A tale of two Fridays 1500km apart

A tale of two Fridays 1500km apart

Today I did my Friday run.  It was meant to be a 13k, preferable within the hour.  It neither was a 13k nor was it within the hour.  I failed in both.  I ended up stopping the timer at 17k some 1hr 26min later, tired as a rock.  It is those additional loops within the employer's compound that usually seem to be nothing that must have tricked me.  Those loops can take you upto 10min on one way.  And I know that is where the 2km additional distance per loop must have come from, adding the 4k to my bill.  And the starting loop is hilly!  Hilly I tell you.

Anyway, that is not the essence of today's story.  Though I was running that route through Kapenguria road to Mary Leakey school and Uni farm, I was not quite cognizant of much that was going on around me.  My mind had already wondered to last Friday, seven days ago…..  

On that day, last week, I woke up, rather was forced to wake up at around nine in the morning.  That 'forced' condition was necessary, because I would otherwise miss out of the breakfast bit on this BnB accommodation arrangement.  The prepaid BnB meant that a lost breakfast was surely lost, without any chance of compensation.  You either take it or miss out on it.  There is no middle ground.

There was however nothing much in the name of breakfast at that time of the morning.  All the juice brands were already all gone.  Empty vases stood on the buffet table at a place marked ‘Juices’.  I managed some coffee ‘with milk’, the ‘with milk’ part being necessary, otherwise everything is served without, unless you specify explicitly.  

I also managed an omelette with chili, that did not have any chilies anyway.  I also scooped some firfir.  Firfir being pieces of injera prepared in such a manner as scrambled eggs, tasting as sour as ever, but milder than the real injera roll.  I was however now getting used to injera.  There was nothing else on that purported breakfast buffet.  Maybe it was not much on this Friday, or I was just late for breakfast.  In fact, they started clearing the breakfast things while I was still seated, yet it was hardly nine-thirty.

We had on the previous day already setup a ten o’clock visit to Unity Park at the Addis Ababa city centre.  It was a holiday for the staff over here.  The rules of employment over here gives the staff an extended holiday on Friday or Monday, provided an official holiday fall on a Saturday or Sunday respectively.  So, Maulid holiday was on Saturday, October 8, and so was this Friday a holiday.

Sharon and Rachel were to pick the Kenyan team of Rose and I on this Friday.  I moved from my C48 hostel block room and walked four doors along the corridor towards C44.  I knocked the door as I passed by, beckoning Rose to move towards the parking yard where we were to meet the hosts.

I found Rachel in her car, a white Mazda, left hand driven, as per convention over here.  She was in distress, even as I opened the front door right side seat.

“Imagine Sharon not come and she switch phone off,” she greeted me, not even looking in my direction.

“Hello there yourself.  The day is not as hot,” I responded, ignoring her anguish.

“This girl Sharon!  I no longer her friend.  She let me down.  I not want hear her!”

She continued starring ahead through the windscreen.  She was completely mood less.

Soon Rose would join in and seat just behind me.  We were ready to go.

“Where is Sharon?  Do we wait for her?,” Rose asked.

I answered for Rachel who was not in any more mood to discuss the runaway companion, “Sharon did not make it, and she seems unreachable on phone.  We shall have to go without her.”

We left the hostel block admin office parking lot and drove out, keeping right as we headed toward the B-gate.

“Selamta,” the sentry greeted the car.

“Selam,” Rachel and I responded, almost in unison.  Rose kept quiet.  It was her first time traveling to Ethiopia.  She was still getting used to the language.

We soon joined the main roads and started moving around to unknown roads.  She just drove and drove and drove.  It took us about thirty minutes of driving before we came to a stop.

“We park car here.  We walk to park there,” Rachel instructed, pointing ahead, as we disembarked.

We walked some one hundred or so metres and were soon at Unity Park.  We could see the military personnel guarding the massive gate and generally all around the compound fence.  There was a side entrance that we had to pass through, with the big gate being the exit point.  We bought our tickets at that side entrance.  We had already been prepared for this, with Rachel having already informed us the previous day that we would be charged Birr 1,050 each since we were non-nationals.  I believe that Rachel was entitled to half the fees.  

Rachel collected the 21 red notes from me, and another 21 red ones from Rose, that I had to count for her.  Rachel added the 42 notes to her own money.  She gave the big bundle of notes to the ticket person.  We got a single ticket for three, which Rachel momentarily handed over to another staffer in exchange for temporary paper armbands.  Each of us stretched a hand and the band was affixed to the arm.  The red armband read, “Unity Park - Regular”.  The Ethiopian flag was printed along the length of the strip, so was the map of Africa in the image of a fist.

We then moved to the security clearance desk.  We were asked to remove our belts, shoes, all metallic items and then go through a metal detector.  The rest of the items removed and put on trays went through a luggage scanner and emerged through the other end of it.  This was similar to the motions you go through at an airport.  

While awaiting my items on the other side of the conveyor, I did get a callback, while the ladies had already been cleared.

“What be this?,” the guard asked, pointing at an item on the tray.

“Viewing lens, for looking at things from far,” I responded.

He consulted his colleagues in Amharic, while pointing at the monocular.  After a half a minute or so, I got my response, “This not allow, so we keep here, then you take when leave”

Our trio walked past the security clearance area and moved towards the imposing gate.  We met a couple of bride and groom, unmistakably in their wedding attire, also getting through the gate.  We received a map of the park, an A3 paper folded into two to create four pages of information.  The middle section of the paper had a big map of the park.  The front and back pages contained some assorted pictures of the various parts of the park.  

I also learnt from Rachel, who was now quite cheered up after the morning moods, that this compound was also the current Prime Minister’s residence.  She said that occasionally some visitors to the park are lucky enough to see Abiy.  Now I could connect the dots between the security check and the visit.

