"Alpha, Delta, Baba"
A Night in a South African Airport
Due to circumstances out of my control, I had to reschedule my flight from Johannesburg to Cape Town to one later on in the day. I made it to the airport in good time and checked in with no problems. However, I still managed to miss the rescheduelled flight ... there is just so much to look at on route to the boarding gates (and I might have misheard the boarding time). There were no more flights that night so I decided to get the first flight the following day. Unfortunately, and as my luck would have it, the ticket desk had closed by then and I could only sort out the mess in the morning. I ended up sitting in a coffee shop while my luggage flew to Cape Town. At least the 15 avocados I had strategically packed in my bag did not miss the flight.
Having spent the night in the coffee shop while my bag awaited my arrival in Cape Town, I gratefully made my way to the enquiries desk at 04:15, opening time, to get the first available flight back to Cape Town and hopefully locate my baggage. After waiting for half an hour for everyone to turn on the computers, make tea and catch up on skinner, it was here that I had a moment only South Africans would be able to appreciate. Two African women were in the office. I was asked to produce the reference number for the flight I missed. ADB2FJ7 was what I read from my ticket. The first woman then had to relay this reference to her colleague, which she proceeded to do in an alarmingly loud manner. It was not the volume or the enthusiasm which made me smile, but the words she chose for the first part of my reference, ADB. Whereas others might say “Alpha, Delta, Bravo”, this mama chose “Alpha, Delta, Baba”.
I proceeded to buy a new ticket, made my way into the waiting lounge and enjoyed the sounds of the African morning airport. The coffee shop I was eyeing out was about to open. I edged my way inside saying I was happy to wait for the caffeine which would soon be seeping into my veins while I did some work. The seven staff on the early-bird shift sang and laughed away while doing final chores before the hordes outside placed their orders in a manifestation of tired eyed queues. It became even more entertaining when an extremely well-dressed, attractive dark-skinned lady walked past the glass outside the coffee shop. All seven men gawked like school boys, throwing comments I could not understand at her, confident that the glass would hold their good-humoured appreciativeness of her look.
I only had another half an hour to wait before boarding the airplane. The morning crowds began to fill the passages. I watched the businessmen get their shoes shined while resting their hind ends in comfy leather sofas in the passage. They glanced at their wrist watches impatiently and as soon as the job was done hurried off with an important air about them.
One of the ladies working at the airport came up to me and, after greeting me with respect, told me she was sick. Having been in this situation before, I smiled kindly and informed her that I was not a sangoma (traditional doctor or, as some like to call them, a witch doctor). For the countless time, because of the amount of beaded, earthly jewelry I adorn in equal quantities on my wrists, ankles and neck, and because I never wear shoes, I am often asked if I am a white sangoma. This was, however, the first time I had been approached in an airport. Again, I smiled at the realisation that this did not happen in just any country.
Throughout the morning I witnessed many an incident that makes this country unique. Even after the negative introducation to my long wait at Johannesburg's OR Tambo International Airport, I enjoyed what I experienced, being forced to stop and observe. And even in an international concrete building, there is still a lekker South African soul. I must admit, however, that this was not my tone when I ended up in the same coffee shops a few months later waiting for eight hours, and then another seven hour stint on my return. Neither was I singing South Africa's praises when I flew to Argentina later that year and my bag was sent to Brazil. But you have to take the good with bad. I would not have it any other way.
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