Finally, coming face to face with our primate cousins

Me with the massive apes

Restless all night with excitement, I was rudely awakened by a rap on the bungalow door announcing it was 0530 and time for me to get up.  The fact that I'd only managed no doze off about 2 hours ago, seemed immaterial to the rapper (sic) - and indeed it was.

I was going gorilla trekking - something I'd wanted to do since seeing "Gorillas in the Mist" way back in '87 or thereabouts.  I was about to savour every minute of it.

Rwandese dancer - the basket didn't fall once

We were soon off to the briefing centre where we were treated to a local dance with head-dresses waving and the balancing of woven baskets on ladies' heads.  Acrobatic jumps and broad smiles were the order of the day and it was a good way to wake up.

I'd been assigned to a group of 2 young ladies, 3 older ladies and a couple of the middle age variety.  Our group was quite international with the USA, South Africa, Croatia and Switzerland represented...not to mention the UK with me and by extension Kenya!

Getting with it

Patrick, our guide, ran through the dos and don'ts of the trek and we set off down a rather bumpy dirt track to the drop off point.  Here we each took a porter to carry our rucksacks etc and started the ascent - with the aid of sturdy mountain gorilla engraved walking stick.

Enjoying his work?

Great hairdos

About an hour of uphill slogging later, and after tens of smiling kids had encouraged us on our way, we reached the boundary wall which had been built along 70km in 2003 by locals to keep the buffalo and elephants in the national park and off their potato crops. 

And a flick back...!

We duly passed through a custom made gap and continued upwards, but now through dense jungle.  I couldn't help thinking of Tarzan and the black and white movies of his, where he swung through thick forest on vines .... The views ahead were exactly like that.  I must confess, the urge was there; to grasp hold of one of the thicker vines and see if I could imitate the swinging and "ooooouuuooooohoo hooo" - but sensibility got the better of me.  Fortunately, I suppose.

We marched through bamboo thickets, ducked under low-hanging branches covered in lichens and waded through cheek-high (yes, cheek-high) stinging nettles.  We then reached the point where we set our walking staffs down, divested ourselves of bags and other extraneous things and began the last few metres' walk.

There they were: Bwenge's group spread out on the ground without a care in the world.  Bwenge means "the wise one" in the local language and he is the son of the famous Titus. - who even features on Rwandan bank notes.  The troop is twelve strong and we saw nine of the group on our visit.

I was fixated.  I was emotional.  I was in awe.

The silver-back was huge.  And within arms reach.

They didn't do much, I must confess, but just being in their presence and being so privileged to sit with them for an hour (that's all you're allowed so as not to stress them out too much) was truly overwhelming. 

The babies (2) and the juveniles (3) were a little more boisterous and posed for the cameras.  The older females couldn't quite be bothered.  But the troop together grooming, yawning, scratching and snoring was breathtaking and beautiful.

The time slipped away too quickly and I couldn't believe it when Patrick said we had to be on our way back down the mountain. 

I'd been the last to arrive on the scene with the magnificent apes, and I was the last to leave.

Patrick, our guide

Bwenge, the silver back

A baby - about 2 years old

Local kids, waving us on up the trek

Bwenge having a good old yawn

And a scratch

You lookin' at me?!

Being a caring dad

Rwanda Day 2 - of genocide and driving

 

The 2^nd morning, was always going to be a bit draining.

 

Seemed odd to have a cafe on-site

I was off to the Genocide Memorial & Museum.  Having been to Auschwitz earlier this year, I must confess to having been disappointed with that experience; I wasn’t quite sure what to expect in Kigali.  The former had felt like a Disney-conveyor-belt type of encounter: where we were hurried along past gruesome exhibits of prosthetic limbs and human hair, without a chance to take it all in; without a chance to let the gravity and thus emotion of it all sink in.

 

The Rwandan display of man’s most heinous depths was a complete contrast.

A "few" names of the thousands who perished

 

For a start, there were far fewer people, so managing crowds wasn’t really an issue.

 

I picked up my audio guide (which thanks to being a resident in East Africa, was much discounted at US$5) and began my leisurely stroll around the memorial gardens.  There were roses planted in remembrance and fountains representing life – ironically the fountains seemed to be under repair, so the absent flowing water added to the eeriness of the place.  In the middle of this were several huge slabs of concrete, where several thousand people had been buried en masse.  This was such an horrific event, carried out over such a compacted range of time, all the names are not even known for the remembrance wall.   

