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Journey to Africa
The flight was the best I’ve had in a long time. Emirates… Fantastic I think, and they are. Good food, lots of it, good movies on large touch screens. The crew are darlings, so are the women!!!
I should have known better after all these years of flying. Baggage reclaim at Dubai Airport. No bags. I ask at the check-in where they are. I am told they’re on their way to Nairobi. I explain that I was told to take them off at Dubai. No, they went on to Nairobi. Great!
I’d take a £7.00 taxi ride to a grotty hotel. They don’t take credit cards. Only cash! The local ATM is U.S. I finally find one that is working and have to pay a £50.00 for the pleasure of a night at the Al Sham Hotel. Yes… It is a bloody sham at too.
The walls are black, with just a hint of the original green showing through. The sort of green they used to paint primary schools with. School dinner green. The carpet is one you wouldn’t let your dog sleep on, and the whole place smells… Musty, is the only word I can conjure up. But that doesn’t do it justice. Anyway, the cockroaches are very friendly.
I try to turn the air conditioning in the bathroom window on. As I tug the string, it slowly detaches itself from the window and dangles on the electrical wiring that is held together with red electricians tape. It starts to crackle!
I have no clothes to change into, and I am soaked. I go for a short walk around the city. It is 35 degrees and extremely humid. I return to the hotel with the idea of taking a shower. There is a small piece of soap and a towel. No expense spared at the old Al Sham hotel. The water trickles out, but is cold. I call reception.
“Any danger of getting some hot water in this room?” I ask reception.
“I’ll send someone up”, the receptionist says. 15 minutes later, there is a knock at the door. A grinning Chinese waiter is standing there with a small stainless steel teapot on a tray.
“Your hot water Sir”, he proudly announces. “I meant the shower”, I said beginning to get the feeling that I was asleep dreaming all this.
“Oh! I look” he says, a bit too efficiently for my liking. After many minutes of fiddling around banging on pipes and taps etc., he finds a switch, and the emersion heater clunks on, with a rumble that makes me duck behind my new friend. He leaves with an “OK now” and a triumphant grin. I nearly manage to shower in the luke warm, brown water. I am now too tired to hit the town, so I find a mineral water in the mini bar… and nothing else…I decide it is probably wiser to hit the sack.
Breakfast at eight till 11 at the reception dude tells me. But I have to leave at seven I say. He shrugs. Maybe I’ll wake up soon… Maybe. Here endeth the first lesson. I hope my luggage is OK!
Thursday 040609
I can’t sleep. Air conditioning is powered by a 747 engine. Up at 5:30 am, and make a half hearted attempt at taking a shower. I nick the soap! That will teach the buggers. Probably the most expensive bar of soap ever. I ring room service. No reply. I dress and go down to reception. “Any chance of a bite to eat before I depart old sport?” He makes a big thing of looking at the clock and shaking his head. I am debating whether to drag him over the counter, and beat him to death, when I turn on my heel with heartfelt plea for him to go forth and multiply, and wander out into a sunny morning.
A hail a cab, with much relief to be out of the Black Hole of Dubai. I chat nonchalantly to the Pakistani driver, who nods and everything I say, but does not understand a word.
Airport. Large. Impressive… Expensive. I’m not surprised, judging by the price of breakfast. Tuna sandwich, Mango juice and coffee 68 dirhams. About £13.50!
I’m looking at the flight info. Suddenly I see my flight is changed to 1505, which nearly gives me a heart attack. False alarm. Phew!!!
The waiter smiles and says “You look tired Sir. Travelled far?” “Not bloody far enough.” I grain cordially. He looks puzzled and walks off, while I’m still explaining that I’m on my way to Kenya, Uganda and the Congo. A far more pleasant, and cheaper, prospect.
We arrive at Nairobi on time. I have half an hour to get to Unit 3, a few hundred yards away. I have a visa already. I will not get caught out waiting half an hour at Jomo Kenyatta Airport for one again. A woman immigration officer stops me and I wave my visa at her smugly.” Sorry Sir, but you have to fill this in.” It is a bloody great big questionnaire about flu viruses!!! It takes me ten minutes. I still am not panicking too much though. I go to baggage reclaim, and wait, and wait…and wait. Everyone has their luggage and there are only a few pieces left on the carousel. Ah! Here comes one of my bags. But where is the other? I realise that I am starting to sweat. I still have ten minutes to get my connection to Eldoret. I tell the porter that I am missing one large black suitcase. “Is this it?” he points to a cardboard box. “No, it’s a black suitcase.”
