Flying

I wanted to say thank you to everyone who reads my blog, especially to those whom I met through blogging and whose own blogs I’m not very supportive of right now. That you would still read and comment and support me during this time of silence on my part means a lot to me.

And one day, as Arnold says, « I’ll be back! »

I’ve had this intense phobia since I was little that I would have to go to the bathroom and would be stuck in a place where I would not be able to go. It was so intense, I could only admit this phobia to other people a few years ago. At age 10 I went through a phase for about a year where I would go to the bathroom every five minutes if I was outside of the home just in case I would not be able to go later on. And then the fear came back when I was 15 because of intense stomach problems that were never diagnosed and that would, to put it discreetly, cause me to need the bathroom urgently at times.

Of course the problem later turned out to be gluten intolerance, diagnosed only during my second pregnancy at the age of 36.

My fear and faith were quite tested at times being stuck, for instance, in a cab in India with beggars crowded around on all sides taking advantage of the standstill traffic. And me with “traveler’s stomach.”

But my fear was most put to test in East Africa where we never once (except possibly on Ethiopian Airlines, which is the most distinguished of the air companies in the region) flew with the luxury of a bathroom on one of our flights.

And that was the least of our worries.

The border was closed again between Djibouti and Somaliland turning a would-be 45 minute plane hop into a much bigger ordeal. The first time we went, we took the standard Daallo Airlines. It was an old plane brought over from Russia, complete with the imported Russian pilots (the controls were in Russian).

The exterior of the plane looked like it was from the fifties with the slightly bulbous head for the cockpit. And the inside of the plane looked standard, albeit old, except for the miscellaneous seats that had been ripped out of their station here and there and the absence of seat-belts. We flew from Hargeisa away from Djibouti an hour and a half the wrong way to a field off the coast at Boosaaso, Puntland.  (The border was not closed between Puntland and Djibouti).

The airplane landed in the middle of the field under a baking sun and we could see a few decrepit buildings a ways off, surrounded by soldiers and their machine guns. At one point we heard automatic gunfire and a few of the locals ducked under the wings of the aircraft.

I had to go to the bathroom (of course) so we headed over to the buildings with the admonition that we didn’t want to miss the plane taking off again. There I found “the bathroom.” It was a wooden box with the sky for a ceiling, and inside was a stone mound where you did your business. They didn’t even bother with a hole. I think that is probably the most rustic of bathrooms I’ve ever used, and I have been in many rustic places.

We finally flew out of Boosaaso and made our way to Djibouti.

The next time, we chose to go through Addis. Ethiopian Airlines was so much more civilized, even without a drinks service. At least there were seat-belts! There was no same-day service to Djibouti so the airline company put us up overnight in a “luxury” hotel. The restaurant was pretty nice and the rooms were only marred by the strong smell of damp mold. Well, that is until we got into the twin beds and they folded us in like a pita bread. Sir and I pulled on the edges of our beds to try and get into a seated position and looked at each other. Only our heads and shoulders were visible from the top of the bed and it made us giggle. We had only been married six months.

After 9/11 we got evacuated to Nairobi. Djibouti proper wasn’t that dangerous, although there was an established Al-Qaeda camp in the outskirts. Nairobi was much more dangerous, but we would be more safely surrounded by a support group.

The airline security man at Djiouti airport had a fierce job ahead of him. After the terrorist attack in the US, he actually had to perform security for the first time.

It went something like this: “What’s this? A bomb?”

“No. It’s a camera.”

“Are you sure it isn’t a bomb or a gun?”

“I’m sure. It’s a camera.”

“Do you have a bomb in your possession?”

“No I do not.”

“Are you sure? Because if it goes off, it’s not me on the plane up there – it’s you.”

(And on to the next person).  We made it to Kenya safely without being bombed out of the sky.

I remember once meeting a British woman at the Addis airport and we swapped stories while waiting. She told me of this disastrous plane trip she took with her mother and sister. I don’t remember from which country they left, but it was somewhere in Central Africa. Her mother didn’t have a visa to be in the country where the girls were living so she flew into the airport where she was supposed to meet her daughters before flying out again.

Except that the airline company decided not to fly out again on that day. Or the next. Or the next. So the mother was stuck trying to survive on airport food with dwindling currency. Her daughters could not get to her and she could not get to them.

When they finally flew out, they had to make several stops before leaving the continent for Europe. Each time they would touch down in a country to pick up passengers, it was first-come, first-serve to board the plane again. It didn’t matter that you had already been aboard the plane, or that your luggage was aboard the plane. If people crammed ahead of you, you risked being left behind. And people knew how to shove.

They finally made it in the air for Europe when they announced they would not be making their first scheduled stop in Italy, but would rather be heading straight for England. A woman next to her sputtered, “But I have to be in Italy! I paid to go to Italy!”

The flight attendant responded calmly, “Madam, if you want service, fly British Airways.”

After four months in Nairobi, we got the all-clear to head back to Hargeisa. It was a four-hour trip in an eight-seater plane with … you guessed it … no bathroom! (phobia!)

We took off into the clouds and started flying for about 20 minutes when all of the sudden we heard “pop!” followed by a strange sensation. There was a red blinking light on the pilot’s dashboard.

I looked over at Sir. “Something’s wrong,” he mouthed.

The pilots kept looking back at us and we later figured out it was to ascertain whether or not we were still conscious. The air pressure valve had popped at 15,000 feet, meaning that we had no protection against the reduced oxygen in the atmosphere. When this happens at too high of a level (in small planes, mind you, where there are no oxygen masks), everyone loses consciousness and the plane drifts until it runs out of fuel. Or until it crashes into Mt Kilimanjaro.

We managed to find our way safely down and had no choice but to wait a few hours while they tinkered with the plane and attempted the run again.

At 15,000 feet, we again heard “pop!” We managed to safely touch down once again and gratefully abandoned our travel plans for the day. We found a place to stay in Nairobi that night and successfully made the journey the next day. In a different plane.  

I can count on one hand the number of times I have experienced the dread I felt in the plane that day when Sir looked at me with wide eyes and said that something was wrong.

The other night we ordered sushi for my early birthday dinner (which was actually yesterday, celebrated in high style with cleaning, teaching and throwing up four times so that I’m glad I at least have the sushi dinner to remember). My ob-gyn in Manhattan had done a lot of research on the subject and concluded that the risk of listeria is not great enough to abandon eating sushi for the entire nine months. It was more the elevated mercury that should give us pause. So if I had to have it from time to time, it would be okay.

And I really needed it. It was so good. It’s rare that something tastes good to me, but every bite of the sweet vinegar rice and the fatty fish and avocado and the chewy seaweed dipped in (gluten-free) soy sauce heavily laced with wasabi, well … it was like an opiate.

But as my belly gurgled happily, I was still struck with guilt and worry.  What if I do get listeria?  What if the baby becomes very ill or I have a miscarriage as a result?  What if my baby suffers because of my selfishness?  There’s nothing I can do to take back what I’ve done.  Will I be punished by the loss of my baby?

Then I remembered. I walk in God’s grace and mercy every single day. In every breath I draw and in every mishap I avoid.  I am under his mercy in all things.

The big (I looked over at Sir.  “Something’s wrong,” he mouthed) …

and the small.

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