The mass graves

 

It’s staggering to think that one group (the Hutus) could be so prepared, so psyched up and filled with such blind hatred to manage to slaughter over 800 000 – yes EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND – of their fellow countrymen (Tutsis) in a few bloody nauseating weeks.  

But they did and humanity slumped to its knees once again as it did with Nazism, Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge and even more recently the Balkan massacres in and around Bosnia.

 

I took it all in my stride, pausing, reading, disbelieving but accepting.  The audio guide whirred with one fact and historical reference after another.  We did background, build up, colonial posturing, butchering, aftermath, UN ineptitude, re-building.  But I then had to brave the worst room of all – the children’s room.

 

Here, contrasted with bright orange painted walls, was a gallery about the lives of about 20 children, whose super-enlarged photos were posted around the place.  Each had a brief list of the same things: name, age, favourite game, hobby and how they had been killed: shot, machete’d, beaten to death or simply thrown against a wall.  The terrible, wasteful result was the same – so much lost and for what?!  The emotion was palpable and I was glad this was the last room.  I’d had enough.

 

Walking out into the bright sunlight, and with a panoramic view of the “new” Kigali and by extension the “new” Rwanda, you almost forget what you’ve just witnessed inside.  The juxtaposition is unnerving.

 

However, we had to move on.

 

The volcanoes come into view

We started our drive to Musanze, which is where the Virunga national park starts.  The winding road weaved its way upwards, climbing all the time on newly Chinese-funded Tarmac.  And greenery, lush, fertile greenery.  The volcanoes had done their job in making this corner of Africa incredibly fecund and almost every available inch of the hillsides were peppered with little farms – terraces neatly carved out of the steep slopes, some of which were almost vertical.

 

After about 2 hours, they finally came into view: 3 majestic (extinct) volcanoes, looming in the distance – and these were only part of the Virungas – there are 5 in total – one even with a lake on the top.

 

I got to the lodge shortly after and chilaxed as they say in my room, complete with roaring fire and watched the film "Gorillas in the Mist" on my iPad.  I then snuggled up with my hot-water bottle under the covers and tried to get some sleep before my 0530 wake-up call and the trek to see the animals I’d longed to see in real-life for over 15 years.

 

Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep a wink...!

Getting up close and personal with mountain gorillas - at last

 

 

I had wanted to make this trip ever since seeing the film Gorillas in the Mist and now it was a dream coming true.

 I was flying over verdant hills and descending into Kigali international airport and my heart was racing.  The lush green valleys were peppered with glinting mirrors in the sparkle of the African sun: these were the little houses of  the locals with their corrugated iron roofs.  It was almost like the Rwandan countryside was bejeweled and glistening to welcome its visitors.  

The valleys sometimes led to lakes fed by muddy ochre rivers, which wound their way in and out of the land of a thousand hills.  One winding curvy river reminded me of the now defunct Mongolian script, which the soviets erased during their imperial occupation of the said plains.

The plane's nose dipped and we were moments from landing.  

Hotel lobby - Mille Collines

Having been to quite a few airports in Africa recently, I wasn't expecting too much of Kigali, not least since it hadn't long been out of an horrific internal genocide and its GDP is relatively low.  But I was pleasantly surprised with the airport and indeed the city overall.  

Busts in my hotel room

The former was quite new, with clear signage and a prompt baggage retrieval system - the only slightly amusing thing was the customs channels where the "red" and "green" channels had arrows on either side of a single pillar, behind which about 2m away was the same exit though the same door....I wondered why they bothered.  However, I must confess I was pleased when I didn't need to purchase a visa to enter the country -  I learned afterwards that the government had waived them for donor countries who'd shown generosity in their aid.  Thank you Paul Kagame; this is more than can be said for many an ungrateful developing entity.

The city was spick and span, with good roads and traffic signals the vast majority of the population appeared to obey.  Take heed Kenya...!

My driver, Vincent, was hurrying me off to Hotel des Mille Collines, where I was spending a night in Kigali before heading to the Virunga National Park to the north.  This hotel was the theatre for what was Hotel Rwanda: the film about the bravery of some fairly solitary souls trying to mitigate the carnage what happened here in 1994.   This said, you wouldn't have known it.  There were no plaques, no information in the rooms, in fact it wasn't mentioned at all.

My spacious bedroom

So I checked in, had dinner and washed it and my thoughts on genocide down with a bottle of local brew, Primus.  

The outside of my hotel

Kigali

I was here, in Rwanda and the gorillas were expecting me - I hoped.

