Jarrik's last memories of Boston were neatness and politeness. The stainless steel tweezers to turn the needle for the suture were sparkling. The boundaries of the surgery site were formed by straight lines of medical tape. Skin was inside the rectangle. Outside the rectangle was a blue sheet with the fold marks from storage. The anesthetist was sitting on a swiveling chair amid monitors and electronically controlled injection tubes. The anesthetist gave him the thumbs up that he let the patient come out of general anesthesia. The nurse to Jarrik's side held the straw of an organic apple juice with re-balanced electrolytes in front of his face mask. She politely moved the straw under his mask for rehydration.
The first impression on the African airplane was the bright sunlight inside of the cabin. The airplane was a standard Boeing. Yet, the sunlight closer to the equator was a lot stronger, twice or thrice by his estimation. The more jarring impression was that things were basic, maybe shoddy. The wax coated paper cup in his hand was plain white. The seams were clearly evident and peeling. The paper cup contained water. Cola was reserved for first class. The flight attendant that explained it to him was wearing a boxy stiff uniform. Her uniform was a solid blue with a few pieces of solid white. A white plane, white stripes on her shoulder, and a white mini apron identified her.
People on the plane seemed taller, scrawnier, and less confident. For example, the pilot stepping out of the cockpit was rather tall. His uniform sleeves were too short. The pant ended way above the ankles. The jacket cuffs were somewhere around the middle of his forearms. He lacked the dignity, weight, and slowness of an American pilot. He looked like a shifty corner vendor stuffed into a children's pilot costume. He was fumbling with a rubber band to tie the cockpit door open. His feet were closed. His butt stuck out more than it needed to do. His elbows looked boxy. His fumbling seemed aimless.
The traveler next to Jarrik was managing director of a dairy plant in the capital. He was attempting to solve a Sudoku puzzle in the back of the flight magazine. Jarrik glanced at the paper. The man had only two numbers filled out. A quarter hour later, the man had only progressed to fill in one more number. Jarrik picked an easy square that had all numbers, except for one filled in. Jarrik offered the other traveler the solution. He happily accepted with a cheer and head bobbing. On a second look, Jarrik noticed that one of the earlier numbers was evidently wrong. The managing director had written a nine right next to another nine. Jarrik seized up the man with his thick plastic glasses and the white tape to hold them together.
Jarrik glanced out into the cabin at the arms, wrists, and scalps that lurked over the seats in front of him. Another hard bump of a turbulence shook the overhead compartments. The pilot came running from the back of the plane. The rubber band had snapped. The cockpit door was swinging closed. The door engaged the terrorist safety lock automatically upon closing. The pilot stood in front of the blue painted door with the bare metal frame. The little black pinhole starred back at the pilot. The pilot rattled the door with the weak click-click of the door handle. An African woman on the other side of the plane screamed hysterically.
A tall African passenger stood up in the front row. He helped the pilot ram the door with their shoulders. An Englishman asked the flight attendant with British accent: "Should I start worrying now?" The flight attendant ensured the passenger: "Oh, the pilot is dumb in head. He always make nonsense." The pilot attempted to balance now on one leg. His black sneakers, white soaks, brown skin, and high running pants gave him only a shaky support. His other leg was raised hip high into the air with a bent knee. He kicked the door with tremendous effect to his balance, yet none to the door.
Most passengers were now looking at the pilot as he was retreating from the door. Jarrik had a joke flashing across his mind. In the joke, a pilot ran to the back of the plane with a parachute. He told the passengers not to worry, because he was going to come back with help. The pilot on this plane found a fire axe in the emergency overhead bin. He chopped into the door only making dents. The pilot's face was torn with anxiety as he ran to the back of the plane. There he started screaming hoo-hoo-hoo and ran forward with the fire axe over his right shoulder. It eluded the pilot that the long distance rather tired him out then allowed him to gain more speed. The fire axe bit into the door. A clear line of white sun light broke through the door from inside the cockpit.
A few more of those long range attacks and the pilot made it back into the cockpit. The applause of the passengers had him smile smittenly. The plane landed in the capital. The airport was as to be expected. It was bare concrete. A few soldiers with skinny machine guns stood around. Crowds of people in multi-colored clothes with the weirdest old luggage and plastic bags shuffled in long lines. Jarrik mistook the hand pressed against his chest as that of a pickpocket and grabbed it firmly. The hand contained a pack of Marlboro. The man was apparently a petty thief selling duty free cigarettes. Jarrik let go of him to find a taxi.
The taxi was a white diesel Mercedes from three decades ago. The backseat was worn thin making Jarrik sit lower and appreciate the added head room. The diesel engine vibrated the whole car. Every few seconds, the engine would rattle up higher and make the whole car jump twice before settling down again. The black driver wore a simple dress shirt and brown pants. The driver adjusted the beautiful, dried flowers on the dashboard, while asking Jarrik for the destination. Jarrik told him to go to the Doctors Without Borders hospital. The driver high-fived another cabbie through the open window, as the car slowly pulled out of the line up of waiting cars at the terminal.
The drive had all the sights that Jarrik had been looking for, while he completed his tropical medicine course to qualify for the mission. There were the palm trees with their skinny logs and bushy top. They stood on dried out dirt patches in the center median of the road. Perhaps, it was intended as a presidential road at some point in the past. There were the white washed square houses with stairs on the outside. People had their bedrooms on top of the house to enjoy the cool night temperatures as a respite from the daytime heat. Poor, suffering people were in throngs along the road. He looked forward to alleviating their suffering by offering his medical services for free.
At the MSF (Medecins Sans Frontieres -- French for Doctors without Borders) building, Jarrik meet a short, stout, slightly overweight blond man. The man wore beige shorts and a white short sleeve shirt. Hiking sandals covered his feet. His face was round and filled with a big smile: "My name's Kyden, mate." Kyden lead Jarrik to the back of the building. A small concrete court yard with a few cracks was there. The place looked like it had been a very small motel before. All the signs were gone, yet the architecture of many small rooms was evident. Kyden turned the round golden door knob to the first door. It was a door with many small glass windows: "Here's your little cubby house."
Jarrik left his luggage in the room and followed Kyden back to the court yard. The next door had Kyden's room. Kyden plopped down into a low camping chair. The plastic bands of his seat stretched almost down to the tiles on the floor. Next to him was a plastic ice chest. Kyden got a beer out of it and handed it to Jarrik: "Those planes are as dry as a nun's nasty." Jarrik sat down on another camping chair. He sipped on the beer. The room was bare: One ice chest, two camping chairs, one cupboard broken into its individual wood boards, another cupboard probably contained Kyden's clothes. The bed was large and puffy. It promised to be overly soft and sagging. The walls were white washed, clean, and simple.
"You are not the one for ear bashing."
"Oh, I am sorry. The long travel must have dulled my mind."
