What makes a good party?

This past Saturday witnessed one of my most successful parties in Kenya to date.

We had a drinkipoos to celebrate Christmas; I put on a modest spread of peanuts, salami, crisps, sausages on sticks and a few shortbread biscuits.  As is customary guests were encouraged almost to obligation to bring a bottle of something intoxicating and come ready to enjoy the evening to the fullest.  I had arrived back from Lagos the evening before a tad tardy due to "late arrival of the incoming aircraft" nonsense and a torrential downpour over the runway in Nairobi causing the charming pilot to abort an attempted landing, veering southwards, banking for half an hour and then finally touching down to the rapturous applause of the Nigerian passengers; she erred on the side of caution and I suppose they (and I) were grateful for that.  At least I got home in one piece.

I digress.

So the night before, still on Lagos-time, I had rearranged the furniture to make more space - I was expecting quite a few to furn up - and started to get plates, cups, glassware at the ready.  Luckily, my helper, Emmy, had already assisted in this - which was a Godsend. 

Then on the day itself, I adorned several vases with various ikebana-esque arrangements - some of which looked like the blooms had been cast from 10 metres away.  A bit more furniture moving, then slicing and dicing for the pasta, chopping and cutting for the cold meats selection and we were good to go.

Mince pies were at hand for the gluttonous, (thanks P), the wine flowed as at Canna for those in need of lubrication and there was music for all tastes - well almost all.

I must admit, I ensured that candles were lit and sparkling - even in the powder room - the Christmas tree was glistening with fairy lights to get us in the mood of Yuletide, the early birds coiffed a limited supply of champagne and the room had been doused with enough tuberose scent to have half the bees of Kenya swarming. 

But you see, that's not enough.  That doesn't make a party, or at least a good party.  And the jovial, witty, erudite host can only take part of the credit - a small part, I might add.

It's the guests that make a good party - of course.

The dutifully faithful turned up on schedule my good friends R & V laden down with water, fruit juices and just under 100 samosas - why just under I enquired and the honest reply was returned that some had been eaten on the way - well who can blame them - they were handmade and delicious.  Thank you Carla...

Slowly but surely,  the apartment filled and then swelled with the invited; and then burgeoned with the not-so-invited until there were about 60 or 70 in the place, over-spilling quite necessarily to a rather fortunately large balcony, and the eclectic mix of guest assured a lively if not raucous exchange of conversation and chatter.

Groups formed, discussions were energetic and lively, and the mood was palpably electric - and the vodka helped  ;-)

The night went on, the neighbours complained, the early birds left and the die-hards partied hard.  We danced, we laughed, we imbibed.

And that's what makes a good party: the people; those silly persistent guests who enjoy, inhale, hoover up everything life has to offer.  I'm blessed to know so many of this type of human being - and that they want to come to my parties.  It's the guests - it's the people who make a good party.

The mobile department store - Lagos style

27C was the seat allocated to me on the Kenya Airways flight from Lagos to Nairobi and after I politely asked an usurper to vacate my place, I sat down for the 5 hour trip back home to Kenya.

Kenya is celebrating its 50th birthday this week and while I could rant on about that for a good blog entry or two, that's to be left for another time.

This particular story is about the "mobile department store" as a colleague referred to it.  

Lagos is as you might expect from its reputation or know from reading about it in other blog entries of mine, a chaotic, rumble-tumble, fight-for-your-life, snatch it or lose it, shout as loud as you can kind of place.  Some of you may remember my tales of Kenya road disobedience and the cursory decorative nature of traffic lights in Nairobi.  Well, the Naija folk do abide by most traffic rules - certainly their police are a tad more concerned with enforcing the Highway Code for the greater good.  So, red lights are mostly observed and junctions treated with a modicum of respect.

And as the minibuses, cars, trucks, motorcycles all come to a grinding halt at the red-amber-green, a sea of hawkers descend on the drivers and passengers to sell their wares. The cornucopia that the eyes behold is boggling and incredible.  One might not be too surprised by steering wheel covers, car air fresheners, and even phone accessories, yet this is the mere first floor of the great Nigerian equivalent of the Grace Brothers' bazar.  