 

 

 

 

 

A joke from Facebook - thanks Raju

The boss wondered why one of his most valued employees was absent but had not phoned in. Needing to have an urgent problem with one of the main computers resolved, he dialed the employee's home phone number and was greeted with a child's whisper. 'Hello ?'

'Is your daddy home?' he asked.

'Yes,' whispered the small voice.

May I talk with him?'

The child whispered, 'No .'

Surprised and wanting to talk with an adult, the boss asked, 'Is your Mommy there?' 'Yes'

'May I talk with her?' Again the small voice whispered, 'No'

Hoping there was somebody with whom he could leave a message, the boss asked, 'Is anybody else there?'

'Yes,' whispered the child, 'a policeman.'

Wondering what a cop would be doing at his employee's home, the boss asked, 'May I speak with the policeman?'

'No, he's busy,' whispered the child.

'Busy doing what?'

'Talking to Daddy and Mommy and the Fireman,' came the whispered answer.

Growing more worried as he heard a loud noise in the background through the earpiece on the phone, the boss asked, 'What is that noise?'

'A helicopter' answered the whispering voice.

'What is going on there?' demanded the boss, now truly apprehensive.
Again, whispering, the child answered,

'The search team just landed a helicopter'

Alarmed, concerned and a little frustrated the boss asked, 'What are they searching for?'

Still whispering, the young voice replied with a muffled giggle...

'ME'

Kibera - a world away from Nairobi

Playing games

I had chastised myself a few times for not getting more involved in some charitable endeavour here in Kenya.  Living in my very nice flat in Westlands, there was a huge opportunity to give something back in many ways in this wondrous yet challenged nation.

Maureen leading the weaving

And this weekend, I had no excuse.  Our company had done a food & clothes drive to get donations for a local children's home.  We'd collected all kinds of clothes and non-perishables as well as money donations.  So on Saturday morning, we boarded a bus with our plastic bags (about 12 of us from Ipsos) and about US$500 in cash and headed to the local supermarket, Uchumi - which means "economy" in Swahili.

We loaded 7 supermarket trolleys with all kinds of goodies from bread to cooking oil, from toothpaste to sanitary pads, sweets to crisps.  We overspent, but that didn't matter and boarded the bus again to head to Kibera.

Kibera is an informal dwelling (AKA slum) within Nairobi and is said to be the largest such conglomeration in Africa.  There was a little kerfuffle as we entered the area, as local "gang members" were touting for an entry charge and banging loudly on the side of the bus for us to hand over 100 shillings (US$1.30) or so to be allowed to enter.  We managed to get through unscathed, although I must confess, my heart was pounding somewhat faster than normal at this stage.

Starting the bluebells and bamboo forest dance

Introducing each other at the home

 When we arrived at the home, Lucy, one of the fund raisers and a local primary school teacher was there with a broader than broad smile to welcome us and all the children (about a dozen of them) ran to help us unload the bus - which after the shopping spree at Uchumi, was really quite laden down.

We introduced ourselves, the kids doing the same.  Then it was play time.

Smiling faces

Most of the games and singing were quite foreign to me, but children were enjoying the company and attention.  Then came a familiar game of "In and out the dusty bluebells", where the leader starts weaving under the arched held hands and arms of the fellow players all arranged in a circle.  When the song comes to a certain phrase "I am your master" the leader skirts around the back of the person where the phrase is started and pats them on the back repeatedly then this "seconded" person joins the said master to create a conga-like train and so it goes on until there are more on the outside of the ring than those forming the ring itself.

It was lapped up by the children - and methinks, the adults too...!

[What I call the "dusty bluebells" song naturally had a local twist to it and here in Kenya it's rendered as "In and out the bamboo forest".]

Afterwards we ate lunch together, and while the food was as tasty as that which is served up at our office canteen, the thing that amazed me (and I'm not quite sure why) was the insistence on washing hands before eating.  This home was imparting simple life lessons at every stage and as Lucy, herself, said, they are trying to make proud young adults of these kids who will hopefully never feel looked down upon or inferior - even if their local MP (Raila Odinga, perhaps the next president of Kenya) should descend on them with his own youngsters.

Good manners, praying before tucking into soya stew and lentils, saying thank you with meaning and respecting elders - good life lessons indeed.

Dancing in the school yard

We saw the school the children attend and did one last dance - where even yours truly wiggled his hips to the lilting chorus of young voices - happy to just to be able to sing for us.

As we boarded the bus back to the "big bad city", the bad city didn't seem so bad after all - what we were leaving behind, on the other hand, perhaps was indeed "bad" and dangerous.  I was tremendously grateful and appreciative of that fact.

