01 Travel Day

Thursday 7.30am GMT +3; Bole International Airport, Addis Ababa, Ethiopia

I’ve flown through the night and haven’t slept a wink. My hair is both greasy and static, my eyes are dry, my lungs are laboured and my bladder is full. I’m carrying 18kg of hand luggage: a rucksack containing 45 minutes’ worth of sheet music scored for a 6-piece band, a rolled-up evening dress, a pair of show shoes and a few miniature toiletries and bits of make-up, fully prepared for Showtime if my 40kg of hold luggage doesn’t make it to the same destination as me. I also have a handbag with all the ‘regular travel essentials’ (passport, money, mobile, change of underwear, book), and now that we’re in stifling Addis Ababa airport, I’m carrying a Sainsbury’s bag stuffed with the bulky outer garments I was wearing yesterday in freezing London – jacket, hoodie, socks, scarf… I am a walking wardrobe equipped for multi-purpose weather and don’t feel anything like a glamorous soprano upon whom a luxury cruise line is spending a fortune flying out to Zanzibar to entertain the passengers. But forget all that. I need the loo.

I see a sign in the distance which looks like it could be pointing towards the place where one ‘freshens up’, but as I fight my way through the busy concourse in its direction, I come across the holy grail for the weary traveller: a 3-seater ‘bed’. 3 empty, no-fixed-arm-rest seats next to each other, willing me to lie down and rest before the next flight. I quickly weigh up the pros and cons of both options (rest versus relief) and decide to invest in that activity dreamed of by Cruise Ship Guest Entertainers worldwide: horizontal sleeping.

From this position – head sinking into the Sainsbury’s bag full of winter clothing, left hand gripping the rucksack, right arm hugging the handbag – I escape my navel-gazing and drink in the local colour: sandals. Dozens of them shuffle past my makeshift bed in a slow, carefree, timeless manner, the rhythm and sound of each step lulling me into a semi trance. Above the feet, swathes of fabric caress the air as both women and men, draped in long, loose, colourful clothing, parade elegantly through the airport with the same body alignment the nuns taught us at my convent primary school during elocution lessons. Except these local people are not carrying books on their heads to demonstrate excellent posture and balance, but luggage. As my head, shoulder, hip, thigh, knee, calf and ankle reluctantly relax into the seats, my eyes start to close as I meditate on the effortless grace of the local people here, and I make a note to try and channel this energy for my next stage outing.

Of course, falling asleep in transit is a luxury that the lone traveller is unable to indulge in. I set an alarm on my mobile but way before the time is up, I hear an announcement which bears the vague resemblance to a few of the seven consonants in the words Zan-zi-bar and De-par-ture Lounge. I gather my possessions, see that my flight is indeed being called and dash to the gate hoping that a) there is a loo in the lounge and b) there is another ‘bed’.

I arrive to find there is neither. The small space into which we are crammed is already full and, as no one in this part of the world has yet learnt the stage whisper or any form of British reserve, it is also absolutely deafening.

Sitting is not an option, so I find a spare corner of the room where a few mountaineering types are huddled together, togged up in walking gear en route to Kilimanjaro, and I set up camp. Were we cattle, these conditions would be against the Animal Rights’ Organisation Rules & Regulations, but as a mere Guest Entertainer travelling to a cruise ship, it is simply part of the gig. I close my eyes whilst standing bolt upright, undo my belt and zip to ease the now stabbing stomach pains and try to distract myself by going through the Opener to my show:

There are those
I suppose
Think we’re mad
Heaven knows
The world has gone
To rack and to ruin…

I imagine counting the band in, slowing them down for the rallentando, getting them back into time after the fermata, mentally rehearsing the tempo changes between the five songs which make up my Julie Andrews Tribute Medley. I visualise the mask of the ‘singer’s face’ with the space required for amplification and resonance, and the loose lips needed to keep the consonants crisp and punchy in this upbeat medley packed with words. The pulse of the hits from Thoroughly Modern Millie, The Sound of Music and Mary Poppins vibrates through me as I tap my toes and sway to the melodies. In transit, music is a very welcome companion.

Whilst mentally rewriting the spoken link before my Closer, O Sole Mio, (a sure-fire ovation number although I am neither the right sex nor voice type to give the piece any real authenticity), the flight crew arrives, another unintelligible announcement is made and I join the herd as we push, shove and trample our way through the gate, out into the searing sunshine and onto the airless plane.

I plonk my rucksack into 32C and, with a lop-sided gait and steely determination, rush to the back of the craft where I finally relieve myself of the aching cramps in my stomach and a sense of joy washes over me. Pure joy and relief. I breathe deeply, shut my eyes and smile as I release the 3 litres of hydration necessary for a singer on travel day.

I skip back to my seat, cover myself in the synthetic blanket, manage a few hours of rest, arrive in Zanzibar, proceed through immigration, collect my luggage and head into the Arrivals Hall. As the space empties and the tourists and locals go their separate ways, I find myself completely alone, looking in vain for the driver to take me to the six-star ship.

After an hour’s wait and a ‘what do I do?’ voicemail back to my agent in their out-of-hours UK office, I put on the ‘ice maiden hat’, throw caution to the wind and get into a taxi with a random local who could be anything from church-loving, do-gooder, pleasant chap, to axe murderer. This is the lottery. This is the game us female entertainers play with our fate. This is the point when logic goes out and trust comes in.

But today, fortune is on my side and my I am delivered to the port in one piece, although slightly challenged in the fragrancy department. I notice the ship in the distance at anchor and whilst dreaming of the 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and marble bathroom with an assortment of designer soaps and multi-coloured cotton wool balls in a jar on the side, I am greeted by a beatific smile and an aura of loveliness:

“Welcum baaack, Meess Wilsorn!” My spirits lift. The most tender communication I’ve had since my mother dropped me off at London Heathrow 21 hours ago, from a Filipino crew member who has seen my name on the Guest Manifest and has put two and two together: I am the only person joining the ship today mid-cruise, I look like I’ve been flying for 13 hours and in transit for 8, I’m battling with heavy luggage, I must be Miss Wilson.

My new friend carries my bags, helps me onto the rickety tender boat and waves me goodbye as I erect my ‘on’ face (thank heavens for RayBans). The boat is full of well-dressed guests having enjoyed an excursion ashore and are now heading back to the ship for afternoon tea. They’re bubbly, friendly and excited to see the new entertainer coming onboard: Where are you from? How was your journey? What do you sing? How do you look after your voice? My granddaughter’s having singing lessons… Delightful people. Charming, intelligent and full of the curiosity and wonder associated with international travel. I try as hard as possible to smile and look posh. But all I want is my bed.

The tender arrives at the ship, I’m helped aboard with my luggage and am escorted to my luxurious cabin. I have a shower, order room service, read the letter from the Entertainment Department (my show is not for 48 hours– two nights of sleep away!), glide into bed, wrap myself in the crisp sheets and fall into the fluffy pillows. It is 6pm, I set no alarm and drift off.

Photo Credit: Anugrah Lohiya