It’s Thursday already. Somehow. I left on a Tuesday and suddenly it’s Thursday and I’m in Ethiopia waiting to my board my last plane
Having a bit of an out of body experience as I wait in line for the security checkpoint. There were 15 infants and several kids on board my 12 hr flight from Washington DC to addis Adaba and counting my red eye inTo DC I think I slept a total of three hours these past 24. Feeling acutely alone now, as I hope that I’m waiting in the right line and make my flight in time. I start paying attention to the overhead announcements, and ask an airport employee as he walks by if I’m in the right line. He points me to a shorter line and I’m whisked into security where they confiscate my reflex hammer for being too pointy. It was probably pointless for me to bring it anyway. The last couple days before leaving were spent scrounging up my medical equipment after almost a year of disuse. Let’s hope I still remember how to do a physical!
An hour later, after a pit stop in Lilongwe, we are in Blantyre. Danika kept telling me how green it was here but from the plane all I see is brown. I’m tired and i want to go home and i laugh to myself because i haven’t even arrived yet (I also fear ate a burger at 9am in DC since I didn’t know when I would eat red meat before I got back). I have a mild heart attack when someone checks my passport before we reach customs and asks for my yellow fever card. What yellow fever card? Omg did I forget to get a vaccination? Could they kick me out of the country for this? I’m trying to think of a lie/excuse if this is the case. Kicking myself for being typical grace and hoping this is a country specific thing (which it is). I forget that I don’t look like a typical American (read: white) when I’m abroad. People assume I’m Chinese or other prevalent Asian flavor.
I think of all the mission stories I’ve heard in my time: there is a problem, a prayer is said, and a quick resolution follows. Praise God.
I pray nervously, pass through customs without trouble, and find my bags quickly. It occurs to me then that my baggage not getting lost in the four stop shuffle is a miracle in itself.
I never really considered this a mission trip in the sense that I was going to be evangelizing. Let’s be real, a month long service trip is mostly self serving, hardly long enough to be truly useful to an organization. But I know the money I’m paying will be useful even if I am not.
I have another secret freak out when I’m gather my bags and leave the small terminal. I assumed there would be people to meet me from the hospital but I never confirmed with them before I left. Again typical grace.
There are a few men holding signs right outside the airport but I don’t see my name. I stand off to the side and try to look occupied. A tall man approaches me and asks if I need a taxi. Someone is meeting me here, I tell him. He asks if I’ve made contact with them. I lie and say yes. A few minutes later a pretty girl with braids and hipster glasses approaches me and tentatively calls my name. She introduces herself as Temidayo, my Malawian “handler”, as Wilson would call her, and I can’t bring myself to tell her then that I had pictured her as a middle aged balding African man while we were exchanging emails. I also meet Dr. Fekadu, a new surgeon at the hospital, who looks like he stepped out of a jhumpa Lahiri novel turned movie (he turns out to be Ethiopian).
They help me with my bags and we get into the van and start the 1.5 hour long journey to the hospital. Our drivers name is Mr. America and he navigates the road and swerves around pedestrians and bicyclists well. There’s a heavy British influence here due to the history and I’m reminded of that as Mr. America heads the wrong way into a round a bout.
Malawi seems familiar somehow.
I had no idea what to expect coming to Africa and my only point of reference had been Haiti. The buildings seem sturdier here and the atmosphere less hectic than port au prince. Maybe it’s the signs of poverty in the relative wildness that is common to most developing countries. We pass women balancing large baskets on their head. A small market with produce laid out in neat piles on blankets. A few cows grazing by the side of the road. A herd of goats not too far later.
I should mention that it’s raining and the windows to the van don’t quite close all the way. Luckily I’m wearing the only long shirt I brought and a scarf I packed in my carryon. Temidayo tells me this is currently their winter. My suitcase full of warm weather clothing seems foolish now. I’m glad I kept a jacket in there.
We leave the city and the landscape transforms into fields and fields of the greenest leaves. I have mixed feelings about the tea plantations making mostly white non-Malawians richer but damn the view is breath taking. The tea plantations are interrupted by occasional groves of slender trees with branches clustered at their tops like cotton candy. Planted by the estates, per dr. Fekadu, so the workers could have some shade.
We reach the guest house, and meet the two Amandas, the other students doing a rotation here. They tell me the wifi has been spotty at best, but I still check obsessively. Someone brings in firewood and the Amandas start a fire. We talk and I meet Matt, the surgery resident doing his rotation here also. I resist the temptation to nap, but finally turn in at 8pm. I tuck in my mosquito net under the mattress and fall asleep while setting my alarms.