Opinion and Analysis
A section of JKIA in Nairobi: A country’s entry points should be manned
by polite but firm officers who leave nothing to chance. PHOTO | FILE
By Carol Musyoka
Last Thursday afternoon I walked gingerly through
Jomo Kenyatta International Airport (JKIA) always on the lookout for
anyone coughing or looking like they had the sweats.
I was en route to Kigali on my favourite, proudly Kenyan
airline that had picked Gate 4 as the departure gate which is quite a
schlep across the building if one favours a quick shot of cappuccino at
the Java located at Gate 14.
But the long walk gave me time to observe the
airport through the narrow lens of the Ebola paranoia that has beset the
media, the country and the world.
Departing passengers mixed freely with transiting
passengers and there were no signs of overkill that I have observed in
Hong Kong and China where people walk openly with face masks adorned due
to some perceived disease they fear receiving or spreading (which I
believe is post-SARS paranoia).
I still hadn’t seen any sign of medical staff or a
port health team in the entire time that I had walked from Gate 14 to
Gate 4. (On an entirely different note, if you ever have to take a
flight from Gate 3 and below, pray to your chosen deity as those gates
are in the very bowels of the airport where no light ever penetrates and
the few remaining ceiling boards look like they were used as dartboards
by very bored airport staff.)
All in all, a pretty relaxed atmosphere throughout the airport.
We landed in Kigali a few minutes to 6pm local
time. I had noted that one of our female ministers was on the flight so I
expected to find Kenyan embassy staff waiting for her at the bottom of
the plane.
Alas, it was not so. Together with her bodyguard,
they got on the bus like everyone else to be transported to the main
terminal. I have to admit, I was rather chuffed at this equalization of
passengers.
My smugness was shortlived because waiting at the
terminal was a tall, swarthy Rwandan man with officialdom stamped all
over his grim face. I didn’t look back.
I figured that was the Cabinet Secretary’s
welcoming committee. I promptly forgot about her as I traipsed down the
stairs to the immigration hall.
At the bottom of the stairs stood two medical staff
who were politely pointing to the side where forms were stacked on
various tables for incoming passengers to fill.
The form was a basic one-pager that asked
everything short of which my political party of choice was back at home.
The medics were firm, but polite.
You would not get past them without the form. I had
failed to write the telephone number of the Serena Hotel where I would
be staying.
“Madam, you must write the telephone number,” the
lady dressed in white scrubs said to me. I shrugged my shoulders and
responded that not only didn’t I have the telephone number, but there
couldn’t be that many Serena Hotels in Kigali that they would have a
problem finding me if need be. She told me to stand straight and pointed
a plastic temperature-reading gun at me. “Ahh, madam you’re fine!” she
declared. I almost slumped to the ground in relief.
I got to the immigration desk. The immigration
officer reached out for my passport in a gloved hand. I raised my
eyebrow in suspicion and a gentleman who was standing next to the
immigration officer noted my concern.
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