Fruit balanced on ladies' heads, SIM cards by the hundred dangling like heliconia flowers, ice cold drinks promising a welcome respite from the dusty Lagos sun, peanuts neatly packed into triangular plastic bags bursting with cellophane goodness, chewing gum and CDs displayed on a metre square board ready to be popped into your player in the car: even these are bland plainsong in the cacophony that is  Captain Peacock's sanctuary in Lagos.

Then you notice the less obvious department store items - the lift has moved through floors 3 and 4 and continues upward.

Self-help books are offered here; fluorescent framed pictures of Jesus glinting in the headlights - it's getting dark by now; tea-towels, socks, handkerchiefs, and other cotton items; and the obligatory fire extinguisher.  Did I just obligatory?  Hmmmmm, well.....

You think you've seen it all and then the merriment of the festive season assaults the senses:  Christmas trees, complete with twinkling lights, Santa hats in "traditional" pointed style and also the rather avant-garde Stetson-with-white-fur-trimmed version.

With all this profiteering and darting around on the part of the vendors, I must confess, sometimes my appreciation for the male form trumps the produce on offer and the lithe gleaming physiques on the left and right are a delight to behold.  But caveat emptor: make eye contact and the potential sale becomes a distinct reality.  The car continues ahead, and the seller, sensing a willing buyer, jogs, skips, runs to keep up with the car in the hope I'll relieve him of some of his stock.  I quickly look the other way and pretend to be busy iPhone-ing.   Usually, they give up after about a 100m dash - and lurch towards the next upcoming car.  Phew...that was close!

I don't consider myself a John Inman wanna-be and certainly any references to Molly Sugden's errant pussy are in your own mind, reader, but this tale has its parallels.  I have withheld and restrained from such gratuitous references - well at least up until now.

But as I am bombarded via my iPad with Yuletide yodeling from Cliff Richard, Bing Crosby, the Jackson Five and many others aboard my Boeing 737-rather-old-200, I wish I'd bought one of those Christmas Stetsons, to at very least prove I managed to get to the 7th floor of Naija-Are-You-Being-Served - the topmost floor where the milliner entrepreneur spirit reigns supreme.

Long live the mobile department store and may its employees reap even greater success in 2014.!!

Blast from the past

I recently received an invitation from a long lost colleague with whom I worked when I was at Cable & Wireless - when the company was a great monolithic carpet of telecoms coverage.  Alas, now it's been hoovered up by Vodafone and is no more.

I have kept in touch with many from those halcyon days of internet bubbles and crazy start ups - most of which ended up in the dustbin of risk capital.   But I did lose a few on the way.

It was about 2-3 months ago, I had a thought about one particular colleague, J Hendricks - yeah almost like the famous guitarist, but different - actually very different.....  Then I failed to do anything about it.  And it was just this week that J actually got in touch with me via LinkedIn.  The myriad of options we have to connect, reconnect and stay in touch these days are invaluable.

We connected and started to reminisce a little over email.

Before I knew it he sent over a picture from one of our business trips to Milan way back in circa 1998/9.  I posted it on Facebook and invoked a tsunami of likes.  I was a mere 28 or so and the youthful glow was evident - and not just in my rather bold orange plaid T-shirt that I was proudly sporting.

What a beautiful surprise.  I don't even recall the photo being taken - and I certainly didn't have a copy of it.  So it was pleasant indeed to receive it.

And so I got to thinking, there must be so many non-digitised pics out there and we don't go to thte trouble of scanning them and preserving them for eternity on FB, Google, Smartmug, Flickr or Tumblr.  We ought.  Yes, we ought! 

I do have another very good friend (from school days) C Stevenson, as she was then, who delights, and occasionally horrifies, us ex-Netherhall-ites with photographic memories of sixth form gatherings or on-stage (no exiting left) shenanigans as we rendered Fiddler on the Roof immortally destroyed with our shambolic efforts at acting and singing.

