Crystal Thoughts From Rwenkoole To London: The unsettling seatmate on board!

Crystal Thoughts From Rwenkoole To London: The unsettling seatmate on board!: So many gruesome things have been happening lately in the airspace.   Many travellers are beginning to think twice before...

The unsettling seatmate on board!

So many gruesome things have been happening lately in the airspace.  Many travellers are beginning to think twice before they opt to fly.  On 8th March 2014, the Malaysia Airlines Flight MH370 went missing; to date its whereabouts continue to defy the edict of technology and human wisdom. 

Four months later another Malaysia Airlines Flight 17 from Amsterdam to Kuala Lumpur was shot down on July 17.  Just the other day, another plane went missing; Air Algerie Flight AH5017 left Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso and was bound for Algiers.  Somewhere midway the flight, it went missing and was later reported to have crashed around the Burkina Faso boarder area of Gao.

Meanwhile in June, our own Air Uganda was grounded on account of safety and regulatory glitches involving Uganda’s Civil Aviation Authority.

About a week ago, I was on the Addis Ababa bound Ethiopian Airlines Flight ET 701 from London and something weird happened.   Right next to me was a gentleman who for some reason was so unsettled during preparations for flight takeoff.  As passengers continued to board the aircraft, he paced from his seat to one end of the aisle and back.  He did this so many times.  When he tried to settle in his seat, he pulled out his mobile phone and made over ten phone calls in a space of five minutes.  He looked disturbed, uneasy, anxious name it!  In short he was just too unsettled.  As he continued to wiggle and waggle in his seat, two bundles of 100 bills of pounds slid from the side pockets of his kaki tour pants – he quickly picked the money and stood up to put it in the handbag that he had earlier placed in the overhead locker.  He took to his seat again and continued with his sudden moves.

I could no longer take it any more; I walked to one of the airhostesses and stated what was happening – which I thought and felt was a bit out of the ordinary. After about a minute of stating my case, Hostess Rahel looked into my face and said, “sir, please take your seat, we are now busy completing preparations for takeoff; we will check the passenger once we’ve taken off from the ground”.

I was very shocked about how lax the hostess was with an issue that touched on the security and safety of all on board including herself. 

With chills in my spine, I sat down, fastened my belt, said my prayers and awaited ‘anything’.  My neighbor remained unsettled, making telephone calls during takeoff, contrary to the on-board safety advice. Even before the seatbelt sign was turned off, he had already unfastened and was standing up to pick something from the overhead locker; I warned him that it was still unsafe to unfasten.  Generally his behavior on board could be described as intolerable and disruptive.

About fifteen minutes into the flight, the busybody gradually drifted into slumber.

Hostess Rahel who had given me assurances that she would check the passenger out after takeoff did not do so.

So, what if my fears and suspicions were anything to go by? You probably would not be reading this particular piece written by myself; may be you would be reading about a notorious Flight ET 701 in which a Ugandan called Crispy Kaheru ‘was on board’.

In brief, in this era of terrorism, it’s better to be safe than sorry.  The vigilance of the public on security issues should not be taken for granted.  People’s vigilance must enlist effective response from the respective custodians. 

Lastly, each one of us has an equal responsibility to contribute to a safe and secure environment. 

Look, this is why we must work harder during ramadan

This is that time of the year when their office kitchenette is often found to be filthy, with unwashed utensils and mold forming on the kitchen table sides.  This time round, the whole office has to take a lot more time than just a few minutes to negotiate around the dirty cups, plates and pans in the sink; and dishes, grime and food stuff stashed on the kitchen counter – basically the kitchen is nothing but a mess.

 

Asked why she leaves the kitchen cluttered at this specific time of the year, Rukiyah had just this to say: “nanti, it is Ramadan, so I can not work the way I normally work!”  It being a law firm, her response disarmed her colleagues in fear of furthering a conversation that would ultimately seemingly question a spiritual observance vis–à–vis ‘earthly work’.