We were informed by the person handing over the map to ‘follow arrow and go round arrow’.  There was almost a circular path around the park that would take you from gate back to gate, if you followed it religiously.  Of course, you could change course and go around in any direction or even turn back to the gate and exit.  We decided to ‘follow arrow’.  The very first passage was through the ‘lion’s den’!  That den was a real lion’s den, with all the lion noises and all.... and finally, even a live lion lying on the grass patch across the glass window was visible.

We survived the black lion zoo and went through other sections, including traditional houses and the botanical settings of the indigenous plants garden.  At some point we went into the emperor’s throne house.  And the first person that you meet seated at the throne is.... you guessed it, the very emperor Haile Selassie II.  Seated in his royal majesty.  Hail HIM!  And we had no choice than to hail him.  We paid homage to H.I.M, HIM.  We have photos to show for it.

We would then move around the hall where lots of historical literature was posted on poster boards.  Another part of the corridor round the main hall showed the historical account of Ethiopia, from King Solomon to the Queen of Sheba, who not-surprise, not-surprise was one of King Solomon's wifys.  Yes!  That is how Ethiopia links to the big picture of creation, Eden, Adam and Eve.

We even had an occasion of visiting the basement of HIM's hall, to see a different type of history, as we looked through the cells and the dark history of Ethiopia.  The documents, videos and pictures displayed on those former holding cells at the basement level did not have any kind words for Derg, the military council, and Mengistu Haile Mariam, the president in 1977-1991.  If anything, he was convicted to serve a life sentence in Ethiopia despite being in exile in Zimbabwe.  They are just waiting for him to come back to Ethiopia to serve his sentence.

At another separate but nearby building with a big hall, the Banquet Hall.  At this hall we came face to face with Emperor Menelik II, another one of the great kings that has Ethiopian history written all over him.  And he was there.  Right there at the head of the big hall.  I saw him seated.  I took a photo with him, next to him.  I hailed him, but unfortunately this was not HIM.  And when we talk about a big hall, we are really talking big!  As big as half a football field.

After that visit we walked around the roads.  We then saw Sellasie's vintage car displayed right there, outside his throne house hall for all to see and admire, but not touch, since it was encased in a glass covering.  The tour was so far so good and we were already tired.  I had tracked my movements on the app and we had covered just over 5km since the time we got through that gate.  

We took a lunch break.  By then Sharon had already found her way into the park and even joined our party by the time we were paying homage to the two kings, sorry emperors.  The three ladies and I took seats at the small restaurant just next to the emperor’s palace, Menelik II’s palace.  The palace that we did not visit since extra Birrs were needed for the ‘extended’ tour to include a walk into the pace.  This extended tour was not in our ‘regular’ package.  The palace was just next to the emperor’s throne house.  

We sat at the traditional stools at one of the corners of the restaurant and ordered soft drinks and some Ethiopian lunch.  I qualify it as ‘Ethiopian lunch’ since I still do not understand why they even call it ‘lunch’.  It looked more of a snack to me.  They bring a big flat tray layered with a thin white big circular wafer that they call injera.  

Onto that soft wafer, the injera, they put on it some little portions of spices of all manner, then some little veggies on one of the corners of the injera and that is about it.  You then start tearing off the injera as you dip it into the spices and veggies.  Tearing through from the end, as you go towards the centre.  You literally eat the container base as you go towards completion at the centre.  At least we had some tibs, aka fried meat that is eaten from atop a charcoal-heated clay pot.

After the lunch, we had our coffees on those small cups.  The content is hardly 50ml.  We put onto the coffee some rue leaves (Ruta) to spice it up.  We let the bitters sink in for a moment before we took a sip.  We loved the flavoured coffee.  Rose hated the flavoured coffee.  It takes time to get into Ethiopian ways.  She was adjusting too slowly.  We contributed about 400 Birr per person and gave the collection of money for the lunch and tipping.  I was now realizing that giving tips was the way of life.  I even remember having tipped when using a ‘free’ washroom in this same place.  

Thereafter, we moved just next to the restaurant to an adjacent open stall where a prominent sign was hanging on a mid-post within the hut, “Make your own injera”

I pointed to that direction as we were handwashing in the washrooms, “Is that for real?”

“Oh my God, yes!,” Sharon responded, almost jumping up excitedly.

“Do you know how to make injera?”

“On my God, of course yes!  No Ethiopian girl not know making injera”

“Can you make injera now?  Here?”

“No, me not ready now.  I only make with teff that me prepare, not any.  Oh my God, no.”

That is when Rachel came to the rescue, “Me, I make injera even now.  Want to see?”

Of course, yes!

“Yes, sure,” I responded, as the four of us moved into the small hut.  

We sat on the low stools while Rachel talked to the lady in charge of the cooking pot, sorry, cooking pan.  Soon the metallic pan that is about half-metre in diameter became the centre of attention, as Rachel first started by cleaning the hot pan with some oil put on some cloth.  She let the oil-dried pan to heat up for a minute or so, before she poured the teff flour that had already been premixed in water to form a paste, onto the pan.  

She then poured the paste in a circular motion, starting from the centre progressively moving towards the edges of the big pan.  She was soon done, and it was now a matter of waiting for the cooking to take place.  I did not see much of how the cooking was taking place.  I just saw the white paste remain white, but it kind-a solidified into a big circular white soft wafer, the injera.  The injera was then scooped off the pan with a woven plate and set forth onto a big plate on our table, ready for our next action.

“Wow, I did not know that it can be done that easily,” Rose spoke for the first time in many minutes.  I believe the Ethiopian experience was still overwhelming.

So, we sat and started eating.  It is only Sharon who did not make any move towards the injera that had been laced with a thin layer of butter for the expected sweetness effect of a freshly baked injera.

“Hey, Shayy, join into the injera feast!,” I reminded her, a layer of injera in my mouth.

“Oh my God no!  Today be Friday, and me not take no milk on Fridays.”

I had come to know Sharon as the only true Christian in Ethiopia.  The only true Orthodox that I had met.  She takes no animal products on Wednesdays and Fridays, and fasts for more than half the year at various times during the 13-month Ethiopian calendar.  That girl is going straight to heaven when the trumpet sounds.  The rest of us need grace and are likely purgatory-first candidates.