But most of us, I suspect, have an attic full of Kodak paper-ed images just waiting to be uploaded and subsequently downloaded. 

So my call to you - is do it....get scanning and zip, PDF, archive, upload and share all those wonderfully embarrassing pictures - and in some cases like the pic of me (which is clearly not a selfie) they may be rather flattering also.

Thank you Mr Hendricks.!

Bumps and scrapes

Airports can have funny effects on people.  Some are kinder, some are more purposeful and some are simply rude - I'm talking about the people, by the way, not the airports.

I was catching a flight today from Bangkok, Suvarnabhumi, international and thanks to my business class ticket, I smoothly jogged my way through security and passport control and directed myself to the VAT refund counter.  I must confess I had spent rather a lot and the duty was worth redeeming.

A man of some distinction was meandering to the same line and I spotted his assumed wife to be languishing behind me.  I wasn't in any particular rush and paused at the entrance to the queue letting her catch him up - no sooner had I halted my luggage cart, and from nowhere a second man jolted forward and nipped in behind the first ahead of the wife.

"Yes, everybody's welcome.  Go ahead.  Don't mind me."  I snipped.

The man's spouse then started muttering in Mandarin and the muttering went on all the way to the counter.  I had to wait for a convenient opportunity when she at last turned to me to explain that she was "together" with her husband.

"I know, I know."  I soothed.  "I was chastising this other ignoramus.  Not you!"

I inhaled, proceeded to the counter, collected my duty refund and went on my way to the gate.

On board the Qatar Airways flight bound for Doha, where I was connecting to Nairobi, I joked with the stewardesses and stewards and was soon in my familiar seat, E3, all set with a (again as usual) slightly less than ideally chilled glass of Bollinger Rose.  All was well in the world.  And certainly nothing an ice cube dropped in from a small height couldn't cure.

The flight was uneventful - save a few merry bumps over the Bay of Bengal - and that's how I like my flights.

At Doha, already passing security, I had to get some US dollars for my visa into Kenya, and discovered that the only way to do this was to leave the inner sanctum, that is the premium business class terminal and head to the main transfer.  Arriving there, plunged into throngs of transferring passengers, it was like another world.

A world of a jostling, jousting, juxtaposed rabble.  Still, I was ushered through security (again) with "business class" priority and was soon on my way back to the premium terminal for peace and serenity.

And so to my third security check at Doha airport.  It's all necessary, of course, but I felt the routine speedy processing in Doha is more cosmetics than substance.

As we alighted the transfer bus, I sensed an impatient lady behind me, like an expectant filly, trying to get to the hurdle on a steeplechase before the other nags.  But she fell at the first, dropping her boarding pass and losing momentum to get ahead of me in the line.

Her impatience was voracious as she flung her wheelie onto the conveyor belt before my tray was fully loaded; my fingers jammed in between.  Did she not know I had just been manicured that very afternoon?  Getting one's nails done at the Hyatt Bangkok is not a cheap affair.  But alas, she was oblivious and something propelled her forward with verve.

I tried not to think about it too much, collected my nerve - and my tray full of belongings and headed upstairs to the lounge.

I hadn't sauntered, I hadn't lingered.

And then entering the lounge, I discovered the reason for the lady's impertinent impatience: hunger.

She had managed to beat me upstairs, grab a dish over-brimming with Wheetabix, yoghurt and other breakfast delectables and was happily gorging herself.  Of course.....it was the hunger that drove her to distraction and distress.  But I'm not sure that's an excuse for rudeness to fellow passengers.  Or am I being disingenuous?!

Anyway, I plonked myself down at a table far enough from her to be content, and equally scoffed down my scrambled eggs and baked beans.

 People are strange when they travel.

Brave girls

As I was driving into work this morning, I was listening to my habitual BBC World Service and was jolted by an interview with a school friend of the famous Malala Yousafzai, called Shazia Ramzan.

She has recently moved to continue her education in the UK amid all the uncertainty in her native Pakistan.

