Put another coin in the Lusaka meter?

I was a tad bored, I must confess.  Sitting at my dining table in a swanky Lusaka restaurant called "Rhapsody's", I swished through the pages of Africa Geographic and thought I wonder whom I could call to have a chat with.  Mind you, the menu, which is pictured below, was rather thought-provoking in itself.

My good friend in Maryport sprang to mind.  I dialled and got through with a crystal clear connection from Zambia to England.


We talked about many things, but the opening sentence set the scene and I was challenged about why I was calling.  The assumption was either that I had been stood up by a date, or the electricity had gone off (again) and I was bored.  Well, needless to say I was slightly miffed by the insinuation, but continued to talk to my so-called chum regardless.

There were discussions about schooling and the British press and even a momentary murmur a propos UK high-street fashion.  I was trying to end the conversation with my garrulous gal on the other end by saying I should really hang up and was accused of having to put a 50p in the meter to keep talking.  This lead me to telling a tale of when I was about 8 or so and me another young schmuck were hijacked on our way home from primary school by a rather histrionic grandmother claiming her electric meter (remember those?) was jammed and the imminent power cut would render her cold and cooker-less. 

She implored us to rush to the local electricity provider (NORWEB as it was – remember that?!) and ask for help.  My friend and I duly sped down the street and barged into the “showroom” as they were called back in those days. 

We explained the lady’s plight and gave her coordinates.  The lady behind the counter, sighed, laughed, scowled and finally imparted to us that the silver-haired granny in question was a known hijacker-of-kids-on-their-way-from-school and should be condescended to but not taken seriously.  She had a habit of stuffing the meter full of 50p coins out of fear and probably had enough coins jammed in there to last a week.  My friend and I continued on our merry way with a mouthful of Black Jacks (now who remembers those!!!) and went home.

I do hope the granny didn’t freeze to death.  But I shall never know – the hijacking was a one-off occurrence.

And so my chatty counterpart and I continued for another 10 minutes or so.  I persisted, I must go.  And then came the thunderbolt.  “Oh, I see, you really do need a 50p for the meter, don’t you?!  No wait...”  she pursued, “perhaps you could maximise your 50p...!”  I was intrigued to know how.  “Well,” she continued, “you don’t put it in the meter and that way you’ll be plunged into darkness and the date that you’re denying is waiting for you in the wings will be spared the embarrassment of your visog.”

Well to say I was miffed, is an understatement, but not for the reason you’re perhaps thinking.  I was annoyed she’d delivered the same witty remark I was about to make before her – and the cow beat me to it.

That’s when you know you have a real friend.

Anyone got a spare 50p?

A brush with Kenyan bureaucracy

Friday morning, I was picked up by the company driver, Robert, and we headed purposefully to the Kenya revenue Authority (KRA) to register for my revenue PIN - this is a number that confirms that I exist as far as the KRA are concerned and also is required for all manner of things in Kenya - including an electricty account and perhaps most surprisingly of all, allows my furniture to come ashore in Mombassa - when it eventually arrives across the Inidan Ocean from Singapore.

So you can imagine how excited I was.

I proceeded to the PIN registration desk and was met by a charming smiling woman.  "I've come to register for a PIN please," I said in utter naivity.  "Hmmm," she countered with another broad smile.  

"Do you have your alien certificate, sir?"

"No, I don't, I was told I needed my work permit and passport only."

"Oh dear, I have bad news for you then, " she responded with a slight grimace to her now ever slightly annoying showing of teeth.  "You will need your alien certificate, since we had a security breach 2 months ago and the ministry have given strict guidelines that we can only accept applications supported by an approved alien certificate."

I called Robert, and we zipped off to Nyayo House - the bastion of all things immigration.

Well, I should have known, that it would have been far too wonderful, if things had gone smoothly.  I bounded up the steps and saw ahead of me a line of people sitting behind grills reminiscent of a 1940s railway ticketing office.  I approached one man - and dared to disturb his reading of the daily newspaper.

I had to extract every piece of information out of him like with verbal plyers.  After 6 or 7 probing questions I managed to glean that I needed a completed form, 2 photos, 2000 shillings and the patience of a saint.  This alien certificate was going to take SIX WEEKS to process.  Even my daring to suggest a "quicker" route - nudge nudge wink wink - was rebuffed. 

So with tail between my legs I slouched out of the immigration dungeon and will submit the necessary (as our Indian friends are inclinded to say) complete with photos and payment next week instead.

