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.