Her passion was evident in the interview, the answers she gave to the reporter simply inspiring, and the persistent almost dogged conviction that she would become a doctor and go back to help the poor in her homeland utterly humbling.

She has a choice of subject now - something withheld from her in Pakistan - and while she's getting to grips with chemistry and global politics, it is biology that still gives her fire in her belly.  The desire for self-betterment that would then eventually and ultimately give sustenance and care to the underprivileged back home had my emotions racing.

This 15 year old, whose spirits had not been dampened by her friend being shot in the head on their school bus, is still fighting for the right for education for all - especially girls in Pakistan.  And shows no sign of relenting.

At her age, I was busy preparing for my O-Levels, as they were then, having home-organ lessons, was very insular about what England should be about and rather looking forward to a family holiday in Tunisia - what an adventure.  I had no cares in the world (apart from coming to terms with the fact that I liked boys instead of girls) but looking back the issues all see incredibly minor in comparison.

Just to have access to education, being a girl, is not universally a given and it is shameful that, as a species, we have not made this happen.

When you go through today and a problem is solved thanks to the education you've had - however small, like checking the bill from the restaurant - maths, or knowing that electricity & water don't mix when you splash some on a plug socket - physics, or understanding why in democracies, a proposed bill is read twice (or sometimes thrice) before it becomes law - history or political science, be thankful you went to school.  Be thankful you had access to learning.

Education sets us free, it makes our leaders accountable because they can't hide behind our ignorance.

Education and learning makes us all better human beings.  What is amazing is not that Shazia, who could hardly speak English a month ago, just gave a full blown interview on the BBC in that tongue, but rather that she values education so much, she is driven by the singular desire to give something back and help ensure other girls in Pakistan get access to the classroom too.

An amazingly brave girl - just like Malala.

The Jaipur jostle

Well, as predicted the flight from Udaipur to Delhi, didn't materialise and we were forced to cancel our flight and jump a car on a marathon 7 hour highway journey - which to say was hair-raising would be quite an understatement.

If you don't believe me - check this out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNR0IvK46DI.

We did arrive in Jaipur in one piece and after an equally manic drive through the city centre, we arrived at our sanctuary of Disney-esque tranquility, otherwise known as the Oberoi Rajvillas.  It felt quite surreal in this peacock-plastic-paradise.  But a welcome respite from the crazy Indian roads, nonetheless.  We ate quickly and retired early.

Up the next morning with a packed schedule; we'd lost a good half day with the flight fiasco, but were determined to cram as much of Jaipur in as possible.

Sun dial - Jaipur-style

Our driver and guide dutifully whisked us off to the jantar mantar an expansive astrological playset of instruments built by Jai Singh II in the early 18th century.  The accuracy of these enormous tools was impressive: we walked 30m from one to the next and discovered the latter was calibrated 2 seconds behind the former in order to allow for the correct Jaipur-time.

The Royals still live here....all 5 of them...

Jaipur palace

Time marched on (no pun intended): we sped to the city palace adorned with fabrics from kings of old, peacock painted portals, (enough of p-alliteration for now, methinks) and airy courtyards.  The princely yellow was in stark contrast to the commoner red of outside.

But one of our holiday highlights waited still to be witnessed.

Amber fort

Perched on a hillside and constructed way back in the 16th century with various additions after that, the yellow golden edifice is almost climbing down the hillside and dipping its toe in the lake below.  It creeps almost in its majesty.  Courtyard after courtyard we visited and thus to the inner sanctum, where the king kept his harem of hundreds of perhaps-not-so-willing concubines.

Ingenious water channels kept the place coolish in summer and a myriad of defence mechanisms helped keep the place free of storming.  It was like visiting the Alhambra of the east - awesome in detail, magnificent in imposing stature.

Hair cut anyone?

Palace dome detail

A quick photo-op at both the Water Palace and Wind Palace and we were done.  We needed to get on the highway (again) and zip to Ranthambore for the safari that was prescient with tiger-sightings.  How disappointed I was about to be...