 

That aside, Rukiyah’s response is being replayed in many work settings in diverse versions.  At another workplace, Fathia now clocks in later than the official reporting time and spends a greater part of the day coiled under her table – sleeping.  The reason being, she has to conserve the ‘little energy’ in her body as she awaits iftar (to break the fast),nanti it's ramadan!  In this way the production rate of the entire office has to ‘understandably’ fall because ‘we are fasting’! Had this been the same mindset in the United Arab Emirates, for instance, then many of the Kikubo shops here in Kampala that solely depend on products from that side of the world would be closing shop every time we clock into Ramadan.

 

But surprisingly, this is not how Hajji Aziz operates!  Be sure to find Hajji Aziz at his petrol station in Kawempe at 7:00am, full of energy, wearing his ever-pleasant smile; he will not settle in his office to ‘conserve his energy’ waiting for iftar.  He will many times pace out of his office to serve motorists at the pump – thereafter he will dash back to his office and take care of many arising administrative issues.  He does this from 7:00am to 7:00pm without a wane in his energy. Hajji is loyal to this routine all-round the year – but he is also a devout seventy-year old Muslim who takes fasting so seriously and sincerely.  Hajji’s outlook towards work is exactly the same as that of Saudah – my friends’ housemaid.  Notwithstanding the fact that she too is fasting, am told Saudah will be up as early as 5:00am, have her pre-fast meal (Suhoor) and perform her daily house chores with diligence and focus.

 

Now, when I consulted my faithful friend, Google and her cousin, Wikipedia, they both were in agreement that fasting (in this case Ramadan) has numerous health benefits, including: improved brain function, alertness, reduction in stress levels, reduced blood pressure among many others.  My layman’s interpretation of the net result of the benefits listed should at least be a certain level of vitality and verve amongst those fasting.

 

With the exception of certain categories of persons who are exempted from fasting, for those who fast, work must continue as usual.  Actually, during the fasting season, be it Lent or Ramadan, we must strive to work better than we always do because this should be an opportunity for us to perform as many acts of worship as we can.  Good work is an act of worship!

 

So guys, we must strive to work doubly hard during the fasting periods; it's good for the soul, it's good for the body!

I was destined to cook frozen chicken without defrosting it!

I didn’t realise that the following day was Martyrs national holiday. Monday it was and it only hit me at 5:00pm that the next day was indeed a public holiday. With this realisation, I had to put in a few extra hours to justify a pay cheque at the end of the June month.  Leaving office at about 11:00pm, it was clear that most of the places that I could raid for a decent meal were closed.  I had to make peace with my complaining tummy by grabbing a couple of fresh fruits from the roadside women in Kabalagala (the Mama Mbogas of Kampala).

 

I needed to stock foodstuff that would deliver quick fix meals for the next day – the nearest available option from which to grab something was Uchumi Kabalagala.  Enough of the noodles, I took to the fridges and fished out a whole frozen chicken.  Of course that would be quick to fix! My thoughts and imaginations as I walked to the pay counter – defrost it, chop it up into sizeable pieces, sprinkle some salt, drop the pieces in hot cooking oil and voilà I will be good to go after a few minutes – that was my perfect plan!  All this was supposed to happen before I go to bed so I don’t have to hustle in the kitchen the following day.  With that, I knew I was covered for the day’s three meals – breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

 

On arrival at home, I swung into the kitchen and swiftly moved to step one – defrosting my frozen dressed chicken.  After two good hours of mixed actions including watching telly, dosing off and fighting with mosquitos in my sitting room, I went to check on my broiler with the anticipation that by then it would have thawed. It was coming to 2:00am and the chicken was still as hard as a stone.  My immediate decision at that point was to leave it defrosting till morning and abandon my initial plan of cooking that night.

 

At seven in the morning, I was woken up by a foul smell coming from the kitchen; it was that very packed chicken – the expiry date tag was invisible but the attendant at the pay counter had confirmed that they do not sell expired products. 

