takes to the air, very slow and low over Somalia,
so as to avoid terrorist radar.
If you ever have the pleasure of flying with the
Scary Skies, take your own cardboard, cuz there
ain't any airconditioning.
On the good side, the flight's a smoker. the plane,
that is.
This is from voicesofAfrica blog. go check it
yourselves and witness a nation rising up and
demanding inflight movies.
checkit: Voices
of Africa
Somalia:
Pray before, during and after your flight
Taking
a domestic flight in Somalia is an experience that can best be described as
travelling to the brink of death and coming back. The airplanes on the domestic
routes are commonly called express flying coffins and those who survive a
flight on them are fittingly referred to as coffin dodgers.
Due
to the appalling state of the
country’s roads and poor road safety more and more Somalis are choosing to fly
instead of drive.
On a recent hot humid Thursday afternoon more
than 150 of us gathered in the lounge of Mogadishu International Airport to
take a flight to Kismayu, Somalia’s third biggest city.
The passengers crowded around the few windows
in the lounge, their eyes locked onto a sky-blue plane at the far end of the
runway. Dark smoke, the kind that billows
from burning tyres at protests, was coming out of the plane’s exhaust. We
just knew that plane was going to be our ride for the 45-minute flight.
(Pic: sxc.hu)
When the gates at the departure lounge opened,
everyone rushed towards the plane. I, along with some other quick-footed
passengers, chose to run.
As
with many domestic flights in Somalia, there are more passengers than available
seats. If you don’t literally grab a seat on the plane, you’ll stand for the whole journey despite having paid for a seat.
I
was lucky to be one of the first to get on the plane. Seats filled up fast and
25 unlucky passengers were left standing in the aisle.
Competition for seats on a flight can be
humbly described as fierce. If you leave
yours to go the bathroom, another passenger will grab it before you’ve even
negotiated your way through the packed aisle, and you’ll find yourself among
those standing when you get back. On a Somali flight, when nature calls you don’t answer!
Most of the seats on this plane were faulty.
They had no seat belts and reclined 180 degrees if you touched them.
Each passenger had to hold the seat in front of them with both hands. If we
didn’t, the seat and the passenger in it
would be in our laps during take-off.
Once everyone was on board, a loud male voice
pierced through the cacophony of noise. The voice asked all the passengers to
be quiet for prayers before take-off.
Then, in an impeccable Somali voice, the
teenage-looking steward in a half-buttoned baggy pink shirt said “welcome on
board” and proceeded to recite a prayer at the top of his voice (the plane had no PA system and the
steward had no megaphone). It was the kind of prayer Somalis normally recite at the graves of their
long-gone great grandparents.
For a few seconds everyone was totally silent.
Even the crying babies were quiet. I guess reality hit: we were on a plane not
fit to fly.
But instead of comforting and reassuring us,
the prayer caused silent panic. A lady sitting a few rows in front of me was
overcome by fear and the thick smell of sweat in the air. She threw up on the feet of a standing passenger.
A few minutes later, two old, pot-bellied, sun-burnt, sweat-covered, cigarette-smoking,
booze-smelling, Eastern European male pilots wearing only shorts climbed up
the creaky metal ladder attached to the emergency
exit. It had been left open to let air into the plane since the air
conditioning had long since seized
to function.
Passengers who’ve been on this plane before –
and survived – had come prepared with prayer beads and cardboard pieces to use
as makeshift fans.
Because of the intense heat and lack of air,
babies started crying and parents shouted at the young steward to do something.
Since the standing passengers were blocking the main exit, he rushed out of the
plane through the emergency exit and returned with empty boxes. He ripped them into small pieces and started distributing them to passengers who did
not bring their own cardboard. The situation calmed down a bit then and soon we
were in the air.
I was travelling with my colleague Awil and
his three-year-old son Lil Abdi. Despite paying for three seats we had two. Children under the age of 14 aren’t allowed
to have their own seats even though they are charged for one. They have to
sit on one of their parents’ laps. If they’re travelling alone, they have to
ride on the laps of strangers.
Lil
Abdi was spoilt for choice compared to the other kids on the flight. He had the
pick of two laps to sit on for the journey. But he preferred to sit on mine
because I was seated next to a window, which had a small crack that let in cold air. The
little things like a window crack are attractive bonuses when you’re on a
Somali flight.
I should mention that there were no cabins to
store our possessions in. Everyone held their bags on their laps. If there’s a
child on your lap – which will most likely be the case if you’re flying during
the high season – then you leave your bag in the aisle. If there are passengers
standing in the aisle, you have no other option but to hold your luggage over
your head until you land.
Somalis are usually not scared of death. In
fact, death is treated like an intimate
neighbour. Sitting on the seat in front of me was an old man who had returned from Milan. He had his grandchild on his
lap. He wasn’t worried about dying, just about where his bones would end up if
something fatal happened mid-air.
“Do you think our bones will land on the
ground or disappear in the air?” he asked the passengers around him. No one
responded.
A few minutes later he looked out the window,
pointed to the green vegetation on the ground, and said: “Even if my whole clan went out there looking to
collect our bones they will not find them.”
By this time, forty-five minutes had already
passed so I asked the steward if we should prepare for landing. Looking visibly
irritated he said: “It will take us a further twenty minutes because the plane
is overloaded and has to fly at slower
than normal speed.”
On hearing this, some passengers voiced their
displeasure and asked that the plane fly faster. Frustrated with our constant
complaints, the steward reminded us all that a few weeks ago another plane that
was flying at high speed was targeted by
the Islamist rebel group al-Shabaab as it prepared to land because they
suspected the flight to be carrying government officials. Our hearts sunk
and fresh panic set in again.
Suddenly passengers were scanning the skies
for incoming rockets.
It was bad enough being on this plane without the fear of being struck down by
al-Shabaab.
Fahad, a passenger standing next to our row of
seats, tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was married. “No,” I said. He
wasn’t married either, he told me. “I’m not scared of death but I want to marry and have at least one son
before I die. I want to leave something behind on this world.”
I told Fahad the plane could have other plans
for us and that al-Shabaab sheikhs may not want to wait for him to marry and
have a son.
Perhaps he was looking for reassurance but I
just wanted to finish listening to the Dhaanto track on my iPod and then pray
for a few minutes in case things went pear-shaped.
With every word I uttered Fahad got more
tense. Sensing this, Awil jumped in to comfort him: “If the sheikhs kill us up
here we’ll be closer to heaven than
if they killed us on the ground.”
I guess the sheikhs were busy with other
business that day because we landed all right.
As soon as the plane touched down in Kismayu
every passenger was on their feet, rushing for the exit. Some prayed
enthusiastically on the dusty airport tarmac, thanking God for allowing them to
survive the flight.
As we exited, I told Awil I’d be writing about
this experience.
“If you do, we could get banned from future
flights,” he said.
“That might just extend our life expectancy,” I replied.
Hamza Mohamed is an independent British-Somali
journalist. Connect with him on Twitter.
