Two Indian travellers just plonked themselves (with a certain amount of courtesy, I must admit) at my table.  I was happily and nonchalantly scoffing my beef pie, washing it down with a refreshing local lager: White Cap.  Thinking about how I could possibly kill 1.5 hours stuck at JKIA (Jomo Kenyatta International Airport), I was suddenly struck with an urge to type.

 

So here’s what’s going on around me.  Hope it will be as interesting for you to read is, as it is for me to watch.

 

A colic-consumed infant screams its lungs off – it sounds very painful – time to turn up the volume on my iPod.

 

A young local has just sat next to a stranger complete with two bottles of beer – apparently not prepared to stand in line for a 2^nd – and, I, having been queue jumped while I was there, totally sympathise.  And since there is a Kenyan peculiarity of drinking alcohol and soda drinks at room temperature – I don’t suppose he’ll care when the 2^nd bottle is already lukewarm.

 

A group of Scandinavian backpackers are crumpled on a tiny table behind me with their Mac and delighting in reminiscing in their recent safari  and African village adventures.  Cows mingle with elephants and the odd native in a bright red blanket wrapped around him making him look rather like a Quality Street sweet.

 

A wobbling blue-clad policeman passes by the cafe rubbing his chin – I wonder if he longs for a nice lukewarm beer too.  The peak cap he wears suggest authority and the 35cm cane he has sandwiched under his armpit suggesting even a tad more than that.  He about-turns and heads off in  the direction he came from .

 

One of the Indian travellers opposite me, just yawned so widely without covering his mouth I could almost see his colon never mind his tonsils.  Sigh.

 

And a female beauty in red just joined the young guy with the two beers for a “hello”.  He immediately introduced her to his new-found friend on the same table and she instinctively reached out her hand to shake the stranger’s.  He lingered, holding on for longer than a European might be comfortable with – making that African connection – conveying friendship and respect in a lengthy grasp.  A quick almost-dismissive tug of hands will not suffice here – and I like that.

 

Passengers are coming and going and I suppose I could ramble on for hours describing the funny, the fat, the fragile, the frisky or even the fatherly.  The suited, the slumped, the stressed, the shopping and even the sexy.  And coincidentally, the fatherly and sexy just happen to be the same, as I notice that my White Cap is empty. 

 

When I paid for my beef pie and beer about 20 minutes ago, the server didn’t have the correct change and he gave me extra to save the hassle of me waiting.  He smiled and said you can offset it against your next purchase...I retorted: “I might not have a 2^nd purchase, but will see you on my next flight,” – but as with people experienced in certain fields however banal or pedestrian, he knew better and thus, please forgive me as I complete this blog entry to skip to the counter for my next beer.

Replying all - ignoring all?

Just a couple of days ago, the mammoth straw was cast upon my unsuspecting back and I snapped.  Like Chinese water torture, the torrents of Reply All comments had dripped and dripped into my inbox.  I duly deleted them.

Fortunately with auto-view I can see the rubbish that people dump in Reply All mails and quickly abandon even opening them up to get annoyed at the nonsense people write in such mails - and the irrelevance they contain - sometimes even to the original sender.

This latest instance was a valid request from a colleague for information to help secure a client contract - a noble aim indeed.  However, the innocuous, unhelpful, unfettered garbage that ensued was pique of waste.

A waste of effort on the senders' part; a waste of time for the poor original sender - since all the comments were saying "Sorry, I don't have anything...!"; and a waste in general for all the other poor sods in the Reply All To box.  [This is not to mention the waste of electrons whizzing around the planet to send the emails from sender to all the recipients, then from the stupid recipients back to all the other recipients and then on top of that all the Out of Office Notifications that are returned to said stupid recipients who hit Reply All.] 

So what did I do?  Well I hit Reply All and kindly - it was polite I must confess - requested people to at least "think" before they robotically hit Reply All - I was hoping to keep my inbox a little cleaner and my synapses too...!

No wonder emails go unanswered, no wonder mails are lost in the forest of junk we get in our inboxes.

Join the crusade - tell the stupid ones, that we, the enlightened, will not hit Reply All, unless it's relevant to all those in the To line and edit the recipient list to make sure we are communicating sensibly as opposed to blindly, bumblingly and in a bothersome way.  The notes of "well said" I got back from people I don't even know suggests there is a war in great need of being waged here.

You can't hit Reply All on this blog - but you could forward to others to help share the message and clog up your friends' inboxes.

How ironic would that be!!!

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!)