 

Without wasting time and with a lot of anger, I re-packed the smelly bird in the Uchumi kaveera, got the receipt that I had been given and hit the road back to Uchumi Kabalagala. I was sure that even though they replace the chicken, they would probably not pay for the ‘inconveniences caused’. 

 

At Uchumi’s customer service counter stood a young lady dressed in the company’s uniform with earphones pierced in her ears.  She was kind enough to unplug her earphones and direct me to a lady next to her who was to handle my ‘case’.  I explained that I had bought chicken from the supermarket the previous night but it was bad; I handed to her the receipt and the smelly pack of chicken draped in the supermarket’s kaveera as I went on to explain.  The lady didn’t seem like she was destined to give me trouble.  She asked, “did you try to defrost this chicken?”  I responded, “Yes of course, madam”.  And she concluded, “in the process of defrosting it, it went bad”.  So? I asked.  She responded, “you should have cooked it without having to change its temperature”.  “Once you change our products’ temperature, they go bad!”  I listened carefully in shock and awe, short of asking, so, madam, how would I have cooked frozen chicken without defrosting it first? Or how do you ‘cook’ something without having to 'change' its original 'temperature'?

 

Anyhow, after that shocking lecture from this well clad young lady, I was asked to wait so they could get me a replacement.  In less than two minutes, a frozen pack of whole chicken arrived at the customer service counter, and this time, I asked that we check out the expiry date before I could leave.  Again, the tag of the expiry date was off, but (again) I received assurances, “this is not expired sir”, “take it, cook it without defrosting it and you surely will ‘see’ that here we do not sale expired products”. I had heard the same statement the previous night though!

 

I was in no mood of wasting any more time discussing how I could cook frozen chicken without thawing it first.  With a new pack finally in my hands, I said my thank you(s) and off I walked away trying to Google how I could cook frozen chicken without defrosting it first; but zilch, there was nothing I could find. 

 

I didn’t dare try the lady’s advice at home, I cooked my chicken like my mother taught me and hocus-pocus I enjoyed my first meal of the day at 1:00pm on Martyrs day!

If you can’t brave the smoke, don’t take a cab in Cairo!

On this warm evening, my friend and I decided to go and see Cairo ‘at night’.  We had earlier on spoken to the hotel bellboys to know some of the places worth checking out around the city.  A few familiar names had shown up on the list of recommendations: Tahrir Square, Gezira Island, 6^th October bridge etc.  With our inability to comfortably speak Arabic, we had requested the bellboy to write the names of the places so we could just hand the list to the cab driver.  Unlike me, my colleague could sketch a bit of Arabic drawing from his Sudanic origin.

The taxi was called to come to the guest drop-off and pick-up parking area and there we were in the backseats of this cozy air-conditioned salon car.  The hotel had got us a good deal for the round trip - $ 30 for taking us around five sites, including waiting charges.

Two minutes into our journey, the driver pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit a stick and begun to puff away.  In shock and awe my colleague (a retired pastor) turned and looked at me; I muttered asking him to tell the drive (in Arabic) that we would appreciate if he didn’t smoke when we are in the car.  Without a dither my colleague decoded the message to the driver in broken Arabic. With outrage the driver pitched his voice howling, “I speak English, I heard what you said in English, if you don’t smoke, get out of my car!” Without further contemplation he stopped and we got out to find another taxi. 

A few meters away from where we had alighted was a taxi stage, so we picked one and recapped to the new driver the directions to the places where we wanted to go; this driver sounded amiable right from the way he asked what countries we were from. He precisely knew all the places we wanted to visit and his charge was reasonable ($ 25 for the round trip). Off we went, but before we got to our first stop, he dug out his cigarette pack from the glove compartment and there he was lighting and puffing.  Luckily enough the car windows were rolled down but even then, that didn’t save us much from being stout second-hand smokers.  Our first stop was at the Tahrir Square (about twenty minutes from the hotel) and at this point we had made up our minds not to continue with this taxi to the rest of the sites lest we were determined to cough and sneeze all the way! 

