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African Cup of Nations - blog
Reflections on destiny at the airport
by Paul Myers
Article published on the 2010-01-18 Latest update 2010-01-18 11:13 TU
A B737 plane at Luanda Airport
(Photo: Fir Z, via Flickr)
Lubango, Angola - Air travel and I have little truck. So since I’m not the best of flyers, the prelude to taking a plane catapults me into internal conflict. How do I reconcile my inquisitive soul (ie: being a journalist) with the obligation to cede control of my destiny (ie: being a journalist)?The answer is: no pain no gain.
When I went to cover the last World Cup in Germany, I could have travelled by train. In fact, all the internal trips were on a train.
In Ghana, that wasn’t the case at all; we went mostly by road.
Here in Angola, it’s too big for that sort of thing. And the internal flights have been a thoroughly time consuming and frustrating affair. It can only be attributed to the airport vortex.
Sunday’s manifestation was the most demonic yet.
The 11am flight for Lubango was rescheduled for 5pm. I was informed of this at the airport and told to come back at 2pm for check-in. I returned just before 2pm because – despite the $658 price tag - the ticket was a “stand by” (first come., first served).
Check-in opened at 3:30pm and the flight left at 6:15pm.
When I eventually got out onto the tarmac at Luanda, I didn’t have the feeling that there were masses of planes leaving or arriving.
Years ago, I had to go and cover a story near Heathrow for a newspaper. I can’t remember what the tale was about, but I had to stand around a lot. And I remember looking up and just seeing banks of aircraft headlights and a conveyor belt of planes. It was mesmerising.
But that was Heathrow.
At least the delay at Luanda meant I could go back to the hotel and have a slightly more leisurely second breakfast.
The first one at 7:45am was a bit of a forced affair. I wasn’t really hungry, but I knew I had to eat to gird my loins for the airport session.
The second breakfast sitting allowed me to really savour those bread rolls.
Since the bloke on the reception was kind enough to give me back the key to my room, I had a rest and did some yoga - nothing too barbaric, a series of down dogs, sphinxes and trees, as they say in the chill-out business.
I set off for the aeroporto domestico for a second time. The brutality of the wait did not undo me.
There was a series of scuffles and raised voices in the lounge after the security checks, but I was a Zen warrior holding off the vortex forces.
Indeed, I was a fusion of inner coolness and detachment in the garishly hot and airless room.
Someone was definitely transporting some kind of fish product back to Lubango or was the odour of my tranquil state?
The stillness of immobility gave me time to reflect on what I’ve seen over the past week of the tournament: some great football, some interesting cities, and a fervour to develop that connects every war-marked zone.
With a nod to the British football pundit Ron Atkinson, it’s early doors in the state of the nation-building here in Angola.
The domestic terminal at Luanda - formerly the main terminal - has given me many hours to gauge where the place is. The spanking new international terminal nearby shows you where the journey is heading.
I hope the plan doesn’t get lost in the vortex.