We waved good bye and promised to be back...I hope we do get back.

Holding hands

We were touched by the kids' tales of abandonment and abuse; we were humbled by their happy smiling faces and genuine hug of thanks; and we are resolved to do more for this home in the slums of Kibera.


[If you would like to help this island of hope please take a look at this link and perhaps you could donate a few dollars to make a difference..... http://www.globalgiving.org/projects/childrens-rescue-centre-kibera-kenya/ ]

Muddled threads - or, Armstrong squared

At a dinner recently, the conversation veered to current affairs as a matter of course and the doping scandal (or not) of Lance Armstrong was soon being hotly debated.  One guest was reading from a rather vitriolic, yet punctilious, post on Facebook with some of the guests listening and others engrossed in their own side conversations.  The post listed out all of Lance's achievements and berated the USA for stripping a national hero (if not global icon) of his accolades, and thus demeaning the work he'd done for charities etc.  Not overlooking the fact that the accuser in all this was in fact Armstrong's greatest sporting rival.

And  that's about when it happened.

Someone who'd only be half listening suddendly chipped in with: "Ah, yes!! A great loss."  We unanimously agreed, nodded and pondered for a moment.

"Doing what he did was truly momentous."
"Yeah, it's only envy driving those naysayers and witch-hunters," commented a 3rd person.
"But he did do it...!  Surely you can't doubt that?!", continued the interjector.
"Well of course you can't, he wore the yellow jersey 7 times."

At this point the fog descended just a little further before rising rather swiftly.
Yellow jerseys on the moon?  What was he talking about?!

The conversastion had put Lance Armstrong on the moon (with inappropriately flying flags and artificial moondust) and plonked the recently deceased Neil Armstrong on a push-bike in the Pyrenees or somewhere equally Gallic.

The group had mixed up our "Armstrongs".

Guffaws followed all around.

The States honoured one Armstrong with flags at half mast across the nation, while it lambasted and condemned the other Armstrong on rather flimsy evidence.

But I do like the image of Neil on a bike and Lance in a spacesuit - yellow or not.

Check out this for check in flexibility

My colleagues said I should leave sooner; I knew better – I was never late to catch a plane.

 

In fact I had only ever missed one flight in all my travels – and that I blamed on London traffic.  I recall I was on my way to Munich and it wasn’t actually a trip I wanted to take.  I don’t know whether it was fate or if I managed “fate” and knew I was going to miss that flight – but miss it I did and was thankful I didn’t have to schlepp all the way to southern Germany.

 

When I was about to return to Nairobi from a week in Lagos, I clung onto the last minutes in the office debating this topic and that, confident that I would have plenty of time to zip along the highway to Murtala Mohamad Airport (LOS) with ease.

 

The flight was at 3pm and I reckoned leaving the office at 1pm would give me ample time to negotiate the traffic.  Well, it started off in the right manner.  The road was clear and the vehicles moving.  Then it happened: deadlock.  For no apparent reason, the cars ground to a halt and we were stuck.  So much for my quickly evaporating confidence.

 

The motorcycles around us managed to weave in and out of the cars with acrobatic agility.  They clambered up onto the pavements where they had to and made off into the distant dust. 

 

The clock was ticking.  I was dangerously close to missing my plane.

 

At one point a motor bike went passed complete with a passenger and two suitcases and for more than a split moment I pondered the option of opening the door, hailing a bike and jumping on the back – helmet or no....but as you might imagine that daring prospect soon passed.

 

Snails were moving faster than our car.

I was filled with dread: I was about to miss my 2^nd ever flight.  Even when I went on a drinking binge with Japanese colleagues, got home at 2am, awoke startled at 8am then realised I was going to miss my flight to Singapore, booked the next flight (1 hour later) took a USD200 cab to the airport and snatched the flight – there was no fear of me missing a flight then.

 

We were inching closer and suddenly with no explanation the road opened up and the traffic began to flow like flour from a bag; smoothly and flowingly.

 

My driver zoomed up to the airport drop off and almost threw my luggage at me to help me with momentum on my way to check in.

 

I had arrived at 2.05pm and thought I should be able to blag my way through the check in process.

I ran down the concourse only to find the Kenya Airways ((KQ) check-in – not only closed, but abandoned.  I quizzed the security guys nearby and they instructed me to follow their confusing instructions to the KQ office.  I sped off with my suitcase up stairs, then down stairs, round corners and into what seemed like the very bowels of the airport.  I found the office and blurted out the fact that I was late, it was my fault, but could they get me on soon departing flight to Nairobi.