After a few night picture shots at the famous Tahrir Square, we took another cab driven by an elderly man.  Immediately after going through the ritual of the sites we needed to see and discussing the price, this elderly, fatherly-like driver reached for his tobacco pipe that was carefully placed at the dashboard – and off he started smoking as we snail-paced through the chaotic night traffic at Meret Basha road towards the great 6^th October bridge.  Asked whether we could roll down the windows because of the smoke, the old man unobtrusively retorted that it was not necessary since he had turned on the car air-conditioner.

Despite the warm demeanor cultured in his appearance, we had to let him off at our next stop and try to find another taxi whose driver would be decent enough not to smoke while taking us around.

A tally undertaken later that night revealed that we had used ten cabs and spent over $ 200 in taxi fare. 

Painfully, none of the drivers felt that smoking with passengers in the car was not only wrong but also awkward and indecent.  For them (I think) it is normal, scents the car and gives off that sweet fragrance that leave the clients yearning to come back to their cabs!

Oh là là!

Behold, the epitome of unprofessionalism!

 

Although I had got the nod from the Receptionist to enter the doctor’s room, my quiet entry was met with a startled gaze from the doctor and nurse who were in a sort of unfazed discussion.  The atmosphere made it seem like a deal was just about to be broken and there I had just opened the door innocently.  The doctor shook as he asked me to take a seat.  The nurse leaned on the doctor’s paper-filled table. 

 

The doctor took a deep breath in the course of determining whether to give his full attention to me (the patient) or finish pending business with the fairly aged ‘professional’-looking nurse.  I was keen to figure out what exactly was going on or better still grab an idea of the storyline seconds before I hadmade my entry into the room. 

 

On the doctor’s table were three blood stained HIV test strips – and no doubt the discussion had been about those strips.  The n the nurse popped the final question in the bid to wind up with the doctor so she could go back to the treatment room or pace around the busy reception area.  “Kati salawo mangu kubanga omuwala aludewo nyo!” The nurse compellingly told the doctor.  The timid-looking medic (in his 50s) then stammerred, “if the two are showing positive and the third one is negative, kati awo nange simanyi; naye mugambe ayina U.T.I, just”.  Piecing the story together, I later figured out that three HIV tests had been run on this young lady using the home test strips and two of the strips indicated a positive result while one showed that she was negative.  The decision on which result to give her seemed to have been painfully reduced to a negotiation process between the nurse and the doctor – a picky picky ponky affair! And worse of all was, both the nurse and the doctor seemed to conspire not to give this innocent-looking lady her HIV results but instead lie to her that she only had a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI).

 

Finally, the nurse was out the doctor’s room and all the undivided attention was with me.  I informed him I only needed to check my Blood Pressure (BP) levels and he quickly dug out his BP monitor device from a tattered dusty box right on the side of his table.  Some seconds later, he broodingly announces, “your BP is so so high – 135 over 95, that is too high for a young man like you!”  So, naturally I ask, what do you recommend (this is about 10:30pm), he advises, “Before you go to sleep, make sure you do some physical exercises”.  Any type of exercise you would recommend sir, I ask. He grins and nods, “yes of course, right now you can for instance go and do some digging, slashing, basically try out the hard, hard exercises”.  In disbelief I am forced to again ask, dig, slash at this time (its coming to 11pm)?  He puts on this withering look and there he goes, “yes – dig and slash! – The problem is that you city ‘boys’ don’t even go to gardens any more”. 

 

Wait a minute, the last time I was in Bunyoro, a story was making rounds about how one of the village folks would wake up to till her garden at 1:00am; many around the village thought she was a ‘night dancer’, but now I suspect she could have been acting on such a doctor’s advice!