Wind Palace

Water Palace

Udaipur - a golden city

Leaving the grandeur and shiny splendour of Indira Ghandi Airport in Delhi, we weren’t quite sure what to expect in the provincial city of Udaipur.  But with a porter to greet us and a speedy exit on the conveyor belt of our luggage, we were soon whisked off in a slick black Jaguar and on our way to the Taj Lake Palace.

 

Taj Lake Palace Hotel

We cruised through villages and hamlets, each adorned with a colourful array of Hindi hand-written signs.  The colours jumping out like 3D bill boards; yellow, orange, red, ochre, blue – the entire rainbow.

 

Hotel jetty

The city itself is not too big at about 500 000 inhabitants, but the usual cacophony of horn hooting greeted us on the city limits.  Closing our ears, and eyes sometimes, our driver navigated with skill the chaotic roundabouts and half-observed T-junctions and miraculously got us to the hotel jetty on the edge of lake Picholi in one piece.  

 

Udaipur City Palace

The golden sun was about 20 minutes away from setting and the glow bounced off the city palace behind us, rendering the peeling plaster resplendent and shimmering.  The entire lake was imbued with a picture-postcard atmosphere and as we donned our obligatory life jackets for the short ferry transfer to the hotel, I took a deep breath and pinched myself to confirm I was actually here in the land of the maharanas and maharanis and about to tread in the footsteps of Rajasthani royalty.

 

The palace, which is now the Taj hotel on the glass-like lake, was built by a former maharana in the late 18^th century – it was to complement their winter palace, just on the lake edge, and the lofty monsoon palace perched high on a distant hill – well away from torrential downpours.

 

We stepped off the barge and were escorted by the hotel doorman under a royal parasol to the triple doorway – common in Hindu culture – and were suddenly and surprisingly showered with rose petals from the balcony above.  As they fluttered down the air was filled with their exquisite scent and for a moment, just a moment, I felt I could “eat” the air.  I was beginning to feel like royalty indeed.

Rose petals fluttering earthwards

 

The hotel was updated in the 70s by the Taj group after the local royals gave up trying to make it a going hospitality concern – and the “facelift” they gave has been incredibly true to the original palace principles and layout.  The charming lobby lead to a first courtyard where nightly performances of local dancing were given – complete with resident fortune teller.  (The latter, seemed to be sitting alone for most of the time and I couldn’t help wondering, if he is indeed a fortune teller, why he couldn’t predict when the next customer was coming and save himself the apparent boredom of sitting palm-less for hours on end.)

 

The inner courtyard had a magnificent waterscape in the middle, in the shape of a lily flower; adorned with flowers and tea lights, the view was perfect.

Inner courtyard at Taj Lake Palace Hotel

 

We slept quite early but not before sampling the Indian cuisine in the hotel restaurant.  Shafiq was our waiter and very attentive he was too; suggesting dishes, and combinations and generally being a shadow to our dining.  Slumber came quickly as we watched the moon rise over the city palace across the lake from our bedroom window; I fell asleep thankful and feeling very lucky.

 

Dome detail at City Palace

The next day we headed out after a sumptuous breakfast to the city palace and the adjoining museum.  It was filled to overflowing with miniature paintings, furniture from bygone kings and intricate finishes.  The palace is actually built atop a series of small hills, so even thought it looks massive on the outside, the useable space on the inside is limited and the resulting warren of passages makes for an interesting ducking and diving kind of tour.  After a few expensive pashmina-type purchases, we strolled in lush public gardens, watched the mastery of miniature-painting artists at work and then headed back to the hotel.

 

Baxter had arranged a splendid private dinner on the Mewar Terrace in the hotel – the spot where former kings sat regally and surveyed their palace from on high.  The terrace was decked out with hundreds of rose and marigold petals and tea lights twinkled in the darkness of night.  The food was lavish and the champagne delightful: what a way to live.....!

Mewar Terrace

 

Jaipur is next – but sitting at the airport typing this up, we’ve just been notified of a 2.45 hour delay to our flight due to fog in Delhi – perhaps we won’t get to Jaipur after all.