Postcards on the edge. (Or is my dad just being lazy?)

I love getting postcards, although I rarely do these days.  There is something eerily-Victorian about a piece of cardboard plopping on your doormat or being flung into your in-tray (as opposed to inbox) with a photo (or perhaps several) on the front showing where someone else has been recently.

I must confess I only really send them to one person - so how can I expect to receive many, I hear you cry - and that's a fair rebuke.  But my former secretary in Singapore gets one from each new place I venture to - where there is a half-decent postal service.  I assumed that Rwanda fell into this category, but was a bit surprised when the card from my amazing trek with the mountain gorillas took 3 months to arrive.

Even if I don't get postcards through the post, I do still buy them for myself and blu-tack them to my office wall - they're such obvious and immediate reminders of wondrous places I've seen.  

This isn't going to turn into a lament of another analogue-world remnant dying out - without the digital world, I wouldn't be blogging to you all today - but I can't help feeling the memories captured by a view of the promenade, a hazy mountain, a cityscape by night (not the all-black joke postcards you sometimes see) with skyscrapers all lit up beaming back at you, or a tableau of nature in some form or another (mating scenes perhaps excepted) can't be conveyed the same way with an iPhone click and a paste on Facebook.

This all said, the thing that has propelled me to write on this occasion, is the fact that while I haven't received postcards from my parents for a number of years now, something rather momentous happened during their recent trip to France.

Each town or hostelry where my dad could get his hands on a computer and internet access, he duly reported back to me with a snippet of their jaunt around the Gallic countryside.  Thought I'd relay the exchange [with annotations, comments, explanations in square brackets]:

11th July

Title: No title
Dad:  Enjoying France - people nice.  Got your mother eating calamari - told her it was onion rings.

13th July

Title: France
Dad:  Arrived in  Lyon nothing but the best **** Hotel La Roosavelt
After a 5 *Wigan performance 16 / 37

-- 
regards Stan

[They'd been to Perpignan prior to Lyon - that's where my mother had been tricked into culinary tricky waters.  Wigan in this context is the rugby league team - no idea whom they were playing against in this five star match; Dad obviously didn't think the opposition were worth mentioning.]

14th July

Title: France
Dad: Lyon Arrived Sunday every thing closed Monday National Day same but we enjoyed the rest
Love Dad 
Me: Ah yes.  Bastille day.  Revolutionaries !  Still we killed a king way before thy did !!  Love to mam.  She enjoying it?
Dad: No National Day Bastille Day 6 May, no?
Me: Nope.  24 July is Bastille day.  8 may is victory in Europe day - end of WWII .
Dad: What ever. We enjoyed Albert 1WW lot of horrible history but we had a nice time.  We are now in Mons for 2 nights,sale home Sunday stay in Ashford the night up NORTH Monday.  We have had a lovely time great food Good Hotels, I will collapse when the C/C comes.
Love Mam  Dad .

[You notice, my mother gets added to Dad's signature at this point - although he didn't actually answer my enquiry about where my mother was enjoying herself.  The "NORTH" is a reference to the north of England and "C/C" is credit card - just rather glad he wasn't using mine on this occasion.]

[I then send a mail back saying how email is better than postcards - which I didn't really mean - and ask him if he minded if I use his mail trail for my blog.  "NO" came the rather curt reply.  I'm assuming he meant "No, I don't mind." since I'm using it anyway...]

[And then came the most illuminating of all the exchanges.]

19th July

Title: France [Methinks he couldn't quite muster up different titles, and why bother, they were in France I suppose...]
Dad: On our last day in Mons,sitting in the main square watching wedding party's going into the Reg office.  There are some sights!  One was in all white long wedding dress quite nice lifted her dress to walk and she had dirty ... plimsolls on.  Tickled your Mam.  It is rather hot going for a drink, 33c.  Love You
Mam  Dad

[Almost Hemmingway this last one, isn't it.  And not short on embellishment either, for when I spoke with my mother after they reached back home, she claimed not to have even noticed the bride's shabby footwear.  LOL.  Perhaps dad was making his own judgements and perhaps he'd already had one too many cooling beers.]

