Sylvia's Journal

Usually I am in the front wave of boarding an aircraft, so I can stuff my stuff. You don’t have to worry about that when you travel business class, and besides, I intentionally packed very little stuff in my hand luggage. In a wheelchair it appears you either get on first or last (and off always last). I was wheeled to the Safi gate by another Kenyan mobility assistant, a young woman this time. We didn’t spend much time together so I never got to hear her story.

The boarding was already completed except for a few stragglers who were collected by a last bus that took us to the plane parked somewhere out on the tarmac. I joined two bulky Irish guys who took me by the elbow and had me up the stairs and into the plane in a jiffy.

The business class was empty except for a two airline employees, a couple from Dubai and a gentleman who could be a senior government official or a warlord, or both. He didn’t sit next to me so I was not able to find out.

Sunrise over Afghanistan is breathtaking. Exquisite geometric patterns on the snowy mountains and rough terrain below are the kinds of things you see on calendars or in coffee table books with titles like ‘Our Beautiful World.’

Our descent into Kabul brought back thousands of memories and missing Axel who so badly had wanted to come to say the farewells he never did. Maybe one day.

To my great relief we parked at a jet way and the wheelchair was right there, waiting to complete my smooth journey. The old and tired looking wheelchair groaned when I dropped myself into the seat; the foot rests were missing and the mobility assistance clearly had not had the training his counterparts in Boston, Paris and Dubai had enjoyed. It was a bumpy and uncomfortable ride, but very swift. The elevator worked, the suitcase was already there and moveable gates were pushed aide to cut to the front of the line and out into the crisp early morning winter air of Kabul.

My Dari started to come back and I was able to re-assure my handler and the young man pushing the baggage cart that there would indeed be a generous baksheesh at the end of the trip. My colleague Steve was waiting at the parking area close to the terminal and a familiar driver and security guard welcomed me back to Kabul. Just outside the airport cars with foreigners are pulled over for an alcohol check. The sight of my crutches produced a wave through. The crackdown on foreign drinking has been stepped up, clearly.

So, all in all, the travel to Afghanistan proved to be rather smooth and comfortable. Now on to the next phase – living in Kabul with crutches.