“Is this it?” He points to a green holdall “No, it’s a black suitcase.”
“Is this it?” he says, dragging a bright red suitcase of the belt. I am now fit to be tied. “No it’s a black suitcase.” I hiss through my teeth.
“Well, is it one of these?” he asks picking up light blue and pink bags.
I raise my voice to a howl. “Noooo…It’s black…black…black. Not green, blue, or a bloody cardboard box. IT IS BLACK!!!” People look away, embarrassed.
By now, I am not just thinking of a missed flight, but the prospect of spending the next four weeks in the same smelly strides, T shirt and socks. Not to mention underwear. My whole life is unravelling before my eyes.
“Where,” I demand imperially, trying to keep my voice steady “Is the Emirates desk?” “Over there” he nods. “Where?” I squint in the general direction of his nod.
“Over there” he points. I follow his fingertip. In the corner is a hastily constructed counter that appears to made out of a crashed plane and pieces of orange box. I spy a chap with his feet up on the counter.
I wake him. He is very patient, and explains that I will have to fill in several hundred forms in triplicate. I look at the clock. Five minutes past departure time. I am now resigned to my fate, and feel that awful sinking feeling that one does on such occasions. He shows me many photos of different cases, in order that I might identify the make and model of my own.
Meanwhile, the porter starts to take my one remaining case from my trolley. I lunge at it, and hang on to it, jealously guarding it. “What are you doing?” I can feel myself becoming hysterical.
“Weighing your bag Sir.” He announces.
“I fail to see how that will help you find the missing one.” I growl.
“Well Sir, your luggage is 30Kgs altogether, so if we take this weight from your total weight, we will know the weight of the missing bag.”
“I fail to see how that will help you find the missing one.” I growl.
“Well once we know the weight of the missing piece, it will be easier to find. If we find a case that is that exact weight, we can assume that it is yours.”
“Oh! For Christ’s sake.” (That was not the exact rendition) I murmur and sit on the edge of my trolley with my head in my hands. Not only have I missed my Eldoret flight, I am going to have to stay in Nairobi until it is all sorted out. I can almost taste a Jack Daniels, and am wondering where the bar is, when a Kenyan gentleman runs up to the porter and the Emirates guy gesticulating wildly.
“I have the wrong case.” He yells indignantly.
The porter says. “Did you collect this case yourself Sir?”
“Yes”. Says the heavily perspiring chap.
“Then we can hardly be held responsible for you not having the right one now, can we?”
I look up and wonder what I had done in a previous incarnation to deserve this. Suddenly, I spy…my case.
“That’s my bloody case!” I yell.
The porter looks at the Emirates guy and raises his eyes to the ceiling. He looks at me and says, as if he is talking to a kid “No Sir, this is not your case. This is one that this gentleman picked up by mistake.” He proceeds to pick it up. I wrench it from his grasp with such ferocity that he nearly falls over.
“You’ve made me miss my flight to Eldoret!” I snarl at the perspiring, indignant, gentleman that has ruined my trip.
“Well, I too have missed my flight to Eldoret… also.” He frowns at me as though this is my entire fault. I make a brief commentary on his parentage, his future and his personal habits.
It is take off time and more. “Oh! What the hell. Nowt to lose lad”, I think. Piling my stuff up on my trolley, with a glassy stare, and a maniacal grin, I hell for leather it through the masses, with jovial shouts of “Mind yer backs” and “Coming through.” People are leaping in all directions. I must look more demented than I feel, which was a physical impossibility, as customs look up, but do not try to stop me.
I blast my way through the touts, hustlers and drivers.
“Taxi, Sir?”
“Hotel, my friend?” Both were greeted with an extremely polite go forth and multiply.
Now, normally these touts will pursue one to the ends of the Earth, but I think that there was probably something in my demeanour that dissuaded them.
I rattle across the road to Unit 3, which is difficult as all the dropped pavements have barriers right over the dropped bits!!! Cars, vans and taxis are all hooting and cursing me. I have to go through the metal detector four times. I cannot figure out why. Belt off, watch off, mobile in the tray. What the hell is it? My business card case in my leg pocket. I chuck it all back on the trolley and head for the Fly540 desk at a dangerous lick, and crash in to the barrier.
I am out of breath, sweating and exhausted. “Has it gone yet? The Eldoret flight!” I look at my watch, as my trousers start to fall down. “Shit! Just a mo!” I vault across several trolleys, grab my belt, watch and mobile from the tray on the conveyor belt and dash back to the check-in.