 

Come with me, the official said – almost matter-of-factly.

We went back to the gate through the warren of offices where he talked to someone on a mobile.

 

“Someone is coming from the gate to check you in.”  I was disbelieving: “Really?”  I sputtered... and was reassured that a rep was on his way.

 

Inside my head, I tapped my fingers, I twiddled my thumbs and got more anxious by the minute.  But lo and behold, he arrived, he quite calmly sat behind the check in desk, signed on and asked for my passport.  He checked me in, gave me my boarding pass and even offered my access to the lounge – being a gold card holder. There was no "tutting", no snide comments about arriving on time in future...he just did his stuff.

 

“I won’t have time for the lounge,” I countered.

“Of course you will.  You go there and relax before your flight – enjoy sir...!”  was his calm reply.

 

It was now 2.30pm.  Remember?  My flight was departing at 3pm....I even challenged him and asked if the flight was delayed – no it wasn’t, he reassured.

 

So I marched off (with many a “thank you” to anyone I met) through customs and security.

 

I caught my flight – which was indeed delayed eventually by about 50 minutes – but I am still amazed that I was able to get check re-opened by an airline rep who was not only away from his station but already at the gate – having to trudge all the way back through security checks to the curb-side of the airport and do the formalities.

 

I caught my flight to Nairobi – for which I was incredibly grateful.

 

This is something that I couldn’t see happening in many other airports – can you?

 

Sometimes, the chaos and human aspect to processes trumps the rigidity of a water-tight procedure.  Things can be done; rules can be broken; processes can be bent – and client delight is the outcome.

 

Having watched airline / airport documentaries and seeing the seething wrath of passengers denied boarding access – when there is actually plenty of time to get them on the flight – I despair at over-zealous control-freaks and I know all the more why I’m loving my time in Africa.

Disliking the disliking of things

We know that Facebook is becoming ubiquitous – if it’s not there already by modest definitions – and the vernacular is being enriched almost weekly by new sayings and references that are very FB specific.  It’s very common to hear or read, “friend me on Facebook”, “I unfriended the bastard”, “checking in” – when there is no hotel, plane or other usual checking-in going on, “I was facebooking last night ...” and quite simply “liking”.

This last example of linguistic embellishment – or pollution, depending on your receptiveness to neologisms (which as a footnote, is itself a borrowing from French in 1772) – was recently given its rather obvious antonym on Facebook.

Installing the “dislike” application was painless in itself and I felt empowered and liberated knowing that I could now dislike as well like posts from people – with impunity. 

It had been quite perturbing to “like” a negative article or bad piece of news, for example – even though the liking was admiring of the sentiment of the said post or article as opposed to liking the fact the gays had been beaten up in some Caucasus state or that Whitney Houston had just died and the eulogies were streaming in.  You get what I mean...

But no, – some things are not that straight forward are they?

I now find myself hovering over the “dislike” icon wondering whether I should click or not.  The negative effect on someone’s post if it’s misinterpreted is far heavier than a well-intentioned but badly taken “like”.  Even if I genuinely dislike someone’s point of view, or sharing an image that displeases me, is it worth the potential upset or confrontation, I ask myself.

Funny how something that seemed like a great and logical idea is not filling me anxiety and doubt.

Maybe someone will have the balls to “dislike” this blog entry....let’s wait and see.

Zanzibar - a spicy kind of place

Zanzibar – spicy kind of place.

For my birthday, Baxter treated me to a luxurious jaunt to the tropical island of Zanzibar, famed for its Indian Ocean vistas, Arabic fusion heritage and intoxicating spices.  It did not disappoint.  We stayed in a beautiful converted couple of mansions that now form the Serena Hotel in Stone Town – the latter so called since the houses were traditionally made from local rocks as opposed to wood or the like.  The hotel was on the shoreline and from time to time we would glance up from our G&T on the verandah to spot a dhow glide by – it was textbook, but splendid.

Almost immediately, we decided to explore.  One of the “must-dos” in Zanzibar is get lost in the midst of Stone Town and we unwittingly obliged.  The white-washed walls were almost mesmeric, the winding streets disorienting and the smiling locals a tad too smiling… We soon ended up in a warren of juxtaposed alleys wondering where to turn next.  But it was a safe adventure – a few reassuring directions from a man here and a woman there and we were back on “track”.

We took a guide the following day who explained that doorways were very important in determining wealth, status and personality in Zanzibar.  Alas, after the 1964 revolution and several decades of an eclectic experiment with socialism, most of the Arabs and Indian settlers upped sticks and settled elsewhere a little more convenient for trading than a communist commune.  Still, they left their doors and overhanging balconies to our delight.