It was refreshing and comforting to be in contact with my parents as they zipped through a foreign land and while not a substitute for a postcard, it made me smile.  I could hope for a sprinkling of super snaps of their jaunt across the "hexagon" to compensate for the lack of picture on my postcard, too.  

But alas my father tends to be random to say the least in his photography subjects and all I can realistically look forward to is an abandoned crane on the banks of the Rhône, a graffiti-ridden bridge over an autoroute between Dijon & Mons or an out-of-focus shot of my mam (we don't say mum "up north") sipping a frothy cappuccino grimacing back dad for taking the pic in the first place.  That said, if I get any I'll share them and may stick one or two  on my office wall. 

Didn't meet Dracula, but had a few brushes with vampiric forces - Bucharest, a diary.

The imposing Casa Poporului - or Parliament Building

Sitting in the Lavazza coffee lounge at Bucharest airport and thinking back over the last couple of days, I would say on balance I enjoyed by whistle-stop viewing of Romania's capital city.  Sated on carbonara and sipping the remnants of a deliciously strong double espresso, I can't help thinking about the changes this most eastern of European states has gone through since the rather bloody revolution of 1989.

And if the point of revolutions is change and a new order, then Romania is as good an example as any, where it has perhaps surpassed its radicals' and militants' wildest dreams.  Tossed from side to side for two millennia, this crossing point between east and west has been conquered by almost all around it: the Romans came, the Turks occupied and finally the Soviets had the country succumb.  They all left their mark - and none more so than the Romans who graced the rolling plains from Transylvania to Moldavia and then onto the Black Sea with their Latin-based language.  Not that I could really understand anything spoken, but written down there are at least many things you can guess at.  These folk are not Slavic - and they're quick to let you know that.

In terms of leaving a mark, I was expecting the Soviet grayness to be a bit more prevalent and was pleasantly surprised to find that this isn't quite the case - with central Bucharest at least.

The old town is full of narrow winding streets, over-spilling with bars and clubs and some of the majestic monuments to 19th century independence and national pride are still standing.

The one edifice that towers above all the rest, however is the Parliament - also known as Casa Poporului.  Started in 1983 by the infamous and heinous dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, it wasn't quite finished in time to receive this bloody tyrant on its purpose-built balcony, when he was strung up along with his not-so-charming wife, Elena, on a neighbouring scaffold.

A 2 tonne chandelier - actually the 2nd largest in the place

The place is a string of superlatives - and a must visit for the tourist in Bucharest:  2nd largest building in the world, 300 000 tonnes of marble used in its great halls, the world's largest chandelier (at 5 tonnes) complete with 500 bulbs and the greatest fact of all, is that no-one actually knows how much it cost to build.  The communist state back then simply commissioned curtains in the north, carpets in the west, pillaged marble from wherever and conscripted the army to build it (20 000 of them worked in 3 shifts 24 hours a day for 6 years).  One investigative journalist, however, attempted to calculate what it could have cost back in 1989 - and he put the bill at a staggering jaw-dropping US$4Bn - all this at a time when the country could hardly feed itself and basked in the ignominious delight of accepting wood from then-called Zaire to carve doors from.  Mobuto Sese Seko rivalled our good friend Ceausescu in his equal prowess for state-kleptomania.

All this said, it was rather eerie to meander through the corridors of this enormous cavern - slogged together from virtual slave labour.  It's now used to house the 2 chamber parliament of Romania, as well as conferences, concerts and even weddings - room rentals apparently start from a modest €3 000 per day (excluding electricity !).  A site on which formerly stood 25 000 houses, 19 churches and 3 hospitals - all razed flat to make room for the Bucharest Project - by which this carnage of construction was known.