“Have I missed it?” “No” smiles the check in girl, with a cheeky grin, “But, your baggage is overweight.” she says, wagging her finger. “Oh!” I mumble, about to burst into tears. “We’ll let you off this time. Just don’t do it again.” Thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you.
“I’m afraid that you don’t have much of a choice of seats Sir.”
“I’m past caring.”
“Have a nice flight.”
The plane is a twenty something seater turbo prop, that belches out black exhaust all over me, as I climb the gangplank. I sit next to a white guy that does not even want to say hello. He is also very protective of his laptop. Probably a Christian. Most Christians in Africa seem to think that they are on a divine mission and the rest of us white folks there are just an encumbrance. I know this as another charity that I have come up against would not let their people talk to me, as I was not a devout church goer. Not a very Christian attitude methinks. Don’t get me wrong. I just don’t do my praying in church often.
I look around the interior of the plane. All the armrests on the aisle side of the plane are cracked and broken. I wonder what sort of force would do that. They are held together with bits of duct tape and chewing gum, and the seat in front of me is leaning at an alarming angle.
We take off and climb to 19,000, arriving at Kisumu an hour later.
(The last time I arrived at Kisumu, the lady pilot could not remember the names of her crew members, was not sure what altitude we were at, and just as we were landing, warned it was going to be a bit bumpy, as there was no surface on the runway, and that it was not her fault. We bounced four, or five times. )
The rain is now intense, and I wonder if the pilot can see the runway as I see the trees coming up to meet us at an alarming rate. The tiny turbo prop is buffeted this way and that and we finally slither across the runway. I am relieved to say the least.
I collect my luggage and go out side the tiny airport. No James or Mary. Just a few cab drivers. I try to phone but cannot get through to anyone, but with the help of the taxi chaps and the entire airport staff, both of them, it is all sorted out, and Mama Mary, Victor, Saul, Lilian and some of the orphans arrive an hour later. There is an emotional reunion, as it really is so nice to see them all again, and I realise that they are like a family to me. We all pile into the van and are off to Kimilili.
The smell of Cedar wood fires, which is the essence of Kenya, the red dust, the extremely dodgy roads, huge lorries, and hooting traffic. You can’t be anywhere else but Africa. It gets into your blood, and for me, now feels like home.
I should have known better after all these years of flying. Baggage reclaim at Dubai Airport. No bags. I ask at the check-in where they are. I am told they’re on their way to Nairobi. I explain that I was told to take them off at Dubai. No, they went on to Nairobi. Great!
I’d take a £7.00 taxi ride to a grotty hotel. They don’t take credit cards. Only cash! The local ATM is U.S. I finally find one that is working and have to pay a £50.00 for the pleasure of a night at the Al Sham Hotel. Yes… It is a bloody sham at too.
The walls are black, with just a hint of the original green showing through. The sort of green they used to paint primary schools with. School dinner green. The carpet is one you wouldn’t let your dog sleep on, and the whole place smells… Musty, is the only word I can conjure up. But that doesn’t do it justice. Anyway, the cockroaches are very friendly.
I try to turn the air conditioning in the bathroom window on. As I tug the string, it slowly detaches itself from the window and dangles on the electrical wiring that is held together with red electricians tape. It starts to crackle!
I have no clothes to change into, and I am soaked. I go for a short walk around the city. It is 35 degrees and extremely humid. I return to the hotel with the idea of taking a shower. There is a small piece of soap and a towel. No expense spared at the old Al Sham hotel. The water trickles out, but is cold. I call reception.
“Any danger of getting some hot water in this room?” I ask reception.
“I’ll send someone up”, the receptionist says. 15 minutes later, there is a knock at the door. A grinning Chinese waiter is standing there with a small stainless steel teapot on a tray.
“Your hot water Sir”, he proudly announces. “I meant the shower”, I said beginning to get the feeling that I was asleep dreaming all this.
“Oh! I look” he says, a bit too efficiently for my liking. After many minutes of fiddling around banging on pipes and taps etc., he finds a switch, and the emersion heater clunks on, with a rumble that makes me duck behind my new friend. He leaves with an “OK now” and a triumphant grin. I nearly manage to shower in the luke warm, brown water. I am now too tired to hit the town, so I find a mineral water in the mini bar… and nothing else…I decide it is probably wiser to hit the sack.