We then moved around to the zoo within the park, the Unity zoo.  We saw the animals in captivity, including lions, cheetahs, zebras, antelopes (nyala, impala, kudu, eland, wildebeest, gemsbok), meerkat and ostriches.  We even walked through the aviary and saw the birds (greater flaming, Guinea fowl, crane, ibis, gull, moorhen, white-faced duck, weaver, francolin, egret, spoonbill, turaco, hornbill, starling, heron), that are living within the grounds and environs of that giant structure that stretches almost ten metres into the sky.  

After that we were just to pass by some traditional houses that depict various cultures (Tigray, Somali, Harari, Oromia) before we were already being reminded by the many staffers on the park that it was time to get out.  It was already past five.  The exit party included one or two couples with their wedding gowns.

Part 2

The day was far from over.  The four of us drove back to our residential place.  They dropped Rose and I at our hostels.  Rachel and Sharon decided to stick around by going to their office to do some work since we were soon having another event set for six.  I however knew the better of this timing when the girls decided that they would be having a ‘make up meet up’ before we go.

I did not even bother to call the girls before seven.  And when I used WhatsApp to call Rose at seven, she said a casual, “we are about through, give us another ten minutes.”

I gave them thirty and we finally congregated at Rachel’s white Mazda at seven-thirty.

We drove through the roads and ended up at a place that was very familiar.  I knew it even before we disembarked.  This was Yod Abyssinia Cultural Restaurant.  I had been there before, twice or even thrice.  It never disappoints.

The place was however not as full as I have seen it before, when you can hardly get a seat.  This time round the four of us identified a seating area at one end of the wall, almost facing the main stage.  There was already a performance on stage.  There were five instrumentalists.  Three harpist, a drummer and a flutist.  They were seated.  A soloist was standing in front of them, on the well-lit stage.  He sang.  They played.  Their music was of the Arabic inclination.  It was soft and went well with the atmosphere.  Occasionally some four ladies and four gentlemen, either singly or in groups would dance in front of the soloist.

We ordered drinks or rather, the hosts ordered the drinks and they were brought to the table.  There was a 700ml bottle of that sweet yellow drink, tej.  They set it on the table.  They also set some sodas on the table.  Some wine glasses were passed around, with none to me.  

A small conical flask of about 300ml volume was setup in front of my sitting position.

“Tej for president Obama,” Rachel announced.

“But... but... but...,” I tongue-tied about, not sure of what to say.

“Not worry, we also help you, not worry.”

Another two conicals were brought and set forth on the table.

It did not take long before another colleague, Mary, joined in, following almost momentarily by her colleague George.  The table of six was now fully loaded.  The drinks continued.  The music continued.  The crowds continued to get in, and get out, but mostly get in.  The place kept getting swollen.  The music started getting louder.  We soon went for a buffet dinner by just walking behind our seating area, picking plates and filling up.  

I did not see much of anything familiar, though there were many different small pots with many different things.  However, injera which is now a constant part of our menu, was there – brown, white and even a brown-white mixed version.  The rest were just veggies, spices, other stuff, other things, some more other food items, and finally.... some raw mincemeat.  I picked some injera, some veggies and was back to my seat.  George ordered some tibs to be brought to our table on that charcoal heated claypot.  Our dinner could not have been complete without coffee.

At some point the soloist at the stage tried to rendition the ‘jambo bwana’ song, making a complete mess out of it.  Rose and I, and even Rachel who was becoming Kenyanized, tried to join in and correct the soloist, but he would hear nothing of it.  Surely, who sings ‘Ethiopia nchi nzuri’ to a ‘Kenya nchi nzuri’ song?  Just talking about how the real lyrics should be, nothing else.

Then the dancers started taking break from the stage and started joining the revelers at their table locations for some jig.  Two or three such sessions of the dancers come up to our table to call us out of our seats for dances involving vigorous shoulder an upper body movement.  This did spice up the evening before we finally called it a night.  It was just a few minutes to midnight as we stood to leave.  Just when we thought we were going home....

Part 3

We got into two cars.  Rachel’s car had Sharon, Mary and I.  George’s car had Rose in it.  We drove and drove and drove.  Twenty minutes or so later and we were not getting anywhere back to the hostel blocks where I thought we should be getting to in such a timeframe.  What was going on here?  Where the hech are we going?

“We arrive, get out of car,” Rachel finally announced, as she started looking for some parking space.

George was just behind us, also looking for a parking space.  I do not know Addis, especially in this dead of the night.  I therefore did not know where we were.  I just followed the crowd.

We got into an elevator at the adjacent building, with an operator minding the elevator doors.  He closed them after we were in, pressed a button and were wheeled up to some floor, I guess the sixth.  The door opened to let in a gush of loud club music.  We had just entered a boom-twaf world, the door at the entrance reading ‘Midtown Ultra Lounge’.  We squeezed through a body-packed club floor as we looked out at where we could find a standing space.  Seating was already out of the question.  

We moved to the very extreme end of the room, just next to Buddha, who was seated in his bronze majesty, eyes gazing straight and down at us.  We looked back at Buddha, said nothing and took a table.  He looked straight at us, kept sitting in medication, and also said nothing.  

The six of us stood round the circular table in the semi-dark room.  We could just make out the height of the table.  Talking was out of the question with the volume of music that had engulfed the hall.  We just nodded along as we gestured.  Bottled water was served at the middle of the table, just before our troubles started...

The waiter soon brought to our table some small glasses on a rack.  Each small glass was about 10ml or maybe my gaze was starting to fade?

“We are doing shots,” someone struggled to shout on the table.  It was hardly audible.

We gestured in the matter of ‘What’?

George pointed at the glasses in the middle of the table and gestured in a manner of ‘take and drink’.

Everyone took a small glass, apart from Mary.  She waved a no.  She could have been useless saying the word ‘no’, with all the music going on.