View from the balcony.

It seemed a million miles away from the previous evening's laughter and merriment in the old town - where I had the good fortune to stumble on a place serving Transylvanian goulash.  Walking down  Calea Victoriei with Gucci on one side and Max Mara on the other, I felt Romania was now in a completely different world - a free-market, EU- and Nato-belonging, self-confident rightful world.

My goulash.

I only spent time in the city and didn't get chance to visit Bram's Castle or dip my toe in the Black Sea - but I leave Romania (for now) with a very positive view of the place, wishing it well with its continued journey to ever great prosperity.

But remember, please, don't make the mistake Michael Jackson did when standing on that infamous balcony - that old Nicolae didn't quite live long enough to.  It was whence he shouted "Hello Budapest".

It's Bucharest - and I'm glad to have glimpsed it.

The obligatory selfie.

 

The largest hall in all its splendour.

The hideous divine representation of Ceausescu and his wife.

A thunderstorm in Lagos

I’ve been to Lagos more times than I care to mention, but I’d never experienced a Nigerian thunderstorm.

And then this morning the heavens let rip.

The lightening didn’t just flash, it flickered like a faulty fluorescent tube-light; violently, vigorously, almost like it was vomiting out the thunder that predictably followed.

The skies were the most foreboding shade of grey; ominous, prescient; threatening more flashes and more noise; menacing and daring anyone to step outside – at their peril.

After the lightning, the air was pregnant and you could almost feel the shrinking back from the impending clang, even before it happened.

Then it came: the largest boom you’ve ever heard.  

The windows shook, and it even felt as if the floorboards trembled in the wake of the almighty bang.  But not just one bang, a battalion of bangs – almost a mini 1812 Overture in a burst of thunder – the divine canons roared and with them the rain spewed down.

Pelting and pouring, the rain gushed earthwards, taking no prisoners – I was half expecting to see Russell Crow announcing the coming of the second flood, ready to escort us with emergency lighting to the ark’s cargo bay.  But obviously, that didn’t quite materialise.

So I slurped down my last drops of over-brewed coffee and headed back to my hotel room before heading to the office.

As I walked down the corridor, which despite the lighting, was dimmer than a potholer’s cave, a new sense of malevolence came over me and I was instantly reminded of the hotel corridor from the film, The Shining.

I quickened my pace, illogically.  As I walked down the long corridor – I was right at the end ( of course) – the faces of African heroes, whom I’d gazed upon so many times before in this hotel – seem to lose their smiles, and take on grimaces and growls hurrying me on to room 106.

Julius Nyerere, Wole Soyinka, Patrice Lumumba, Kenneth Kaunda, Obafemi Awolowo, Hugh Masekela, Jomo Kenyatta, Ebenezer Obey….all glaring…..in monochrome solidarity with the turbulence outside.

Their faces leapt from the photo frames and I felt their eyes piercing my back as I scuttled to the sanctuary of my room.

The storm once it passed was only a memory, but one that lingered – and the tinnitus-like ringing from the bangs of thunder and flickering bolts of lightning were kind of still with me.

I knew most things in Nigeria are bigger, bolder, louder than elsewhere - now I can add their thunder storms to the list.

Ran out of change?

While I was recently staying at my usual hotel in Lagos - the Regent, in Ikeja - I needed to change some money.

I only had pounds sterling - but thought that wouldn't be a problem.  And as it turned out, that was indeed not the problem.

I inquired at reception and here is the almost verbatim exchange:

"Hi, can you change some pounds sterling, please?"
"Yes, I can," came the reply from that rather disengaged laconic chap behind the front desk.
"Great." I eagerly countered.  "I'd like..."
"But I have no cash," he interrupted, as he drew open the empty drawer by his side, with the verging-on negative energy he'd managed to muster.
"You have no cash?  But you just said you can change my money?" I retorted, a tad bemused.
"Yes, I can change, but I have no cash."

