It's All About Beer!

My first trip to Addis Ababa was different. I had no experience to inform my appreciation of another country. Mine was an unfortunate baseline and I wasn’t going to pretend about it. For the record, I love to travel and people watch. Airplanes are a good place to do that. You see the real person on a plane…especially if it is an overnight flight; and I am not saying that I have not heard people snore in the afternoon, travelling from Monrovia to Accra. Those things happen.

A few days ago, I am on the Ethiopia airlines flight from Accra to Addis Ababa. This time, I know Addis better. I know which clothes to bring-jackets and colourful West African dresses. In 2000, 15 years ago, I had to lay my jeans and t-shirt on a chair; and could not wear them as they were as cold as a bottle of errrr, water. You assumed I would say beer.

Yes, I am on the flight. My first goal was to find a seat with no one sitting in the line. This luck would allow me to stretch out for six hours to Addis Ababa. There were a few West Africans on the flight. However, they all seem like one big family on our way to see Addis Ababa.

Small background-Calling someone, 'my friend', is quite common amongst Liberians. Like Mark Z, we extend it to every living human being. Sometimes to our pets, including dogs. We would refer to Mandela, the pope (not sure of his name) or Hillary Clinton, since she is the woman of the moment in the self-proclaimed world’s greatest nation as friends. They are all friends, papay or oldma. Informally intimate-that is what we are-Liberians.

My friend on this ET 762 flight to Addis was going to Bangkok. This was his final destination so I assumed this was his country.  He moved with quiet ease, like a smallholder rubber farmer who had made unexpected profit.  His earnings place him in a new category of elites, a place where he can have more than he desired, however, the size of his wealth also keep s him humble at the sub-Firestone level. We are not making tires yet.

 He occupied the seat I intended to stretch my legs out on.  No worries. He was my friend.

He is about my height, which in general terms means if he reaches his target of 10 cans of Heineken beer, someone would have to assist him to take his bag from the overhead bin. Yes, that height is usually undermined by only a few things, including alcohol and tall human beings. He wears black rimmed glasses that have black ropes for support. I have not seen that for years, but you who am I anyway in the broad scheme of fashion things. He wears black jeans, informed by no particular fashion sense or period. Not mom jeans or jeggings. Do men wear jeggings by the way? I do not care.

Covering his oval shaped protruding belly is a navy checked shirt. I can bet my hand tied up in wristbands, he is a size 20 or 22. I say this because I have been that size…20, I mean. His hands and eyes draw my attention. The hands look dehydrated, dry and ashy. His eyes, a mixture of fatigue and joy at the frequent roll by of the food and drinks cart. I hear him say more beer every time. So as it stands now, he has two empty cans on his table; and two under the seat. I fell asleep earlier so something tells me that the joyous familiarity and unending click of can opening relationship he has with the attendant has a higher consumption of cans of beer, as opposed to the five I now see around him. They cannot be five.

What is interesting now is that he leans over to me in conspiring mode and asks for a favour. I assumed he would be speaking about the duration of the flight or maybe we were on a mutual people watch mission. So, in an effort to make my friend an unFacebook friend, I asked about the duration of the flight. He states with unmeasured authority that we had nine hours to go. The actual flight captain said it was 5.5 hours. I learned an immediate lesson about this man and alcohol.

Now that we had done small talk, he decides to enlist me in his flight vices. When he leaned over, he says in a few words-Could I get a beer for him but do not let the flight attendant know I was doing that. My eyes popped despite my new life stance of taking everything off and on flights with little emotion. Why was he doing this, I thought. In any case, I did not answer him. After 30 minutes, the cart rolls by again. I order juice and a cold can of Heineken.  I am worried now about the growing number of cans but when a man reaches out to ask for beer, while he is surrounded by about seven empty cans, that is his business. He knows his capacity.

I get the beer and juice. The flight attendant insists that she must open the can of beer herself-airline rules.  We had broken some, my friend and I, so I complied easily. I slipped it to him when she is two rows away from us. His smile lit up 32 HFD. I, on the other hand, have a deepening frown, worried about my friend, whose final destination is Bangkok.

I hope he does not get into a bathroom situation. I know what beer does to the bladder and what people in plane do in bathrooms. Some women go in to apply full faced makeup.

He hopes for more beer.

Nothing dramatic happens.

We are about to land in Addis. I forgot to mention that somewhere over Accra, he took some papers from his bag and placed them under his shirt. I wondered for a moment then forgot about this. So we are about to land and he removes the paper and starts to ask me questions about my country, assuming I am from Ghana. I quickly correct the assumption. No, I am not from Ghana. He now wants to know. I think Ebola but my Liberian spirit is prouder than the shame of Ebola, so I say Liberia. He has been there-long ago. He talks about the beaches. They are still there, I told him.

Then he asks me for my age. An easy question for me but I decide to get him sober before landing, so I asked him why he wants to know my age. He looks at me for a few seconds and lies. I want to know why you are travelling alone. What is your family situation?

I told him with a direct look. When you say why you really want to know my age, I will tell you. Discomfort covered the seats between us. Then I asked him what he was doing in Accra. He told me that he owns a company that was working on an energy project in Ghana.  Okay. So why were you drinking Heineken beer like you would never see it or could not afford it? I did not say that aloud.

We land, walk out of the plane. I see that his eyes follow me-like in some magical way; he would hear me say my age loud enough in my mind. I look at him too-in a mischievous mood, hoping that the next plane serves Heineken beer.

ET 562 is a 787 plane, flying to Addis Ababa and beyond. Perception is not a great tool to judge people.  Heineken advertisement slogan sums it up: It’s all about the beer!