 

Fast forward, after having a long but useless conversation with this ‘doctor’, I walked out to wait for my medical note showing my BP results.  While at the reception, the nurse continued to issue results to some of the waiting patients.  As if it were communal results; she screeched out for everyone around the reception area to hear as she sifted through the patients results’ file,  “You, the one of the backache, come; you, the one of the HCG tests, jangu!;  gwe, owa HIV, jangu okime results zo!; It was my turn and this ‘good old’ nurse goes, “gwe owa Puleesa, has the doctor given you any note? I replied, not any that he handed to me; she then shouted, “ Okay, you go”!

 

With chills in my spine I made my way out of this purported Kampala based ‘hospital’.  And all there was ringing in my head was, 'What shall I call this?'  Carelessness, clumsiness, unprofessionalism or what?  And for them, it is a hospital and all these abnormalities are normal and okay and that their life!

 

What a shame!

A Tale Of Mistaken Identity

As I strolled through a local village market, a lady yelled out, Iwe mwana wa Kaheru (literally meaning, you, son of Kaheru!); without hesitation I walked to her vegetable-filled stall.  Very excited to see me, she introduced herself as a long -time friend of my mother;

“Your mother buys vegetables from my stall,” she emphatically said, pitching her voice to ensure that my walk through the stalls ends just right at her stall. She then went on to ask me about one of my little brothers that used to read the news at one local FM station called, Crispy Kaheru.

Despite my muttering that it was me she was talking to, she went on to give me a full account of how that ‘Crispy’ used to be her very good friend, “Every time he was around for holidays he would come by my stall and buy sweet bananas,” – she recalled.  Our long conversation ended in half-bliss after I bought the same good sweet bananas that I had last tasted 10 years ago.

On Easter Sunday, I was brusquely woken up at 7:00am to prepare for the 8:30am English service at St. Matthews Cathedral in Masindi.  The cathedral is located on the famous Kabalega hill, which is just about ten minutes by foot from our home. 

It being an Easter service, my wife and I planned to get to church slightly before 8:30am so that we could get good seats in the front rows of the Cathedral.  Unlike about ten years ago where everyone would definitely find space to sit inside the church, times have now changed, and there is a tent right outside the church for any persons who will miss seats inside the Cathedral.  Even with that hundred-seater-tent, many of the Christians will still fight to catch space on the veranda.

After arriving at 8:15am, the earlier ‘revival’ service didn’t end until about 9:00am.  So I used the 45 minutes to greet old friends and neighbours who I hadn’t seen in many years.  One of those was a very amiable Reverend who was really excited to see me and couldn’t resist giving me that long priestly twirl hug.

I began to introduce my wife to him but before I could finish the introductions, he interjected telling me how she had changed since he had last seen her over ten years ago – at this point I was quite certain that my good old reverend friend hadn’t grasped that the lady next to me was my wife (and not my sister).  He hadn’t met my wife before, so there is no way they could have known each other ten or so years ago. In line with the mood of the tête-à-tête, the reverend asked me if I had children since time was ‘running out’.

In a quick twist of things the reverend used the few minutes before we entered church to lecture me about marriage.  In the presence of my wife he went on to try to talk me into getting married ‘very soon’. 

As expected, my wife’s face darkened quite quickly and before long she was pinching me and whispering aggressive suggestions that I introduce her in order to put an end to her emotional torture.

Eventually, I interjected with the necessary introductions, only for him to declare:

“Eeeeeh! Onu nuwe owa Stephen?!” totally refusing to acknowledge that it was I who was married, rather than my brother whose lecture I was destined to suffer.

Eventually, I was released and made my way into church, where we enjoyed another glorious service.

At the end of the service, the Vicar called upon all visitors  (‘aba-Kampala’) to stand up for recognition. Being at home, I looked out for the people who were visiting us in order to also welcome them, only to notice that some in the congregation were pointing fingers at me to stand up!

I hardened in my seat and maintained my resolve – I was AT HOME!

And I will always be there – more often than before so that these cases of mistaken identity come to a complete end.