Drama in Jo-burg

I arrived at O.R. Tambo Airport in Jo-burg with many hours to spare until my flight to Addis would depart. I was feeling so confident in my travel skills at that point, I made several serious errors. I did not assess the layout of the airport, which like most international terminals, was made up of a maze of check in desks for each airline which would open and close over the course of the day depending on flight departures. You cannot check in too early for your flight, you must wait until it is within a few hours of departure. Also, because it was so long until my flight departed, it was not assigned to any particular check in desk numbers, so I did not notice that Ethiopian Airlines was actually in a different terminal than the one to which I had arrived. After taking a quick stroll through the immediate area, it seemed that there were no seats available unless one sat down in a restaurant, so I decided to choose one to spend my layover time in. I sat down and ordered what turned out to be about a quarter of a whole chicken, and picked away at it while I read Anna Kendrick’s entertaining memoir “Scrappy Little Nobody.” Hours passed. 

While I was giggling about Anna Kendrick’s exploits as a feisty child star, I completely forgot that I was not on the other side of security in this airport. I had this idea that I could just wander out of the restaurant near to the time of boarding and head to my gate. But as I did wander out and looked at the board tracking flight departures, I realized my error and started to run. It was about 30 minutes prior to departure and I wasn’t sure when the cutoff for baggage drop off would be. An airport porter saw me in distress and jogged up alongside. I told him which flight I was on and he grabbed my suitcase and began running with me. “I will get you on,” he said. “If I can! But you must be ready. Something for the people at the counter.” He glanced at me meaningfully as we ran. “Something for me and for them.” I started to pick some Rand out of my pocket. “Dollars!” He barked. “Dollars!” 

As we pulled up to the Ethiopian check in counters, it was apparent that they had closed check in and the staff were gone. I would have to go to the office and rebook my flights. The porter still wanted his dollars. I did not feel that was really fair, given that all he had sacrificed was less than 5 minutes running with me. If I gave him my US dollars, I’d have nothing left in my pocket, and it is foolish to travel without some kind of cash on hand, I thought, and I told him so. I gave him some Rand and he complained loudly and walked off in a huff. It was quite a shock to be so rudely awakened from my relaxed reverie of the day into a high adrenaline state, but fortunately there was another flight to Addis later that night, and it only cost me a small fee and my pride to make the change.

Since I ended up spending a very extended time in O.R. Tambo airport, I explored all the nooks and crannies of the place. I went up to an abandoned hallway, lured by a sign reading “Plane Viewing Area.” This led to a space where one could watch the planes taking off and landing, and also a small museum devoted to the life of O.R. Tambo, a key historical figure in South Africa who worked to bring an end to apartheid. The floor was transparent, with a colorful model map of the city of Johannesburg laid out below our feet. There was a funny statue of two antiquated looking Germans wearing pith helmets that seemed now quite out of place surrounded by the story of Tambo’s life. 

As I wandered back down (ready to check in for my subsequent flight at the first possible moment), I investigated a sign labeled “Muslim Bathrooms.” Following the sign, I came into a restroom that looked the same as others I had visited in the airport, which had stall doors that reached almost floor to ceiling, but there was one completely sealed closed door with the Muslim Bathroom label on it. After stealing a few surreptitious glances in all directions, I opened up the door to find a squatting toilet in the floor, with a little spraying attachment on a hose on the wall for bidet style cleansing. I tried to console myself that my time spent learning about the history of O.R. Tambo and cultural education regarding the mysterious Muslim bathroom might make sacrificing a good night’s sleep even the slightest bit worthwhile, as I boarded my red eye to Addis Ababa.