Welcome to Africa, Please Get Out of the Bathroom

I once drove to Niagara Falls in the middle of a blizzard. A group of four of us just decided one weekend that it would be cool to see it, so we hopped in a car and went. No reservations, no checking the weather, just a scant five hour drive north. When we reached the border the guy driving made a bunch of jokes to the Mountie who stopped us. The officer escorted us inside and we sat through 30 minutes of questioning. Why would we be going now? Didn’t we know about the blizzard that was expected to hit that evening? “Nope, no idea.” Eventually in frustration they realized we weren’t terrorists, just idiots. They let us go on our way.

We made it to the Canadian side of the falls at night and walked out along the edge. The snow was blowing so heavily and the night so dark we couldn’t see a thing. Even in daylight, the snow never let up enough to even give us a glimpse of the falls. We drove home 3 days later having stood at the edge of Niagara Falls and seen not even a tiny speck of it.

A bit more planning went into our move to Tanzania. After two years of interviewing for the job, another year of fundraising, and countless months packing and preparing we were finally on a plane. We flew out of Canton, Ohio and on to Detroit, Michigan. From there it was an 8-hour flight to Amsterdam to board another flight. The flight was uneventful save for my struggle with the small Indian boy next to me over who really had access to our shared armrest. The kids, Elliana was four and Ian two at the time, both did extraordinarily well given the circumstances. When we landed in Amsterdam at Schiphol International, it was early morning and we were already exhausted. I don’t sleep well on planes and neither does my wife.  We were shuttled through the arrival gates and into the main concourse. Deanna strapped Ian into a baby backpack that we had brought along and I carried Elliana, her weight offsetting the thousand pounds of carryon luggage I was hauling on my other shoulder. We rode the giant moving walkways towards our next gate, briefly passing the last McDonald’s I would see for another year.  Before we could be seated at our gate we were prodded through another security checkpoint. Three lines of people snaked their way through two traditional metal detectors and one full body scanner. Each line was separated by velvet security ropes, giving the faint impression that we were all being ushered into a theater for the beginning of some grand play.  I briefly made eye contact with the large female agent running the full body scanner and I watched as she sized me up. She nodded her head to the left indicating we should go through the more traditional screening, obviously uninterested in what the outline of my body might look like on her full body-scanning screen.

A mass of people intersected at the beginning of the conveyer belt we were to throw our belongings onto. Somehow the line exploded as it reached this point, and we went from being a semi-linear force into a pile of limbs, torsos, and flying shoes. We pulled our electronics from our carry-ons, took off jackets and shoes, and shoved whatever remained through the tiny hole that led to the x-ray machine. In the struggle to free myself from our luggage and most of my clothes I must have lost a grip on Elliana. At one point I was holding her hand, but as I stood watching the final piece of baggage disappear out of sight I looked down to see she was no longer standing there.

For a moment my heart stopped. I’m sure you understand the feeling; that pit that forms in your stomach, the sudden uptick in reflexes and emotions as you enter a moment of abstract terror. While I scanned the room Deanna noticed my body language and looked down, in an instant realizing what I was looking for. Thankfully Ian remained sleeping in Deanna’s backpack or it’s perhaps likely he too would have come up missing. At the very least he probably would have found himself sliding through the x-ray machine with the rest of our luggage. Now we were both panicking. To lose sight of your child even for a moment in a familiar store or setting is devastating enough, to do it halfway across the world in a strange airport that you are only passing through is another thing entirely. 

We were pushing people and bags out of the way and scanning the line around us when I caught sight of a pink bow bobbing up and down in the row next to us. It circled around the full body scanner before coming back out on the other side. I ducked under the rope and grabbed my daughter as she laughed and attempted to continue her game of ring around the scanner. My adrenaline was still soaring and as I pulled her back through the rope to our line I scolded her for walking off. Elliana is very sensitive, and although she didn’t fully understand what had happened she knew she was in trouble. She immediately started to wail. She didn’t emit the low sobs that accompany shame or guilt, but rather streamed forth with the ear piercing screeches that might signify a mother giving birth to an oversized infant. In using that reference, I can only go by the sounds I recall my wife making when she brought our kids into the world.

