Free Land of Promise by James Wesley Rawles Page A

“Enjoy your stay in Zambia.”
    The terminal building handled both domestic and international passengers. It was constructed in 1967, using the first in-rush of foreign investment capital after the country changed names from Northern Rhodesia to Zambia. Nine decades later the building was crumbling. The longer Rick and Alan sat in their frayed chairs in the lounge, the more their eyes were drawn to problems with the building: Stained and faded carpets, peeling paint, cracked facades, partially disassembled electrical junction boxes with patch cables and coils of loose electrical tape hanging in festoons, streaks of black mold in many corners, and other sure signs of chronic leaks in the ceilings.
    Rick quipped, “This terminal has clearly reached its terminal stage.”
    An elderly black man wearing stained coveralls with a large embroidered “ELECTRICIAN” patch sewn between his stooped shoulders pushed a service cart with an annoyingly squeaky wheel through the lounge. Beside him was a much younger man who was listening to music on earbuds. His coveralls bore a similar patch reading “ASST. ELECTRICIAN.” The pair moved about their tasks at a snail’s pace. The cart had a collapsing ladder and was well stocked with boxes of fluorescent bulbs and tubes. But instead of changing the two ceiling fluorescent tubes that were blinking erratically, the two men tapped their fingernails on working light bulbs and changed two that seemed to be operating normally. Surreptitiously studying the men and the contents of their cart, Alan concluded that they weren’t servicing listening devices.
    After the old man and his assistant had left, Rick asked, “Did you see what I just saw?”
    Alan nodded and whispered, “Yes, I did. And the scary thing is that the older half of that dynamic duo is probably one of the highest-paid employees here at the airport.”
    After a pause he added, “T-I-A, my friend.”
    TIA was the acronym universally used on the continent to describe the African way of doing things. It stood for, “This is Africa.”
    After a minute, Alan said, “A few months ago, I read an article about South African Airways, comparing it to other air carriers. Did you see it?”
    “No. What did it say?”
    “It quoted that worldwide, the average number of airline employees in all categories was between 125 and 165 per aircraft. But for South African Airways, it was 957 employees. And that comes as no great surprise: The bywords in Africa are: nepotism, corruption, “ghost employees,” funds funneled into offshore accounts, and outright theft. From the way my father described it, seeing the decline of South Africa in the 2030s and 2040s has been like watching Zimbabwe’s collapse in the 1990s and early 2000s, in slow motion.”
    After more than an hour of chatting while resting in their chairs, they got up to stretch their legs, walking the full length of the open areas of the terminal. At the far end of the terminal, a large mural depicted a planned new National Airports Corporation terminal to replace the current building. It optimistically proclaimed, “Opening in 2032,” but that deadline obviously had been delayed. Even this announcement mural was stained, faded, and tattered. Alan muttered resignedly, “TIA, again.”
    Meital arrived exhausted but still enthusiastic, 45 minutes late. Alan and Rick greeted her just outside of the Customs area, where Meital surprised Rick by giving him a peck on the cheek. Then she did the same for Alan. Rick wondered if she was finally warming up to him, or if this was just customary behavior for Israelis at airports.
    They found a car waiting for them at the terminal’s curb, with the help of a hand-written sign reading “Scotland-Globol-M.A.P.” taped on the side window. The driver cheerfully helped them with their bags, and then explained in his slightly fractured English, “I am taking you gentlemen and lady to the hotel. I will return there tomorrow morning at 9 a.m.,