We didn't manage to see Freddie's bar - the Queen-famed singer who was born on the island way back, but I managed to sip a cool beer on a lush rather breezy rooftop in his honour while Baxter was on a conference call.


Some things were a little rusty in Zanz' and I was somewhat taken aback while strolling on another rooftop - this time of the heritage museum - to see a fire extinguisher that, honestly, if necessity called would struggle at putting out anything more than a lit match.

The last day saw us trek all over the island in search of adventure and spice.  Nutmeg, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, vanilla, ginger and turmeric - we saw them all.  


The sea down at the coast was bluer than almost any I'd seen and petting turtles in the local sanctuary was a splendid end to a splendid island get-away.

Put it on your bucket list - if it's not already on there.

It's the 4th July, and....?

Someone asked me yesterday if the Amercians were at work.

I replied, "Why?  Is today a special day?"  The irony or even mild sarcasm in my voice was lost on my colleague.

The fact that the 4th of July is such a globally recognised date fills me with acute annoyance each time this fireworks-laden "celebration" comes around.

We, Brits, mishandled a great territory and the revolution that ensued was not only justified, but appropriate in the wider context of self-determination.

How many of my readers appreciate the significance of 23rd April for English folk or 9th August for Singaporeans the world over?

Nonetheless, the panoramic assumption on the part of the United States citizenry that we all should somehow join in the merriment seems peculiar at best and at worst, tantamount to giving the old colonial masters the "finger".

This in itself is the sweetest irony, since we Brits know the insult is more punctilious perhaps when doubled up with the forefinger.

So whether you celebrate with one finger or two - I suppose I can wish my over-the-pond friends a belated (through clenched teeth) "happy Independence Day" and get on with perfecting my Victory signals.

Enjoy the picture - it's the best I find (sic).

Thumbing a lift on a Kenyan stretcher

 

 

A few weeks ago I had the unpleasant experience of falling and damaging my thumbs.  I thought I’d merely sprained them, but the right thumb wasn’t healing and I was compelled to trot off to the doctor’s in Nairobi.

She promptly sent me for an X-ray and within what seemed like moments, I was being admitted to Nairobi Hospital for corrective surgery on a dislocated joint.  My surgeon, Professor Atinga, advised me that thumb joints are notoriously challenging to get back in to place and he might need to do keyhole fiddling around and insert wires to keep my joint in situ.  I consented and was, after about 3 hours delay, on my way to theatre.

I hadn’t actually traveled on a hospital trolley bed since I was a child – when I was parted from my foreskin at age 8.  And even back then I recall being administered with the anaesthetic in the ward, this time I was fully conscious as we wended our way through the now dark corridors – it had passed 8pm.  Did they really do procedural operations so late?

Apparently, they do…!

Lying flat on your back and watching the lights zip past one by one, you are aware you’re reliving hundreds of scenes before seen on TV.  The light fittings glide past and it is a kind of fairground sensation.

I arrived at theatre and was unceremoniously plonked next to the ante-chamber door, propping it open with the trolley bed.  I had more time to reflect and notice a few damp patches on the ceiling as well as a broken tile on the floor.  Convulsions of anxiety raced through my being – oh no, where am I, I thought….what I have done to commit to this treatment here?

But then my surgeon appeared, reassured me that all would be well and I was pushed into the theatre proper by the all-green-clad vision that was my anaesthetist. 

The theatre did resemble something from 1980, but as they patched my chest with heart monitoring “stickers”, pricked my hand for the tube of anaesthetic and soothed me with calming words, I floated off into slumbering oblivion.

Waking up in recovery room, I was groggy as hell, but glad to be back with the “living”.  All had gone according to plan – two wires now embedded in my thumb and a bandage larger than a banana.

Thank you Nairobi Hospital.  I’d give them a thumbs-up, but that’s still a little painful just yet.

Of food poisoning, electrcitiy and bribery.

Last week, I had the disputable pleasure of trekking to Lagos for business and everything was going swimmingly until I ventured to the buffet bar at the Protea Hotel for lunch.  One, quite wrongly and naively, assumed that a budding 5* hotel would know a thing or two about food hygiene.  Well, one would be sorely mistaken.

I had been back at my desk a mere 2 hours and it started: cramps, vomiting and more from the other end.  I was struck down and honestly, if that is food poisoning, then every dose I've had hitherto, was a pale imitation.  I even had to ask the driver to stop on the back streets after work to throw up behind a lamppost.  Thank God it was dark and no-one paid any attention to the stupid white man wrenching his guts to rid him of the bloody bug.  Shame on you Protea.