Soon there was an happy birthday song going on in the hall as it got louder with a cake being brought to the next table.  The cake and candle flares took the attention of the room for a second and they DJ loudly wished some random name a happy birthday, some girl’s name.  

We did not even have time to admire the cake before the DJ put an end to the birthday event and continued the real hits.  People danced around their tables.  In fact, it is the standing and the dancing that kept us sober.  Any seating and being docile for even a minute could have reminded the legs that they were already being flooded with alcohol laden blood and for sure the legs would have already given way by now.

It was not long before George called for another gesture at the small glasses in the middle of our table.  That was not to be the last.  They just kept coming.  I just lost count and let what happens happen.  Who even came up with the deceit that taking a drink in one gulp is a good idea?  Get it from me, it is a bad idea ab initio.  The drink ‘shots’ the centre of your brain and you almost lose consciousness for a minute.  You stay drunk, only for them, that is George and group, to ‘shot’ you again.... and again.... and again....

It was at three when Mary called the three on the table ‘out of order’ to directed them to the lift.  By then we had each thrown a bunch of notes onto the middle of the table.  The amount, a thousand Birr per person, having been communicated through gestures since talking was not possible with all that music.  

Two of our members had already disappeared into thin air.  First it was Sharon who had slipped out quietly when ‘the drinks finally caught her’, hardly one-hour after our arrival, leaving the five of us to test our endurance.  Later on, even George, the shot-man had had enough and disappeared.  Only four people were left standing when the time came to do the counting past three.  Mary directed the three of us to the exit and to the lift area.  The lift operator was still there.  He opened the lift door, let us in, and closed the door.  He pushed a button and the vehicle moved down.

When we got to the parking yard, Rachel went straight to the back seat.

“I not drive in this state,” she declared resignedly.

“President, now you see why I no drink?,” Mary looked in my direction as she got onto the driver’s seat, while I opened the co-driver’s seat and took a seat.  Rose joined Rachel in the back.  The only reason I was still walking was because of the three hours of standing and dancing.  Otherwise, I should have collapsed by now.

We started driving around.  The roads were deserted.  In fact, we did not encounter even one single vehicle either going in our direction or opposite.  We drove around for about fifteen minutes then dropped Rachel at her place.  We lit her body full headlights as we waited for her to get in.  The lights were on her as she knocked the gate for over five-minutes to wake up the watchman.  Her gate was finally opened, and we bid her goodnight, more of good morning.

Mary directed the Mazda smoothly to the hostel blocks.  It was just past 3.30am when we got out of the car and headed to our hostel.  I affixed the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the external of the door, on the handle.  I was not letting the cleaners disturb my sleep, and when I talk about disturb, I mean disturb.  The cleaners ambush the room just before eight!  Who knocks a hostel door before eight?  Surely!!  

And the cleaners usually just knock once, and if there is no answer then they proceed and use their master key to open and get in.  I have been found in bed on several occasions, when I just realize there is someone in the room in the name of cleaning.  The sign would put a break to that disturbance.  Breakfast was not happening for on this Saturday morning, nor was the planned electric train ride arranged by Sharon going to take place.  This one I had just cancelled by SMS at this late night, thanks to the same Sharon for having given me an Ethiopian line to use while there.

Part 4

I was taking a bathroom break around ten on Saturday, when I saw a number of missed calls on WhatsApp, from my phone that was on silent.  They were all from Rose, and there were messages too – “You need to checkout urgently.  They say that the rooms are reserved for incoming guests”

I was meant to be going back to bed, not checking out!  Anyway, rules are rules, and so I hurriedly threw my clothes randomly into the two bags and was soon out of the room in less than five minutes.  I headed to the hostel reception where I found Rose waiting.  The receptionist was glad that I was there.

“Your room be booked for guest he arrive soon,” he said, relief all over his face.

My body was still tired and in need of sleep.

I still had another ten hours before the vehicle to pick me for the airport for the trip back was due.  I therefore still had plenty hours of nothing ahead.  A temporary room is all I needed to enable me take a rest, compile my reports and wait for the evening.  I did that in the new hostel room.  After many hours that went so fast, I finally walked to the restaurant to partake of the last injera before the airport transfer vehicle came for me at 2000hrs as scheduled.  

We left at 2015hours for the short 15-minutes drive to the Bole International airport.  The airport turned out to be busier on this than I had expected.  It took me almost two hours to get my boarding pass.  There was still more waiting minutes ahead before the boarding call came at 2245hrs for the 2315hrs flight back home.......

And now here I was back to the present, one week later, on this Friday, finishing the 17k run in the hot Nairobi sun.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Friday, Oct. 14, 2022

Communication is dead – language has gone for a run

Communication is dead – language has gone for a run

The confrontation

“Passport?,” a voice commanded.

This was unexpected, since I had already cleared with the entrance security, and usually no one would bother an innocent passenger thereafter?

The passport is an ‘at hand’ item from when you get into the terminal until you are seated in the plane and landed on your destination.  You only keep it once you have left the airport.  I therefore just shoved it on his face.

“Dollars? Show me!”

“What do you mean?,” I thought of saying, but decided to say that inaudibly.

This was a public facility, hence probably nothing to worry, but this was still strange.

I extracted from my breast pocket the two greens and held up.

“That is all?”

“Yes, that is all”

“Other pocket?”

“Phones only,” I responded, making his work easy by removing the two gadgets and holding them up high.

“No other dollar?”

“No!”

“You go,” he said, letting me proceed to the check in and enabling me to glance over my shoulder to see his Government clad and tag, as he had also turned to confirm my walk past.

This was the second not-so-friendly encounter I was getting at this hub with the second longest runway in Africa.  For now, I was heading back home and was already longing for home.  Sitting on the benches brought me nothing but ‘hard bench’ agony and memories.  It was just nine and the ‘hard’ was set to persist until 2315hrs.  However, that is how the world of international avionics is – you are forced to arrive early, usually 3 hours prior, then you sit for long…. and the benches tend to be hard.  Bole added a new twist to the agony – lack of power sockets at the waiting areas.  All had to scramble for two sockets on the whole of the lounge that had gates 1 to 13 on the ground floor.  That is the level of power sockets that I saw anyways.