I waited for the attendant at our metal detector to wave us through and carried the howling lemur of a child through to the other side. Deanna removed baby Ian from his perch on her back and threw the carrying device into the x-ray machine as she too made her way to the gate. We crashed in several of the few remaining plastic chairs alongside the window and stared out at the rain hitting our next plane.

We were one of the first to board for the next leg of our journey. It would be another 10-hour flight before we would land at Kilimanjaro International Airport in Tanzania. We were given the center bulkhead row, the first set of seats immediately after first class. Our particular section sat four across so Deanna and I took the outer seats along each aisle and wedged the kids in between us. We waited and watched as large groups of hikers made their way through the plane and began shoving their oversized backpacks into the overhead compartments. When the last bright orange duffel bag was wedged in and everyone had found his or her seat we began the long taxi to the runway and subsequently lifted off.

When the seat belt sign had been turned off the kids laid down across each of our respective laps and almost immediately fell asleep. For my part I reclined my seat the additional half of an inch it afforded and wrapped an inflatable neck pillow around my head. Coupled with the exhaustion from the first half of our journey, it was enough to put me out. I woke up an hour later when a stranger’s knee made contact with my own. Because we were in the bulkhead, there weren’t any other seats in front of ours, only the wall that separated each class. But because our row afforded an additional 6 inches of legroom, people had begun using it as a walkway between aisles. In addition there were bathrooms at the end of each aisle along the separating wall. These were situated next to the doors of the plane, forming a tiny pocket of open space. People had begun to use these as gathering points, forming tiny individual parties as they stretched their legs on waiting for the restroom. Each time I’d wake up over the course of the flight I’d be shocked to see the tiny gathering on my side just staring at me, obviously having covered whatever little conversation points that could be found aboard our tiny floating barge.

It was almost four hours in when breakfast was served. We had been taking Malarone as a family, a medication designed to prevent us from getting malaria for at least the first several months of our arrival. The side effects of the drug outweigh its benefit after prolonged usage, but it is viable as a short-term option. The little yellow pills had become a part of our early morning routine. Deanna handed me my own pill as well as Elliana’s and I sat them on my breakfast tray. Because she was still too little to swallow hers I was to crush Elliana’s pill up and put it in her food. I asked Deanna for the pill crusher that we normally use to accomplish the task, but she replied flippantly that it was in our checked luggage and that I was to just use my utensils. I looked at my tray. Next to the box of scrambled eggs, assorted fruits, and tin foil quiche sat a lonely spork, my only tool. I placed the pill on a napkin and pressed down firmly with the plastic cutlery, immediately shattering the shovel end of the spoon fork combo.

I flagged down the flight attendant as she made her way back through the plane and asked for a more durable piece of dining equipment. I explained why I needed it and she eventually brought me back the only solid metal cutlery she could find, a spoon. It wasn’t ideal, but at this point we at least had a chance. I put the pill back on the napkin and pressed down on the tiny yellow circle. The pill broke in half, one side landing in my open container of eggs and the other flying backwards over the seat. I whipped my head around in enough time to see it land safety 3 rows back. I peeked through the tiny slot in between our seats to see if I had started a sort of mini pharmaceutical war but all was calm. I retrieved the remaining half of the pill and tried with little success to mash it into smaller pieces. Later I’d attempt to hide the pieces in a piece of pineapple, but Elliana would immediately notice and launch it out of her mouth on contact. For the rest of the flight that tiny discarded piece of fruit lay on the carpet at the base of the wall in front of us. I secretly hoped one of the people using our laps as a walkway would slip on it, but it never happened. Elliana went without malaria medicine that day.

After another six hours and a litany of knee bumps, oddly flavored and worse looking meals, and an occasional nap, we were nearing our estimated time of arrival. Deanna took the kids one by one to the bathroom in preparation and I stayed to guard the carry-ons resting beneath our seats and pacify the remaining child. As I waited for her to return I watched the graphic of a plane that was projected on the tv in front of our seats. For the last 10 hours it had been slowly following a blue line south through Africa, passing over Libya, the Sudan, and Uganda. Now, after almost 7,000 kilometers (4,350 miles), it was in Tanzania and only inches from the airport. Deanna returned to her seat and we sat as a family watching the plane draw nearer and nearer to our destination. It was at this moment that I began to feel the gurgling cauldron of gas that accompanies the onset of severe incontinence. The boxed eggs or mystery packages that followed them had begun a violent march towards freedom and cared little for what environment they burst forth in. I threw off my seat belt and dashed for the open bathroom beside Deanna, trampling over her and the kids as so many others had done over the course of the flight. I slipped for a moment on the pineapple.  