Breakfast at eight till 11 at the reception dude tells me. But I have to leave at seven I say. He shrugs. Maybe I’ll wake up soon… Maybe. Here endeth the first lesson. I hope my luggage is OK!
Thursday 040609
I can’t sleep. Air conditioning is powered by a 747 engine. Up at 5:30 am, and make a half hearted attempt at taking a shower. I nick the soap! That will teach the buggers. Probably the most expensive bar of soap ever. I ring room service. No reply. I dress and go down to reception. “Any chance of a bite to eat before I depart old sport?” He makes a big thing of looking at the clock and shaking his head. I am debating whether to drag him over the counter, and beat him to death, when I turn on my heel with heartfelt plea for him to go forth and multiply, and wander out into a sunny morning.
A hail a cab, with much relief to be out of the Black Hole of Dubai. I chat nonchalantly to the Pakistani driver, who nods and everything I say, but does not understand a word.
Airport. Large. Impressive… Expensive. I’m not surprised, judging by the price of breakfast. Tuna sandwich, Mango juice and coffee 68 dirhams. About £13.50!
I’m looking at the flight info. Suddenly I see my flight is changed to 1505, which nearly gives me a heart attack. False alarm. Phew!!!
The waiter smiles and says “You look tired Sir. Travelled far?” “Not bloody far enough.” I grain cordially. He looks puzzled and walks off, while I’m still explaining that I’m on my way to Kenya, Uganda and the Congo. A far more pleasant, and cheaper, prospect.
We arrive at Nairobi on time. I have half an hour to get to Unit 3, a few hundred yards away. I have a visa already. I will not get caught out waiting half an hour at Jomo Kenyatta Airport for one again. A woman immigration officer stops me and I wave my visa at her smugly.” Sorry Sir, but you have to fill this in.” It is a bloody great big questionnaire about flu viruses!!! It takes me ten minutes. I still am not panicking too much though. I go to baggage reclaim, and wait, and wait…and wait. Everyone has their luggage and there are only a few pieces left on the carousel. Ah! Here comes one of my bags. But where is the other? I realise that I am starting to sweat. I still have ten minutes to get my connection to Eldoret. I tell the porter that I am missing one large black suitcase. “Is this it?” he points to a cardboard box. “No, it’s a black suitcase.”
“Is this it?” He points to a green holdall “No, it’s a black suitcase.”
“Is this it?” he says, dragging a bright red suitcase of the belt. I am now fit to be tied. “No it’s a black suitcase.” I hiss through my teeth.
“Well, is it one of these?” he asks picking up light blue and pink bags.
I raise my voice to a howl. “Noooo…It’s black…black…black. Not green, blue, or a bloody cardboard box. IT IS BLACK!!!” People look away, embarrassed.
By now, I am not just thinking of a missed flight, but the prospect of spending the next four weeks in the same smelly strides, T shirt and socks. Not to mention underwear. My whole life is unravelling before my eyes.
“Where,” I demand imperially, trying to keep my voice steady “Is the Emirates desk?” “Over there” he nods. “Where?” I squint in the general direction of his nod.
“Over there” he points. I follow his fingertip. In the corner is a hastily constructed counter that appears to made out of a crashed plane and pieces of orange box. I spy a chap with his feet up on the counter.
I wake him. He is very patient, and explains that I will have to fill in several hundred forms in triplicate. I look at the clock. Five minutes past departure time. I am now resigned to my fate, and feel that awful sinking feeling that one does on such occasions. He shows me many photos of different cases, in order that I might identify the make and model of my own.
Meanwhile, the porter starts to take my one remaining case from my trolley. I lunge at it, and hang on to it, jealously guarding it. “What are you doing?” I can feel myself becoming hysterical.
“Weighing your bag Sir.” He announces.
“I fail to see how that will help you find the missing one.” I growl.
“Well Sir, your luggage is 30Kgs altogether, so if we take this weight from your total weight, we will know the weight of the missing bag.”
“I fail to see how that will help you find the missing one.” I growl.
“Well once we know the weight of the missing piece, it will be easier to find. If we find a case that is that exact weight, we can assume that it is yours.”
“Oh! For Christ’s sake.” (That was not the exact rendition) I murmur and sit on the edge of my trolley with my head in my hands. Not only have I missed my Eldoret flight, I am going to have to stay in Nairobi until it is all sorted out. I can almost taste a Jack Daniels, and am wondering where the bar is, when a Kenyan gentleman runs up to the porter and the Emirates guy gesticulating wildly.
“I have the wrong case.” He yells indignantly.