Re-confrontation

The first encounter was six days prior when I had just arrived, landing at seven hundred hours and disembarking fifteen minutes later (How long does it take to open a godamn plane door!!).  After finally stepping out and heading to Immigration, with a queue that was like one hundred travelers long, I decided that I would rather first get a relief before joining and staying in the forthcoming and imminent ‘forever’ queue.  No sooner did I get into one of the restroom cubicles at the main entrance written ‘Gents’ did I get shoved out.

“Get out,” the lady who was just following me from behind heading to the same cubicle shouted and motioned.

I got out, pressed to the leg, too pressed to even feel any emotion, but I had been commanded out and I had to obey.  

“Is this a gender-neutral washroom or what?,” I asked inaudibly.

But being kicked out?  By a madam?  In the Gents??

I continued hanging around, walking aimlessly to lessen the pressure, but hopeful since I could see that there were three other cubicles, occupied.  Some gents were waiting outside the various cubicles.  

“What happened to good old urinals for men!!  Where 5 or six gents would usually stand and let go all at once?,” my inner voice asked, loudly internally.

Nowadays we have to queue to have a single moment in the cubicles?  This is just supposed to be a standing piss stop!.

I was still suffering the pressure, when from nowhere the madam shouted at me, once more, with the usual motion of the hand,

“You use.”

I learnt that she was just the cleaner.

That probably is where my troubles on this arrival day were to start.  There was more to come.  When I left the terminal after check-out, and went to the parking lot, I was in shock to find nothing waiting for me.  There was nothing familiar at the parking lot.

The trip organizer has taught us this ‘bad habit’ of taking care of stuff from your residence door on departure, all the way to the residence door at your arrival.  All you needed to do when traveling was to step out of the door of your residence and all the rest is taken care of, from being alerted to get out, to getting a chauffeur, all the way to getting a big welcome sign at your destination.  Nothing to worry, nothing to bother, just step out of your door and you shall reach the door of your residence at the destination, the ‘other side’.

On this occasion, there was no name board waiting.  There was nothing.  My SIM cards were useless.  One showed a signal alright but with the letter R.  I thought that meant RED.  I was persuaded to believe so, since I momentarily received an SMS confirming that I was ‘roaming’, and I could send an SMS for ‘only’ 48 shillings (back home, the normal SMS rate is 1 shilling).  The other SIM did not even bother to show activity, R or otherwise.  Of course, the SIM card showing R did not have any semblance of airtime.  It would have been better had it stayed quiet and useless than sending the alert SMS.  So I was stuck.

Nowhere to run

Figure this, I am in a parking lot, at a high security lot, where everybody treats everybody with suspicion.  The security personnel are constantly moving all people off the gate area.  I do not know the details of where I am going.  I do not have a telephone contact and…. I cannot call, I cannot send a message.  To sweeten the dilemma, I have dollars as currently, the local transactions are conducted in Birr.  I do not even have intelligence as to the approximate cost of taxi fare, where to get public transport or even how to get out if I exercised the option of using public transport.

These were the longest two-and-a-half hours of my life.  I just kept walking about at the lot.  I just stayed on with the ongoing chaos, which did not take long to hit me.

“Taxi?  Town?  Only two fifty Birr.  Very cheap,” one ruffian approached.

“I am OK,” I responded.

“No two-fifty?, OK, I take two-forty.  Very cheap,” he continued, following my retreat.

“I am OK,” I repeated, and continued walking.

He ran in front of me, momentarily blocking my path.

“I reduce. Two-sati. Final, two-sati”

For crying out loud!!!

I had to endure many other taxi negotiations until I was finally exhausted.  That is when the idea of WhatsApp (where ‘I am not on WhatsApp’ anyway) came up.  I just looked at the contacts and realized one familiar local contact.  This elicited an ‘Eureka’ moment in me.  However, without SIM access or public wifi, I was still cooked (in the sun) with no much help yet.  Nonetheless, out of desperation, and with nothing else to do, I just typed an SOS message and observed it stay unsent, with the hour symbol displayed at the bottom of the message.  The text message that I had typed just indicated that I was stuck at the lot and was standing next to a notice board, and was in a branded blue jacket and out of communication.

Then… then the phone picked an open wifi.  I saw “Samsung Galaxy J3 Open” displayed on screen, on the list of wifi networks.

I do not know what happened when, but I found myself connected to the open wifi.  Before long, the message was showing two ticks that indicate delivery to recipient.  While still wondering what just happened, the phone beeped and indicated “No network”.  I rechecked on the list of available wifi which now had “Samsung Galaxy J3 Secured” amongst many other networks.

“What just happened,” I asked myself.

Nonetheless, I still hoped that the two ticks on the WhatsApp was what I thought it was – a confirmation of successful delivery.  There was no way of finding out than waiting it out and seeing how long the bluff would last.

At ten, a big blue van approach my standing place, before a driver beckoned.  He stated the name of a hotel that I was familiar with, and crowned it with the name of my SOS contact person.

“Rachel call me,” he informed my reluctant and suspicious frame, “We go hotel now.”

I got in.

“Sorry, was to come one-thirty, but late, now four,” he tried to explain. 

I am now used to hearing time stated the Kiswahili style, where seven o’clock is stated as one o’clock.