The logic flawed me.  Completely flawed me.  Or was it a language thing?

Did he mean something like: "I could change your Pounds into our delightful (often a smidgen soiled) Nigerian Naira, if I had Naira, but I don't have Naira, so I'm afraid I can't." I wonder?!

I think that's what was intimated in the brief but rather frustrating exchange.

Regardless, I stormed off miffed.

A rather enterprising waiter, cottoned on to my displeasure and enquired as to my ire.  When I explained what had just happened, he quite happily said: "I can change your money for you.  How much do you want to change?"

Taken aback, but relieved, I splurted out: "£100 please, what's your rate?"

In a jiffy he was back with my (as predicted tattered, battered and decidedly dowdy) Naira.  All 25 000 of them.

I was happy and when the receptionist asked the following morning, with an eager grin on his face, if I'd still like to exchange some money, I simply shook my head and said I'd had it done elsewhere, heading off for my fried eggs and breakfast.

An unexpected country

Leaving Nairobi on the Friday before Christmas, was always going to be a little bit manic and fraught with more than the usual challenges of getting down Mombasa Road to the airport.  But I didn't anticipate quite how much turbulence was in store for me as I left my apartment with a good three hours to spare before my flight was due to take off.

Thanks to a certain Mr B's generosity, we had used Star Alliance miles to get me on Ethiopian Airlines Nairobi-Addis Ababa- Bangkok, which had good timings and seemed to be the best option.  So I abandoned my usual darling airline Qatar Airways and decided to try ET out  - as they are known.  I had flown them in August to London and sampled the rather splendid (if ageing before its time) Dreamliner, with brand new seats and cabin controlled air as well as little smart features like auto-dimming cabin windows - no more announcements about "pulling up your window shades as we're about to land" - they can be centrally adjusted.

John, my taxi driver expertly navigated the bumper-to-bumper parking lot that should have been the highway through the CBD by taking all the upper back roads - and within less than 40 minutes we were well down the road to JKIA (Jomo Kenyatta International Airport).  I was dozing in the back seat when a jolt and a bang forced me from my slumber and I realised we had a blowout.  

A rock from a lorry ahead had come unstuck and bounced down the highway.  John couldn't avoid it so we were now on the side of the incredibly busy road trying to jack up the car to change the tyre - and I use the "we" rather royally - as John grappled with wheel nuts I gazed on disbelievingly.  However, even with the added muscle power of several passers-by they couldn't release the nuts and the shattered wheel was stuck.  

Panic started to set in as the clock ticked.  I called various friends to see if they were close by or could get a car to me.  One poor chap was stuck in the "car-park" in town and was even closer to missing his flight than I was.  Then the taxi firm came to my rescue with a 2nd car that was in the vicinity.  I was back on my way - with a rather feeble wave to John left on the kerbside still doing battle with a very stubborn tyre.

Security cleared, bags checked all the way to Bangkok, passport stamped and the relative serenity or a rather overcrowded lounge attained, I sat down to a glass of wine and a beef samosa.

I had noticed on the screens outside that my scheduled time of 1800 take off was showing 1830 and thinking (as you are prone to do) this is Africa, it will be right, thought nothing more about it.  Well the boarding time came and went and I approached the Kenya Airways lady on the desk for information.  She advised that the plane was just landing.   I said sure, fine, no worries etc.  My connection in Addis (as we Africa travellers shorten the capital of Ethiopia to) was 4 hours long.  I had nothing to be concerned about.  The boarding times shifted like Saharan sands: 1830, 1930, 2000, 2205.

I was beginning to get anxious.  And nowhere was any ET representative to be found.  At the first major time change, the pre-boarding lounge had been emptied (they needed the space for other flights) and the commotion and annoyance that caused had forced tempers to pique and I believe the airlines folks had had enough of complaining, shouting, screaming badgering customers and headed for the proverbial hills.  Like a lost sheep I wandered around waiting for a boarding call and at last it came…but it was now approaching 2300 and there was no way I was going to catch my 0040 to Bangkok.  