Crumpled piece of paper - so-called driving licence

It seems a tad ironic, that my application for a Kenyan drivers' license (see above) was processed in a matter of days and I was issued with the temporary paper copy (presumably to waive at an accosting policeman, should he challenge my right to drive on Kenyan highways).

So there you have it: it takes weeks to get the "right" to pay taxes in Kenya, and mere days to be let loose on the roads to take your life in you own (and more often involuntarily to put in someone elses) hands.

Partying is nice .... giving is nicer

Well it seems a bloody long time ago since we were gyrating in Maryport and bopping in Singapore to celebrate a 40^th birthday – or two ;-)

 

Maryport was fabulously cold, it being the dead of winter and foggy – which although that blinking mist obscured the fireworks I’d laid on, it didn’t dampen our enjoyment.

 

Then similarly the weather played tricks on us in Singapore with a torrential downpour of almost biblical proportions – I’m sure a posse of party-goers were out back building an ark, just in case...

 

But if you recall, we did have collection boxes at both parties and your generosity was beautiful.

 

I (eventually) got round to donating the money to the charities and am very pleased to say (after glowing thank you letters from both organisations) that you kindly donated the following:

 

GBP430 for the UK Eczema Society and S$1600 for the Tana River Project in Kenya.

 

Not sure when I’ll be having my first party here in Nairobi, but naturally you’ll be welcome (ahem ahem) and look out for the pics.

 

Thank you all again.

Has Virgin lost its lustre?

A tinge - but I must confess only a microscopic twinge - of guilt zoomed through me.  I was checking in, clearing customs, sitting in the lounge, boarding, sipping champagne.  And whither?  To London, in Virgin Upper Class.

But the guilt quickly subsided.  This was my treat and why the hell not?!  I'm lucky and I appreciate the fact, and now that I was sitting in seat A1 on the tarmac at NBO (read Nairobi Jomo Kenyatta International Airport - about to jet off to LHR (read London Heathrow) I was loving every second of it.

It was quite some time since I'd flown VS (read Virgin Atlantic Airlines) in their business class.  And I remembered it well.  The seats had changed to the herring bone configuration with a flat-bed option - but surprisingly the safety video, complete with its quirky animations - was the same from about 10 years ago.  That was fine - actually, it was still quite amusing.

The in-flight service, after only about half an hour in, was impressive - even if the champagne served was lukewarm - an ice cube delicately dropped into the generously filled flute soon remedied that.  I was then cocooned in my bubble-of-a-seat and ready for the 8.35 hour flight.

BRB - as the youngsters say.

*    *    *

Well, I'm almost landing and it's been a mixed flight - if truth be told.

The seats are actually quite old; the rough-around-the-edges feel you get from years of rdisrespectful passengers is showing through.  You can see from the photos crumbs in the personal stowage pocket and wine stains on the seat where I was to place my head when snoozing.

The crew have been pleasant enough and the food very passable - but I haven't been wow-ed.  One of the best things has been the cosy duvet you get to lure the sandman in - it beats the hessian-type blankets one is thrown from many other airlines in so-called business class.

What was good?

The seat configuration - if the guy in 2D hadn't spent the first hour of the flight perched on the "guest" seat of 2A - next to me  But there I stumble...I, unfortunately, find many more things to urge improvement on.  The entertainment system was primitive: tapes on a loop with no interactive options.  Even the magazine choice was limited to at least 6 six copies of the same edition of Conde Nast Traveller magazine - I love to travel but even I can't skim the same jaunting journalism six times in succession!

Something I didn't mention earlier was the schlepp to the aircraft: we cleared security screening (with two separate passes through the x-ray conveyor belts) at gate 10.  This was apparently a UK Department of Transport requirement: apparently the Kenyans can't be trusted to get it right first time..!  Then we trawled down stone steps to the tarmac, where I presumed to find an expectant bus driver complete with bus to ferry us to the airplane boarding steps.  But that wasn't to be.  We then had to walk about 200m towards gate 12 and climb the 2 flights of stairs to access the ganty to the plane door.  

Now, I suspect the aforementioned additional security can only be accommodated in one place - NBO (remember what that stands for?!) not being the best organised airport on the planet.  It would have been nice to get an apology from VS as we boarded - but not a peep from anyone on the matter.  One would have they thought could lobby the airport for a bit more coordination - sigh.  And at least an apology from either the in-flight supervisor or the captain would have been a nice interjection to the inocuous, rambling, nauseating "do"s and "don't"s list - which I'm sure gets longer and longer each time I get on a plane (especially UK-based carriers).  (Can you believe on Virgin they even warned against standing up while wearing ones earphones: reportedly this unmeasured action can result in damaging the earphone sockets and impair your listening pleasure for the remainder of the flight.  Geez!!