Anyway, then I had the delight of the journey home to Nairobi the next morning.  But as soon as I boarded, I headed to my seat and made positive eye contact and small talk with Charles a rather handsome Kenya Airways steward.  He looked after me all the way home.  He brought me extra bread, recommended soda water to calm my stomach and even offered me antacid tablets.  He was of Singapore Airlines standard - with no doubt.  He helped make my journey home bearable.  Well done KQ.

*     *     *

Well, I think I just complimented the airline too quickly - I've just tried to do an online compliment for Charles - and Kenya Airways doesn't have a "compliment" form only a "complaint" one - that is quite telling I suppose - and when I try to use that instead for my compliment, the page doesn't recognise my Kenya mobile number.  Sigh - I give up.  Charles will have to read my blog to get his now rather tardy compliment.

And while I'm ranting about Kenya Airways, in Lagos the rather nonchalant counter lady put a priority sticker on my luggage - since I'm silver with SkyTeam - "thank you", I thought.  But I was to be disappointed again.  Just look at the picture here of my suitcase, slapped with an insulting "Last Bag" sticker.  I think I need to go back to KQ's complaint form and scream at someone.

So much for priority baggage

Before I left Lagos, I had received a text from my help advising me that KPLC *(the local power company) had cut me off.  I had been using the previous tenants name and paying religiously - but she decided to close the account and KPLC duly cut me off.  We did our best, Ipsos and I, to get power back on for my impending arrival in Kenya - but without luck.

So I arrived home, knackered from the flight and drained from the food poisoning to a dark apartment.  I promptly lit some candles and rummaged around for my torch.  Then I realised, I would have no hot water to shower with in the morning.  Disaster...!  I went to sleep, disgruntled but knowing that I was home.

Ducking and diving

Next morning, I sprang out of bed having forgotten about having no hot water and then slumped back in again when I remembered.  So I dragged myself to the kitchen and started boiling water on the stove.  Then I did a good old mixing to and fro between a couple of buckets to get the temperature down and off I went to the shower.  It wasn't half bad, but I was squatting like a Niger-delta pygmy throwing water over my back with a measuring jug.  I even put a rubber duck in to keep me company.     

So as you read this, or switch off the TV later or put your night light on to read your current novel, remember how lucky you are not to in Lagos with food poisoning or rummaging around for matches to light a candle.

And what of bribery?  Well you see, for me to have an electricity account in my own name, I need a PIN (which also allows me to pay taxes in Kenya).  And I can't get a PIN until I get my Alien Certificate and I have been waiting for the said certificate since August last year.  Each time I trundle down to Nyayo House, where they process applications, there is a new story as to why my card is not ready or missing.  They are waiting for a back-hander and suddenly, I'm sure my certificate will be found.  I'm not paying.

It's my own little stand on the matter, and if I have to suffer a blackout or two, then so be it.

Giving things up and sarcastic comments

Recently, I posted on Facebook a lengthy list of abstentions I was embarking on for Lent - I must confess I did miss the start of it and had to be reminded by Baxter (my indomitable better half).  Don't think I can blame being in Kenya either; it being such a religious country; it just slipped under the radar.

So better late than never is a good axiom in which to take refuge on this occasion.

Every year I give up several things for Lent - it's a healthy self-sacrifice that really does help one appreciate what one has.  If I were to give up chocolate, for example, there wouldn't be much of an effort on my part as I don't really eat the stuff - but usually I try to stop things that really  matter.  One year I gave up all alcohol and suffered immensely.  Since then I've limited by penitence to subsets of alcohol and allowed myself an indulgence or three during the lenten period.

So this year, although tardy, I decided to give up the rather mixed bag of red meat, poultry, whisky, I-Tunes purchases, caffeine in tea & coffee and Facebook posts.  Naively, I posted such on FB itself and wasn't quite prepared for the barrage of counter posts on the subject.  Not being able to reply of course, I was a little constrained and mute.

So I resort to my blog.

A few points I would like to clarify - in a non-threatening, tongue-in-cheek, on-hobby-horse kind of way.

Firstly, sacrificing something for Lent, is not for God per se and indeed not for anyone else really.  It's a symbolic act of solidarity with Christ's suffering and a test for oneself to see if we come even remotely close to what He endured while in the desert before returning to Jerusalem to be ultimately crucified.

