There was something peculiar about my flight from Bahrain to Addis Ababa.
For one, there was the sound.
Rising above the rhythmic din of the engines was a cloud of chatter — high-pitched and frantic, like 10,000 barking seals punctuated by Britney-like squees. Plastic bangles clanged like church bells on the wrists of gesturing hands. Hysterical laughter drowned out the captain’s announcements.
The cabin smelled of a perfume factory, discordant blasts of scent with oriental spice weaving between syrupy sweet and dense floral notes.
And then there was the line for the bathroom. My god. The line was as long and engorged as an underworld creature, growing in size and scope as the flight wore on.
That’s when I realized what made this flight distinctive. Women. Other than the pilot, there wasn’t a single man on board.
I approached a flight attendant in the back and asked why there were so many women on this plane.
“They are women who work,” she said, her mouth set into a prim line. “If you know what I mean by work.”
“No, I don’t think I do. What do you mean?”
She cocked her head to one side and gestured as if to say, “Really? Do you really want me to go there?”
I nodded in encouragement.
“They’re prostitutes,” she finally said.
She explained that a lot of women leave East Africa to become sex workers in the Middle East. They stay for a couple years, long enough to make money to sustain their families, then return to their homes. And that’s what I was seeing on my flight — retired prostitutes who would soon be reunited with their loved ones.
As the plane descended into Addis Ababa, joyful faces pressed against tiny windows. Jubilant shrieks of “ai-yi-yi!” filled the cabin, then most everyone broke out into a tearful rendition of the Ethiopian national anthem.
These working girls were home again.
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