So I'll be disembarking a wee bit disappointed, and think next time I'll take premium economy out and the bed in Upper Class back for the night jounrey.  As a research man, I'd give the entire experience a rather lukewarm 7/10 - just like my champagne upon boarding.  

Come on Virgin!  You can do better.

Moving in.

Sometimes we don’t think things through as well as we might – something after two wondrous years in Japan, I know the Nippon people would never be accused of – very high tsunami, failed diesel generators and a near-meltdown-Fukushima-situation notwithstanding.

But as I trudged up the 4 flights of stairs to my new Nairobi apartment, a sinking sensation set in.  I grasped the front door handle, breathless from the climb, pushed it open and a rush ensued.

Happy to be “home”; excited by imagining my furniture in situ; perturbed at the apparent lack of light bulbs; and dismayed by my realisation that the unfurnished flat, was truly unfurnished.  I scanned the kitchen to find no fridge, no washing machine and no cooker.

Merrily, yea merrily, I skipped off to the local hyper-market, Nakumatt, for a stock-up.

Anyway, after 1 hour and with 700 pounds sterling evaporated from my bank account, I got back to the flat and struck a few matches.  As the phosphorous filled the air and a flame flickered into life on my candles’ wicks, I settled down, snug on my newly acquired mattress to watch the penultimate episode of Gavin and Stacey.

iPads are surely blessed things.

Although it did feel strange: I had a 21st century gizmo, a glass of Australian whisky (cut over so slightly by Kenyan filtered water) and a faint glow of candlight illuminating my very empty bedroom in a decidedly 18 century way.

Not a picture one sees every day of the week.  (Thank goodness!)

Sometime a speech is hard to give

Unaccustomed as I am not, giving my speech of farewell in Singapore was a little more troublesome than usual.  I first was in an impromptu fashion (thanks Baxter@!) propelled to give an improvised one at my flat leaving party – standing on a chair, I had to think on my feet.....I think it was OK – but I do love planning a speech.  That said, I’m sure the guests were relieved it was short and pithy.

Then I wrote a speech for my official Synovate leaving do, with clients and all.  Well, the venue wasn’t appropriate and not many clients turned up, so it didn’t get read.

I thought of recycling it at my cake-cutting final day in the office – and that didn’t feel appropriate either.

So I recycled it a 3^rd time at a final brunch at the China Club and it almost worked.

Here it is for your enjoyment...and indeed mine – I thoroughly enjoyed writing it and when I eventually got to read it out, was moved – and saw others moved by it.

“After 8 years of living in wonderful Singapore, I’m moving on. 

8, as we know is a very auspicious number in Chinese culture and that surely bodes a good omen.

So staying with the number 8, I thought I'd list a few things in the same vein:

Favourite foods: roti prata, mee goreng, xiao long bao, fish head, kaya, ikan billis, satay, Starbucks green tea latte....!

Favourite sayings: taxi uncle, can what?, what you mean leh?, cannot!, kiasu, paiseh, fill up a form, u-turn back.....

Favourite landmarks: Orchard Road, Ann siang Hill, Esplanade, Bras Basah MRT, Ritz-Carlton (for brunch), Fullerton Bay Hotel, Gold Class cinemas at Vivo, shop-houses – especially in Little India.

And what about 8 momentous events while in Singapore?

1.         I completed my MBA at Chicago Booth.

2.         I joined Synovate 7 years ago.

3.         I bought landed property.

4.         I had my first (and so far last) fish foot spa.

5.         We moved office at work – not for the faint-hearted.

6.         I started to learn Mandarin and gave up – then I started to learn Arabic – and also gave up.

7.         I got my iPhone and convinced IT at work to allow emails on it..!

8.         I was part of the first Pink Dot.

I saw amazing places all over Asia and the most memorable 8 must be:

1.         Bali and a bungee jump.

2.         Langkawi.

3.         Bagan.

4.         Borobadur and the Amanjiwo.

5.         Colombo & Galle – Sri Lanka and the Amangalla.

6.         Angkor Wat and the Amansara.

7.         Chiang Mai – and a hot air balloon flight I will never forget.

8.         Phuket and the Amanpuri.

And fabulous people to thank: [this portion was all about work and when I read it at my brunch setting, the thanks were all adrift, so (again thinking on my feet) I decided to choose one word to sum up the various guests around the table.  Some words were inspired, some flattering and some, unfortunately due to my brain cells at the time, peculiar.  "Loyal", "friendship", “thank-you”, "emotional" and "beautiful" were amongst the sane, while "food "and "complex" might be considered amongst the less sane ones.  But that’s spontaneity for you.  