Start of confrontation

I sat on the back right, instead of the usual back left, and had a mental challenge as vehicles kept driving on the ‘wrong side’ of the road.  I kept being afraid of an imminent head on collision amongst vehicles which unfortunately never happened, since all seemed to be used to the ‘wrong’ driving.  I just closed my eyes and relaxed the confusion for a moment.  It is at this moment of closed eyes, heading to the hotel that I remembered yet another saga on this very same day.  This happened in the morning at JKIA.  It was soon a full-blown drama, almost claiming casualties.  The blame for this however goes to KCAA, the national civil aviation authority.  This is why…

The departure lounge was fully full.  There were no vacant spaces on the seats at the departures waiting lounge, while travelers kept filing in.  There was no place to sit, despite the boarding being about 30 minutes away.  New and late travelers like me just had to keep walking around the crowded benches, with nostalgia of how a sit-down would feel like.  I try not to be judgmental, but I believe that we have some badly-behaved travelers.  Sample these – how do you sprawl your whole body on a 3-seater when fifty people are standing and looking for places to sit?  How about placing a bag on the seat ‘to book’ it?  What of sitting on one and placing your legs on the opposite seat so that you are having a 2-in-1 couch?  All this while over fifty homo sapiens are just hanging around looking for a place?  

The incident in question has the above ‘bad behavour’ scenarios as the setting.  To be precise, this scene involves two of these bads at the same place, at the same time – talk of lighting not striking a tree twice!!  Add to this the fact that I was caught up in the mix!!!

Pardon

The scene involves two 3-seater benches facing each other.  I am seated on the last slot of one, with someone else opposite.  Next to me is a madam with legs stretched to the opposite bench, asleep, snoring.  Next to her is a bag sitting on the seat.  Opposite the ‘sitting bag’ is a guy just staring at the ceiling, absent mindedly minding his own business.  In summary, a set of benches that should sit six is currently sitting only four.  A bag and a pair of legs are occupying the other two slots.  

Finally, with this scene set, the boiling point that was bound to happen, did actually happen!

“Remove bag, I sit,” a man approached the gentleman who was staring at the ceiling.

“It’s not mine,” he responded and continued his ceiling gaze.

“Just remove I sit,” the ‘approacher’ repeated.

“I beg your pardon!”, the man seated was evidently agitated, “Do you want us to square it out?  Do you have the balls?”

The man who had wanted to sit just decided to leave.  Meanwhile, I wondered, amusedly as to why men like playing games with balls.  I did not see any around, though on the TV screens projected across the aisle, I could see some ball game ongoing – one ball though, as some twenty-two men kept chasing after it.  What is this obsession?  Did I not even see a sign that balls were among the items not allowed on hand luggage?

Second pardon

As if that was not the end of this act, a new madam approached the scene, hardly five minutes later.

“Get bag out,” she said, aiming her words at the ceiling-staring gentleman.

“It’s not mine,” he mouthed out, anger in each syllable.

“I want sit,” she said.

“Why are you asking me for? Do what you want!,” he responded angrily.

“I not know English”, she continued, “Remove bag.”

I could just figure out a physical confrontation coming up.  And it is the guy who almost stood up ready to punch it out, since I could see his restlessness visibly growing.  Truth be told, he was just unlucky to be coincidentally seated opposite an open seat (rather a sitting bag).

Just then, when the tension was so tight, it could easily be slit by a razor, the owner of the bag came over and took her seat.

“This is my seat,” the now seating lady stated, removing the bag and placing it on the floor.  She was evidently sensing the tension between the standing woman and the restless man opposite.

“Why can’t you sit next there,” she pointed to the ‘seating legs’, just next to the man.  These were the legs of the lady sitting next to me, stretched to the opposite seat.

“But…,” the standing lady started, probably noting that the owner of the legs was asleep.

The just seated lady nudged her neighbor, the sleeping lady, and asked her to remove her legs from the bench.  The sleeper stirred, regained consciousness for a few seconds, and removed her legs from the seat – slowly, reluctantly, hesitantly and with some frown on the face.  She even mouthed the f.

Delicacy

My stay at ADD was largely uneventful.  Five days of work that ended up with a dinner in honour.  The dinner was injera and firfir.  I was surprised to enjoy the combination of the sour injera and very sweet firfir.  The latter is a soup made of some ground grains and goes quite well with the starch.  Of course, no Ethiopian meal ends without buna, which must be taken very strong, very dark and in a very small cup.  In fact, even breakfast consisting of coffee ends with a cup of buna.  I took some.  (Buna is the Amharic word for coffee).

Finally it was a Saturday, time to get back home.

But just a few hours to my travel back to Kenya, I managed to have my own day out.  I first went to the UN complex for the annual multi-nation cultural show.  My colleague was to pick me up, but the traffic jam was so bad that she decided to send a taxi cab instead.  Being a Saturday, I would have assumed that the jam on the road would have relented, but not on that Saturday.

“Roads closed, celebration at Meskel,” my colleague Rachel sent a WhatsApp message.

“How do we meet then?,” I whatsapped back.

“I shall send taxi, just wait at gate.”

The taxi came over some ten minutes later.  After getting in, with instinct naturally telling me to belt up, the driver immediately reminded me that, “Don’t touch, no work.”  It took almost an hour to drive the 6km distance from Gurd Shola to town.  At the complex we moved around stand to stand, seeing the various offerings by the different countries.  Most of them had clothes, food and drinks as the main showcase.  All items were on sale.  The proceeds were for charity.

Elephant

It was while sampling the various cultures at the complex, when we finally got to our stand, where my motherland was well represented with two symbols – the two Ts.

“What is Tusker?,” Rachel had asked as we passed by the Kenyan stand.  She had earlier insisted that I say hi to the exhibitors in Kiswahili, just for the fun of it, to demo to the exhibitor that their country person was also here.  After that greeting, we started touching-touching the items on display.  That is when I was confronted with the question for the motherland.

“Are you serious or joking?,” I started, “Tusker is the best beer in the world”

To elaborate further, and to respond to her puzzled look, I had to update her that, “The biggest beer event in Belgium, the Monde Selection, has voted Tusker as the best beer in the world, every year for the last many years.”

The other ‘T’ representing Kenya was Tea, of course.  Kenya is internationally recognized for the best shayi on the planet.