Once inside the tiny cubicle bathroom I used what little time I had left to try and prepare for what would prove to be a lengthy stay. I had personally seen the mass of people that had used that restroom in the last 10 hours and the scene inside was certainly evidence of its service record.

As I sat down I heard the familiar chime signifying the return of the fasten seatbelt sign and listened as a voice on the intercom announced the beginning of our descent. I could hear the flight attendants making their way back through the aisles and checking that everyone was in their seats. After they made their initial pass through coach they returned towards first class and I overheard them asking Deanna where I was. I assume she pointed them in the direction of the bathroom because immediately there was a knock on the door.

“Sir, sir?” she asked through the thin partition of a door, her knock rattling the plastic that separated her from me.

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Um, yes, it’s me.” I blurted out.

“Sir, we will be landing soon, you need to return to your seat.”

“I’m afraid that’s not really an option now mam,” I responded, because politeness is always important, even during conversations such as this one.

“Oh, well, if you can, just try and hurry up.”

She walked away.

I could do no such thing. I touched down in Africa for the first time while I was touching a toilet seat that had housed innumerable other passengers that day. My first moments in Tanzania will forever be highlighted by the memories of crippling incontinence.

I returned to my seat as we taxied along the runway. The airport is small, as a single plane arrives and deplanes before another can begin its descent. We waited, standing in the small spaces between our seats as several sets of stairs were wheeled out on to the tarmac for us to deplane.

I can remember peering into the darkened landscape for the first time as the doors slowly opened and the heat penetrated the once cool cabin. It was pouring rain the night of our arrival, and when they brought the stairs for us to depart, we raced down the steps and across the runway, each grabbing a kid as they burrowed their faces into our chests. The other passengers held inflight magazines over their heads in a futile attempt to stay dry. Inside the small building that serves as the airport the humidity was oppressive. I left Deanna, the kids, and our luggage in a corner while I raced down some nearby stairs to another bathroom. We had received our work permits earlier, so we crammed ourselves into the line for East African residents and made our way through security checks to claim our luggage. On the other side several missionary families already on the ground helped us load all of our luggage into two waiting vehicles.

As we drove from the airport to our hotel I laid with my head against the window of the car, tired from the back-to-back flights and trying to catch a glimpse of anything outside. Because of the darkness and lack of streetlights, all I could make out were a few small fires and the occasional spark of someone welding as everything flitted by in the distance. We arrived at a small Chinese restaurant in the city of Arusha an hour later; our rooms for the night were a row of tiny apartments set behind the main dining room. The kids, tasting their first moments of freedom in over 24 hours made a game of racing between the beds that lined the room. Almost immediately Elliana tripped and slammed her forehead on the base of one of the wooden beds. She would have a bruise on her forehead for the next week.

Later we crashed into bed, each of us occupying a single bed with a mosquito net draped over its’ sides. It was here Elliana first referred to them as “princess nets” a name we have continued to use for them to this day. Ian slept in a small pack-and-play on the floor, a “princess net” stretched over the opening at the top.

Four times that night Elliana woke up puking. Each time I’d race over to her bed, pull back the net, scoop her up, and run to the bathroom. Each time it would be too late and she’d already be covered in vomit. I’d stand her in the tiny hole that functioned as a shower and rinse off what I could before returning her to bed. As she stood shivering in the shower during the final session she looked up at me with tears in her eyes, “Why is this happening to me daddy.” I didn’t know how to answer, just to dry her off, hug her tightly, and hold her until she fell back asleep. I put her back in her own bed before I lay back down in my own. I waited for morning, staring up through the net and listening to the gargle of my stomach as it continued its slow rolling boil.

Thusly, Africa welcomed us into her unfamiliar arms.