Secondly, various people commented on the items that were missing - other concoctions and alcoholic beverages - well as I said above, a complete denial of all things potato, juniper, hop & grape-induced will never happen again.  You try giving them ALL up - and I shall applaud you.

Thirdly, to Jesus giving up Facebook - I think if He were exposed to it, he'd be as addicted as the rest of us and we'd be "liking" his miracles and sermons with gay abandon.

Lastly, some were emboldened and even relieved at my "posting-silence".  Well, if you're reading this, you'll see my venting just took another avenue.  Where there's a will ....

And talking of will - I'm sure I will get through Lent as I've done most years and be be thankful, proud, humbled and grateful for it.

Go on, even if you're not religious, give something up for a while - it feels, tastes, looks, satisfies so much better when you eventually go back to it.

See you all on Facebook in a few weeks' time.

Oh, not another bank rant

Well I'm afraid to say, yes, here comes yet another bloody bank rant.  This one is about Stanbic, Kenya, who have over the past 8 months treated this customer of theirs with utter contempt and ineptitude.

Am I demanding?  Perhaps.

Am I unreasonable?  Not sure on that one.

Am I illogical?  Well, usually not. 

And on this occasion, you may pour scorn on my drama, but not on my logic.

I shall start by quoting the final email I have just sent my so-called "customer representative".  Then I shall take you all through the sorry sorry tale of my woeful interaction with this excuse for a financial institution.

"Dear N,

I give up.

Your service has been appalling from start to finish.

Inconsistent communication; haphazard processes; and a blatant disregard for customer delight.

I only wanted your card for the air miles – and this aborted process has wasted so much of my time, I probably could have flown around the world in the same time.

You may want to Google my blog to see how my wrath has vibrated into the ether on this travesty of customer interaction.  Then again, you most likely won’t bother.

Yours, where words fail to convey my disappointment,

Darren"

And what drove me to this apoplexy?

About 8 months ago, a Stanbic rep visited my offices after about 1 week when I'd requested more information on their website about the Kenya Airways credit card.  This in itself was rather tardy, but I let it go.  The young man, after taking various piece of personal information from me, advised that I would need THREE month's salary evidence.

What for?  I enquired.  Well as we're told constantly by financial advisers - in the same institutions - that past performance is no guarantee of future upward trends. He was blank as to why his employer would need 3 months salary slips - which prove neither that I will be employed in month four or that I'm a good credit risk.

I duly waited four months and then proceeded to the branch.

This wasn't enough, I obviously needed address proof, a letter from my employer and several other things.

But at least my application was submitted.

At no point was my tax PIN mentioned - a rather innocuous thing in Kenya - but a dreadfully difficult thing to get for an alien such as myself - without bribing some nondescript official.  Needless to say, I haven't done that (yet) - but believe me, it's only a matter of time. But I digress.

So then I get an email (one month on) saying "my" paperwork is out of date and I need to submit my most recent salary information and yet another bank statement.  I'm out of date???  The bank delays and then my paperwork is out of date - I was doing somersaults at this point.  

I resubmit and ask by email for an update - silence.  Deafening silence. Not even the decency to deign me with a reply.

So, storming and stomping, I march (again) into the branch and vent my spleen on a certain customer rep who apparently should have been overseeing my application from the outset buy had been on leave.  Ah well, forgiveness was looming and then I said I was looking forward to an update soon.

Well, the update came and it was tantamount to a red rag to a bull.  I had to re-submit all the required documentation AND my tax PIN - which I don't have.

When I scream blue-murder, I'm brushed off with a nonchalant "I'm sorry, but that's the process, please do feel to contact me or customer services for any other matter".  Hence my diatribe response above.

As I pour myself a glass of red wine (OK my 2nd one) and if you've managed to stave off narcolepsy in reading this far, please do tell me if I'm missing something.

Do tell me if I'm unreasonable.

Do tell me if I'm illogical in my expectations.

What the bank doesn't perhaps realise, is I put all my expenditure, where I can on my credit card and they've lost thousands of dollars of merchant fees.

My next crusade will be to tell Kenya Airways, how their so-called finance partner is turning away loyal flyers and forcing me to collect miles with Star Alliance.

It reminds me of a good friend who once scoffed at SkyTeam (of which Kenya Airways is a member).  Perhaps he was right.  SQ is better than KQ and my futile attempt to harvest thousands of miles on the latter has been thwarted - but I will fly with a better airline and in more comfort.

Perhaps, after all this travail, I should thank Stanbic - more than they could ever comprehend.  

"She's a great way to fly."