After visiting the many stands, and even benefiting from some sampled foods from Africa and Europe, I decided to walk to town, to see the sites and purposefully visit the famous Meskel square.  I only had instinct and open eyes to guide me.  I did not have a map nor a working communication gadget.  The instructions were, “Keep going along road.  Do not leave road. Meskel there near that big building.”

Central America

I found myself in ‘Mexico’ instead.  That was because my ‘open-eyes’ failed to notice Meskel on my left, across the road, about 2km from my starting point.  One km later and I was at Mexico, where at least there was a public city map.  I studied the map and noted a few familiar buildings that I had passed on my way here.  I could now even figure out Meskel and why I had missed it.  I had assumed that it shall be a big park akin Uhuru park back home.  It turned out to be a non-so-gigantic public terrace, just next to the main highway.  In fact I had seen it on my way towards Mexico.  It is my interpretation of the expected size of the grounds that misled me.  

I also spend lots of my time looking at the overhead electric train.  I however kept wonder why it was only pulling two coaches when the demand was so high.  I know the demand is high since I had observed through the glass windows of the passing train as to how packed the travelers were in the coaches.  I had intended to take a ride but had been warned that I would not survive the trip. 

“I don’t care,” I had told Rachel, “I want to be stepped on.  I want to struggle to get in.  I want to be shoved about.  I want to be forced past my destination because I cannot get out!.  That is the fun that I am looking for.”

But they said No, unless they would accompany me, and they themselves did not have the stomach to take the train.  That is how I missed out on my inaugural ride.

On my way back from Mexico square, I decided to cross the road so that I could walk by Meskel square.  I had the pleasure of paying respects to ‘the lion’.  As I was just crossing an adjoining road to get to Meskel, I noted a tough tag on my elbow.  I was now standing at the traffic jam mid-road, waiting to follow suit on what others were to do – either waiting for the lights to turn green for pedestrians (though I did not see any) or just waiting for a cue from the others as to when we should cross.  I was just observing my fellow ‘crossers’, who were now at a pause, as the vehicles came to a standstill at the junction.  There was a second tag on my hand, which caused me to stir.

I quickly tagged out, then looked back to see who was pulling on my sleeve.

“Birr,” the ruffian said, and tagged me again, as I noted another three such roughly looking men approaching to join in, as we all waited to cross the road.

“Leave me alone!,” I said in haste, pulling my hand off.

“Birr, birr,” he tagged again as the other three converged for the kill.

I ran across to Meskel, not caring to look out for vehicles.  A heard a few hoots and some cursing, but I was already across the road and walking the terraces of Meskel.

You are on your own

I was to pick my taxi, same taxi that brought me, outside the UN at ‘eight-thirty’ i.e. saa nane na nusu.  I walked back and was ready for my taxi at that time.  I was apprehensive however, since I did not know how the taxi person was to identify me.  Additionally, I was completely out of communication and was just relying on the good faith of the taxi person, as per instructions passed to him by Rachel.

“You?, Research?,” someone called out.  

I looked around and saw the taxi person.  I just had to assume that he was the taxi person anyway.  I followed him to where he had parked and when I got in the taxi, I for sure knew that I was in the right taxi.

Crank!  Crank!  He tried the starter.  It did not give.  The blue painted old structure remained unmoved.  After a conversation with his fellow taxi people in a language that was familiar in tonal structure, but not understandable, the three gents outside the taxi gave it a push.  It started rolling down the road while the driver tried to start it ‘somehow’.  I have learnt through other experiences that the ‘somehow’ is done by engaging the reverse gear while in forward motion.  By fifty meters the taxi had not come to life, it was just rolling on free.  It was a lucky break that the machine roared to life just as we hit the main road.  The very main road that I had seen with a sign written 'Jomo Kenyatta Av' during my walk to Meskel.  We hit the road and kept going.  Every stop due to traffic jam spelled doom to our vehicle, since it threatened to switch off, or actually did.

The taxi switched off one or two more times and the driver had to use his genius to restart it each of these times.  I started making other observations.  The machine did not even have an ignition.  The driver would strike the junction of two bare wires with a third bare tipped wire to ignite the engine.  The car did not have the knob of the gear lever.  A metallic bar protruding from the floor of the taxi turned out to be the gear lever.  However, these adventures are what makes me enjoy my sojourns.  I liked every bit of my life in the taxi, including a few curses thrown to our car for either crossing in front of some ‘posh’ car or the fact that it could stall in the middle of the highway.  When he finally dropped me and paying the charge of Birr 250, I was all praise for the driver.

“Ride? How the ride?”

“I liked it,” I said, and I meant it.

Therefore, drama, drama, drama was how my last run was…. And I liked every bit of it, even as I finally traveled back at five-twenty in the night – rather, now that I was back to normal time, it was actually eleven-twenty in the night, or to be ‘aviationically’ correct, twenty-three-twenty hours.

WWB, the Coach, Nairobi, Kenya, Dec. 9, 2018

Running on red

Running on red

Bahasha

It was a coincidence that I was on a sojourn on my tenth anniversary of work.  I was still on cloud nine due to the certificate that I had received from the ‘topest’, sorry, top-most boss and a rare photo op to crown the moment.  I am not allowed to divulge the details of the ‘bahasha’ nor that this event occurred during the end year staff party, when drinks are served using vouchers, numbers from drink 1 to drink N.  I have observed ‘the N’ increasing by 1 annually in  the last four years, and it was 2 then.  

Then the teetotalers have the 'good habit' of handing over their drink vouchers, hence the trick is just to sit on the same table with them.  That is a story for another day, however.  

Though I was on official business, having a glimpse at the rock-curved churches at Lalibela or even celebrating Christmas on January 18 was something that I would have wished to experience.  This did not happen but I was invited for a different experience two days after my arrival...

“We go for lunch at six-thirty,” Rehma said, just to remind me of my time schedule as I excused myself to move around and greet folks.

I completely understood her.  Amharic is like Kiswahili.  The number system that is.  With it as the national language, the users tend to first think about issues in Amharic, then translate to English.  Lunch at six-thirty was lunch at ‘saa sita-na-nusu’ in Kiswahili.  Just the right time for lunch – 30 minutes after ‘sita’, six.

