to stay and where I was going. That was it. I now have a 30 day VISA I have to renew once in the nearest town, and I was free to go. I didn't care to question why that was so easy. Not unless that question led to a bed near some chimps.

Outside, a man with a sign that read "Courtney Berne Chimfunshi" waited for me. I have never been so grateful to see a stranger in my entire life. After exchanging my US dollars for Zambian kwacha, we jumped in his car and headed out. Pleasantries were exchanged in broken English (on both our parts...at this point I was fairly non-verbal) and he told me his name. It was not the name of the driver I was told would be coming for me. Huh. I asked some more questions to verify he was legit, but the more I asked, the less he wanted to talk. The air conditioning was broken and this guy apparently didn't like music. Perhaps I was about to be driven into the bush and no one would ever hear from me again? Sure, he had my last name and destination on a white sheet of paper, but these days, information like that is not hard to find. As I contemplated my options should we not end up at Chimfunshi in a few hours, I passed out again...the unattractive passing out where your head bobs forward and back on your neck and your mouth opens like a puppet with severed strings. I was woken up repeatedly by the massive caverns in the road. I don't say pot-holes because these were not holes. They were tiny vertical caves the car dipped into and slowly out of for the entire 4 hour drive. Evans, my mysterious driver, was to his credit very good at making sure our tires didn't pop. I don't know how cars here survive on these roads, and I forgot to care as I slipped in and out of consciousness on a potentially life-threatening car ride to my kidnapping.

Evans was not a serial killer. I blame my delusional paranoia on lack of sleep. We arrived at Chimfunshi around 5PM Tuesday evening. That, dear reader, is where I will leave you for now. Stay tuned...so much more to come.