Resigned to this fact, I sat in my seat (1L) and tucked in to the beef curry offered.

De-planing in Addis was to deliver an experience I had hitherto perhaps not even countenanced let alone been part of.

Let's just remind ourselves, we were now 6 hours delayed and landed at 0200 local time.  The ground staff had a few moments to plan for our impending arrival - one would have thought.   

And yet, the pandemonium at the transfer desk was like a scene from a war-torn part of the world as the aid agencies struggle to hand out food parcels.

Clamouring, pushing, shouting, hoping to be next to be attended to by the clearly overwhelmed Ethiopian Airlines staff. I went upstairs to see if there were other options and the misinformation from at least 3 ground staff people sent me backwards and forwards getting nowhere fast.  I went upstairs to customer service, I went downstairs to the transfer desk again and at one point entered the Star Alliance lounge to perhaps seek solace - saw nothing but more passengers with raised voices and headed back downstairs.

I found myself sandwiched between 3 desperate (and loud) business men trying to get to Khartoum and a pushy cow-eyed man who seemed to have no idea what was going on on his aborted way to Dubai.  To my right there was a group of tourists perched on the transfer desk counter claiming to have been there 7 hours - trying to connect to Kilimanjaro.  My heart sank.

What annoys and angers you the most in these situations is the lack of information or worse still sometimes mis-information.  Being promised that the plane was landing in Nairobi when it clearly wasn't; being assured that connecting flights would be held back, which there was little intention of; the total silence from ground staff to advise the group what was going on with re-bookings and hotels etc.  It was quite frankly shambolic.

While my torture at the transfer desk was not that long - its was long enough.  I managed to get the eye of a senior looking woman and politely asked to her to help me get to Bangkok - she took my passport and boarding pass, asked me to wait a moment and disappeared.  I stood amongst the throng - that I have to admit by now was diminishing - and hoped, prayed and sighed heavily.   In the meantime, the printer was so busily churning out boarding passes, it was like a scene from the Sorcerer's Apprentice and I feared we would soon be knee-deep in seating information and flight numbers, expecting a Gandalf-like figure to appear and wave his wand to calm everything down.  Unsurprisingly, no wizard of any description turn up.  Just my luck. !

Several Indian travellers were on their way to north America and they jostled and shouted for 5 star hotel accommodation while they transited; one Italian UN gentleman "begged" the guy behind the ET desk to "make eye contact", "answer me", "give me an update".  Yet the latter remained unmoved and continued striking the keyboard with apparent oblivion; a guy next to me on his way to Jeddah, had his new boarding pass but no hotel voucher and the ET staff in front of me rebuked him for standing in the "business class" line - there was no such thing the Jeddah-bound passenger said and the Ethiopian Airlines changed his line with "well you know it's first come first served!".  I gasped and thought - it's not my battle.

Then almost vision-like, my passport and new boarding pass arrived, along with a hotel voucher and visa pass-card to get me through Ethiopian immigration.  I thanked the lady kindly and was on my way to passport control.

After contending with several queue-jumpers I was on my courtesy hotel bus - the time approaching 0500 - I'd left the house at 1500 the day before. 

I fell asleep almost immediately and stayed in a state of slumber for 10 hours.  I was drained.  To say I will think twice about travelling ET is an understatement...

I now sit at my hotel room desk looking out on to the Addis hills, the sun is shining and the winter col air wafts in cheekily.  I had foolishly thought last night I would go on a city tour - or visit the African Union headquarters, but after my deep sleep and a heavy desire to just get home - I must confess I have no intention of leaving the sanctuary that is the Addis Ababa Hilton.

So whether I can now add Ethiopia to my list of visited countries is debatable - but one thing is for sure, I never expected to see the Ethiopian capital under quite these circumstances.

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.!!