Driver

I jumped on to my seat, and… and was surprised that it was the driver’s seat!.  The apparent left-side front door was actually the driver’s position!.  In Kenya our drivers sit on the right of the vehicle, hence my subconscious entry to the left side of the car.  I got out, the joke on me, and walked round the vehicle to take my seat at the front right - where I properly belonged, before the driver of the left-hand-drive got in and took off.

My mind kept playing tricks on me throughout the drive, and was quite fearful whenever we were approaching oncoming traffic.  My Kenyan mindset on a keep-left driving system was so confused when keeping-right.  I severally covered my face in fear, thinking that we are continuously overtaking and the oncoming vehicle shall be crashing us head on!

We left the employer premises and joined the main A2 road at Gurd Shola by turning right.  The oncoming traffic was on my left, on the side of the driver.  A roadside sign confirmed that ‘Ayat 5km ahead’ was our general direction.

“I hope to take a ride on that,” I pointed to the railway in between the two roads.

“Oh, that, the electric train?”

“Yes, the train”

“I have not been in it myself,” Ayele the driver confirmed, paused, then,“Rehma, have you?,” he asked, looking slightly back to draw her attention on the back seat.

“No.  Not me.  It usually is full.  Can’t get space.”

Train

Momentarily, a sound of machinery became apparent, and soon there was a train slithering slowly on my left, going towards where we had come from.  It was observably full, but only two coaches were being pulled along.

“Why do they have only two coaches, when there are so many people?,” I queried.

“This government,” Ayele started.  I noted over time that he had issues with the government, “Just wasting public funds.  They say the structure not possible to pull more than two trains.”

“I really must use the train,” I said with conviction, “Tomorrow,” I added as an afterthought.

“Just be early,” Rehma volunteered, “And be ready to stand all the way.”

“But, mothers and small children can sit,” Ayele updated, “And you have none of the two for now,” he brought home the joke.

All this chatter allowed us to make our way to a restaurant, famous for mouth-watering cuisines and ….

Our entourage had arrived in four vehicles, each carrying around three.  We ended up having a lunch troop of ten.  We sat on two rows facing each other over three tables, five on either side.  The menu was brought and it was all gibberish to me, Amhara to them.  

“Just delicious.  Perfect,” the group kept commenting as they looked through the menu.

“I can’t decipher anything,” I complained.

“Just wait,” they reassured me.

“Yes,” Adele led the ordering, “Raw meat? Yes? Yes, you shall try some raw meat?,” he looked in my direction.

“I don’t think so,” was my protest, “But let me see.”

The known

Let me start with the part that I know.  Some small cooking stove, made of clay ‘was served’ to my table of four.  On it steamed some meat.  It was partially cooked by my standards.  It looked red – it seemed to taste raw.  I did not try it.  While my table mates started grabbing onto the top plate-like part of the stove, the rest of the people on the other tables stayed put, patient and unmoved.  I was also unmoved.  We all allowed the first three to have a go.

A second stove was served.  This also had some more meat, but well done by my standards.  I started on this, even as small dishes of chilly was served as supplements.  They called it ‘sauce’.  Different ‘sauces’ were therefore served.  Then some veggies, which I took a taste and gave up on.  It tasted bad and seemed full of cheese – just my judgement – since all on the table enjoyed every bit of it.  

Some ‘injera’ was brought.  Think of a rolled ‘raw chapati’ but throw in some sourness that seems to come from fermentation, and you can try to guess the taste.  I did not like it despite several attempts at it.  Three travels later and I am yet to adapt?.  I give up.

However, the well-done meat was quite good and ‘well done’.  The hot stove with charcoal underneath and small enough in size to fit on a table and still afford us a serving plate on top was quite genius.  You eat steaming-hot meat (roast? with indirect heat?) until the stove has nothing on top, upon which the charcoal burner is removed and a new one brought, full of meat pieces.  Pure genius this hot plate!!

The unknown

Let me now go the part that I do not know.  The other two tables finally got some action, when red raw meat, straight from a butcher-man’s stock, was served.  I could guess that 2 kilos of this raw unprocessed meat was served onto a middle metallic tray.  (I am in the livestock sector and I know weight by sight).  

Each diner was provided with a small plate and a sharp knife.  Besides the meat tray, a secondary tray for injera and sauces was provided.  And let the eating begin!  Just like that!!  They laughed at my facials as I observed them butcher the meat chunks into small pieces, which they proceeded to dip into the sauce and then shove straight to the mouth!  Injera balls accompanied each piece onto the mouth.

“I only take raw meat,” one participant at one of these two tables declared, “I have taken it since I was small and there is nothing in the world like raw meat. Nothing,” he repeated in deep nostalgia and reflection.  The facial expression was perfect confirmation.

Adele pointed a red piece in my direction, “Try this small piece,” the rest paused and watched in apprehension.  Baptism about to take place.

“No way,” I lifted both hands as shield.  I was finally convinced, “Let me stick to roast.”
The tension in the table broke, as the rest exhaled and sighed in relief.  The baptism having flopped.

On his part, Adele just shook his head and threw the piece, after dipping in sauce, into his mouth.  I could see him savoring the deliciousness.  It was evident on him. 

It was only natural that at this point of ‘sticking to roast’ that the discussion of the famous ‘Fogo Gaucho’ Nairobi would feature… but they did not have any kind words for their local FG franchise that they claimed is housed in a five-star hotel, charging five-star prices and… serving five-types of meat… beef, beef, beef, beef and… beef, and in small chunks, they drove the point home.

We finally left the lunch joint and headed back to the work place.

The next day Adele took me for an evening ride on his car, to take his child home and also show me the sites.

On our way back, I finally found out a way to achieve what I wanted, as already planned for the next day.

“Can I borrow your child tomorrow for the train ride?”

WWB The Marathoner, Nairobi Kenya, December 21, 2017