The porter says. “Did you collect this case yourself Sir?”
“Yes”. Says the heavily perspiring chap.
“Then we can hardly be held responsible for you not having the right one now, can we?”
I look up and wonder what I had done in a previous incarnation to deserve this. Suddenly, I spy…my case.
“That’s my bloody case!” I yell.
The porter looks at the Emirates guy and raises his eyes to the ceiling. He looks at me and says, as if he is talking to a kid “No Sir, this is not your case. This is one that this gentleman picked up by mistake.” He proceeds to pick it up. I wrench it from his grasp with such ferocity that he nearly falls over.
“You’ve made me miss my flight to Eldoret!” I snarl at the perspiring, indignant, gentleman that has ruined my trip.
“Well, I too have missed my flight to Eldoret… also.” He frowns at me as though this is my entire fault. I make a brief commentary on his parentage, his future and his personal habits.
It is take off time and more. “Oh! What the hell. Nowt to lose lad”, I think. Piling my stuff up on my trolley, with a glassy stare, and a maniacal grin, I hell for leather it through the masses, with jovial shouts of “Mind yer backs” and “Coming through.” People are leaping in all directions. I must look more demented than I feel, which was a physical impossibility, as customs look up, but do not try to stop me.
I blast my way through the touts, hustlers and drivers.
“Taxi, Sir?”
“Hotel, my friend?” Both were greeted with an extremely polite go forth and multiply.
Now, normally these touts will pursue one to the ends of the Earth, but I think that there was probably something in my demeanour that dissuaded them.
I rattle across the road to Unit 3, which is difficult as all the dropped pavements have barriers right over the dropped bits!!! Cars, vans and taxis are all hooting and cursing me. I have to go through the metal detector four times. I cannot figure out why. Belt off, watch off, mobile in the tray. What the hell is it? My business card case in my leg pocket. I chuck it all back on the trolley and head for the Fly540 desk at a dangerous lick, and crash in to the barrier.
I am out of breath, sweating and exhausted. “Has it gone yet? The Eldoret flight!” I look at my watch, as my trousers start to fall down. “Shit! Just a mo!” I vault across several trolleys, grab my belt, watch and mobile from the tray on the conveyor belt and dash back to the check-in.
“Have I missed it?” “No” smiles the check in girl, with a cheeky grin, “But, your baggage is overweight.” she says, wagging her finger. “Oh!” I mumble, about to burst into tears. “We’ll let you off this time. Just don’t do it again.” Thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you.
“I’m afraid that you don’t have much of a choice of seats Sir.”
“I’m past caring.”
“Have a nice flight.”
The plane is a twenty something seater turbo prop, that belches out black exhaust all over me, as I climb the gangplank. I sit next to a white guy that does not even want to say hello. He is also very protective of his laptop. Probably a Christian. Most Christians in Africa seem to think that they are on a divine mission and the rest of us white folks there are just an encumbrance. I know this as another charity that I have come up against would not let their people talk to me, as I was not a devout church goer. Not a very Christian attitude methinks. Don’t get me wrong. I just don’t do my praying in church often.
I look around the interior of the plane. All the armrests on the aisle side of the plane are cracked and broken. I wonder what sort of force would do that. They are held together with bits of duct tape and chewing gum, and the seat in front of me is leaning at an alarming angle.
We take off and climb to 19,000, arriving at Kisumu an hour later.
(The last time I arrived at Kisumu, the lady pilot could not remember the names of her crew members, was not sure what altitude we were at, and just as we were landing, warned it was going to be a bit bumpy, as there was no surface on the runway, and that it was not her fault. We bounced four, or five times. )
The rain is now intense, and I wonder if the pilot can see the runway as I see the trees coming up to meet us at an alarming rate. The tiny turbo prop is buffeted this way and that and we finally slither across the runway. I am relieved to say the least.
I collect my luggage and go out side the tiny airport. No James or Mary. Just a few cab drivers. I try to phone but cannot get through to anyone, but with the help of the taxi chaps and the entire airport staff, both of them, it is all sorted out, and Mama Mary, Victor, Saul, Lilian and some of the orphans arrive an hour later. There is an emotional reunion, as it really is so nice to see them all again, and I realise that they are like a family to me. We all pile into the van and are off to Kimilili.
The smell of Cedar wood fires, which is the essence of Kenya, the red dust, the extremely dodgy roads, huge lorries, and hooting traffic. You can’t be anywhere else but Africa. It gets into your blood, and for me, now feels like home.
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