Into Africa

Long-haul flying skews your perception of reality. After the first dozen hours, they all blend into one another. Sitting here watching mile after mile of Saudi desert go rushing by, I lose an hour, gain an hour. One can think a lot of thoughts in that time.

If you go back far enough, we're all African. Granted, some have a more immediate kinship than others. But even the most Caucasian of us descended from that that small contingent that squeezed through the Sahara and into Europe all those years ago. It was in the Great Rift Valley, that we separated from our other primate brethren. That was our Eden. It was there that we first came down from the trees, learned to stand on two legs and free our hands for more useful things (like making weapons). If you trace the lineages of mitochondrial DNA, they all converge on a single African woman. Our Eve. It was in Africa that we became human.

The last 36 hours seem like a dream. Sydney. Dubai. Addis Ababa. Fleeting snapshots of the world that I'm not entirely convinced I actually stumbled upon. I'm impressed by both their sameness and their difference. People, it seems, are people wherever you go. Their faces tell different stories but they tell stories all the same. There is much all these places have in common. But despite all this, I'm struck by how massively Addis Ababa, the inspiration for Live Aid and the fledgling capital of Ethiopia, is removed from Dubai, that cauldron of cultures and currencies that seems to exist for no reason save commerce.

We walk along duty-free in Addis Ababa airport. Duty-free in all senses of the word. Gazing up at some scaffolding where various roof structures were being attended to, we saw two men working. No safety rails. No high-vis vests. No helmets, no OSH and, apparently, no problems. Another one, whose exact role wasn't clear, approached me. Like most of the Ethiopians at the airport he was smartly dressed, wearing a khaki green business suit and starched white shirt. 'You staying here?', he asks quizzically. 'No no, Entebbe, Entebbe, ' I gesticulate back, despite the fact he's talking in perfect English. He looks confused. 'Oh, oh, they might call for you soon', Not sure what that was about. We approach the gate with the guard eying us.

As I cautiously move for the gate, he stops us politely but directly. Apparently we can't go through that gate. Apparently we shouldn't be in the airport. In fact, apparently we shouldn't have got off the plane. He laughs self-consciously at our bemused look. 'Wait a minute, wait a minute' he offers in a thin Nigerian accent. He wanders off to discuss with a colleague. She looks at us an shakes her head. Peter, Andrew and I look at each other. This doesn't look promising, but none of us seem to too bothered. Not after our 30 hours of sleepless, whistlestop tour through the back and beyond. Even if we were stranded in Ethiopia, we were too tired to care..It was always going to be a trip of firsts. First long-haul flight. First visa on the new passport. First passing through customs. First experience of extreme poverty. I was losing my Africa virginity. I guess this would be the first exploitation by government officials. We step subtly aside to discuss how much greenback may need to be mobilised.

The trip down to Entebbe from Addis was a hairsbreadth compared to the jaunt from Auckland. With Lake Victoria as the backdrop, we make a bumpy landing in Entebbe.. The airport is a set from an 80s action flick.. The soil is red. The air is thick and pungent. We had, it appeared, arrived.

If you go back far enough, we're all African.. We climb down onto the tarmac and take our first lung- full of moist African air. It feels strangely like....coming home.