My dear Baxter, couldn’t be summed up in a single word, so I didn’t bother....except upon reflection, there is a SINGLE word for Baxter – that’s Baxter – what else?!]

That was my last list.  (thank goodness, you say under your breath.) 

So as I move on, Nairobi and the vast expanse that is Africa awaits.

It’s exciting and a little scary.  But that makes it more fascinating. 

I’ve got an office and a desk, I’ve got a work permit, and I’ve got a short list of cars to choose one from.

But the best thing of all is I have an apartment – and the unit number?  A8. 

The signs are clear: I will miss (dearly) Singapore and all of you – and after 8 years it will be a wrench to board that plane on the morning of 3rd July.  But I’ll be back and with a lucky 8 greeting me each time I return home in the evening on my front door, Singapore and all the wonderful things will never be far from my thoughts.

Now let’s get drunk.”

Well by this point at brunch, we were quite merry and while there wasn’t a dry eye in the house, the Peking duck was getting cold, so we dried our eyes with the China Club extra large napkins – complete with a large red Maoist star – and got stuck in.

First driving experience in Nairobi – bumped and battered?

I took the keys rather gingerly, if truth be known.  The driver had come over to my hotel and then announced he had to get back to the office and was about to shift over and hand me (so to speak) the driving wheel, when I almost yelped, “Please, you drive to the office, then I will take it from there.”

 

I had witnessed many journeys to and from the office, and indeed to other places around Nairobi, and there was one common theme: chaos.  So you can perhaps appreciate my trepidation.

 

Once in the safety of the office compound (yes we have an office compound) I confidently opened the driver’s seat door and clambered in.  There were at least two reassuring things that helped me focus on the challenges of avoiding collisions.  Firstly, in Kenya, one drives on the left, which, while I’m very competent in driving on the Napoleon-side of the highway, meant one less thing to worry about.  Secondly, the car was an automatic, and the need to concentrate on gear shifts also evaporated.

 

So I started her up and began (incredibly slowly) to drive towards the compound exit.  As I did, I had to negotiate a rather tight corner and managed to get round it with the only very slight accident of knowing over a gardener’s broom.  I was out – free – on the Nairobi thoroughfare.  And since the office area is residential, on a Saturday the roads were almost empty.  Great for my confidence and I when I hit the highway at the end of the road, I was (almost) ready to do battle.

 

The high was clogged with towering trucks, bristling buses, luxury cars with luxury drivers, the odd nippy motorcyclist and a herd of matatus.  These matatus are the local minibuses.  They are like the beetles of the road – scurrying here and there with utter disregard for you or other vehicles and certainly not interested in following road etiquette – let alone rules.  But I survived and was soon on Raphta Road to take a quick look at my soon-to-be new apartment.

 

I was on the way back when I hit a snag: the road I was supposed to take was closed.  Shit.....

And the reason being there are massive road works underway (with Chinese financing) to build a super-highway.  Result: more chaos.

So I checked Maps on my iPhone and glided down the hill under the overpass (still being finished) and then as I was about to turn into a side road (off the A2 and onto Wambugu road, in case you’re wanting to follow this on Maps, like a crazy soap opera) I got “sandwiched” between a huge dumper truck and the verge.

 

Mayhem?  That’s an understatement, the dumper truck had forced his way onto the main road and snarled up the entire route as a consequence.  Horns were beeping, people were shouting and then finally a man got out (not sure from where) and started directing this one forward, that one back and even asking me to move forward – where he thought I was going to drive to, I have no idea – the ditch to my right was (sorry!) NOT a bloody option....

 

The truck broke free, the road started moving again and I was at last allowed to get in my beloved Wambugu Road.  I felt localised a little.  My HR Director described me as mwenyeji which apparently means “the complete local”.  And my first on-road experience in Kenya at the helm, so to speak, was ended with no bumps and no battering. 

 

Yes, it was quite fun actually...!!