Setting off for something

Packing neat not heat

I cannot at all understand where all my friends get the idea that I pack too much when going away. In my view, I pack what needs to go with me, for it is better to have more than you need than to be met with missing what you should have taken.

I am nowhere in the league of Donatella Versace who arrived at London Heathrow in one of those Airport television programmes and she was missing a suitcase out of 63. The airport staff were searching high and low for it, it made for interesting television viewing.

In any case, because I have a Platinum card with AirFrance/KLM, I have the standard quota of 2 pieces of checked-in luggage and one more. Since there were things, I was taking over for myself and for Brian, I utilised the full quota, even as my friends protested over the phone that I was going to overdo it, I am moderation personified, damn it.

Loyalty creates priority

Obviously, I had to call an Uber XL to carry 3 suitcases, a suit bag, and a rucksack, all brimming with goods, as one does. It meant I had to get a trolley at the airport to get my stuff to the check-in desk. There was a long queue for the standard check-in and just 2 people ahead of me in the Sky Priority queue.

At the desk, I presented my passport, then proof of vaccination, 3 jabs of Pfizer BioNTech and a Fitness to Travel Certificate, a negative result from a COVID PCR test, which is standard for any travel consideration and thankfully a lot less expensive compared to what I paid to the same test in December last year. The directors of that company are probably sunning themselves on their yachts in Dubai having made a killing in the pandemic. Disaster capitalists, all of them.

Far, a longer way to lounge

Then, I was through to security, the Fast-Track Lane as I displayed containers of liquid, electronic devices, then through a scanner where I had inadvertently forgotten a pound coin in my pocket and some creams were secreted in my rucksack. It’s been a long week.

Terminal 2 at Manchester Airport is new, and I had never been through it before. I cannot understand why the lounges are so far away, tucked away from the madding crowd and presenting an ordeal to get to if you use a cane or need some mobility assistance.

Once late, twice deflated

My flight to Paris was to take off at 6:05, the lounge had been open early and it was good to settle there for just about an hour before leaving to board my flight which left Manchester 35 minutes late and that ate into the time I would have had to shop and lounge in Paris, I had quite a short stayover, I had to go straight to the gate for my flight to Cape Town.

Now, I was expecting to be on a Boeing 787-9 Dreamliner, that was what was advertised when I booked my flight, well, fancy ending up on a Boeing 777-300, cramped, noisy, no WiFi and well, let me not complain, I sip the champagne and lie down, it is a 10:40 hour flight to Cape Town. Savoir-faire.

The Memories of a Castaway

The farewells

One bright morning just four weeks after returning from a business trip, he returned to the airport, with a one-way ticket in his hand.

The check-in was easy, and the absence of that pregnant customs officer who seized his passport just six weeks earlier asking for a handout was a great relief. He wondered whether the corrupt during gestation brought forth more corruption upon the earth.

It took the wiliness of his travel companion then to retrieve the passport after he palmed her filthy grubby hands with illicit silver.

His friends gathered, and he recollects, "we hugged and shook hands before we parted ways waving goodbyes without tears."

Bye for long

The scheduled take-off time had moved, and it was another five hours before they finally took to the air and one last glimpse of home became a distant memory of almost 23 years.

The boy is lost to one home and found in another home, affinities split between homes of ancestry and homes of birth, the latter bringing more satisfaction.

However, the passage of time comes with the experience of events and the news from afar of tales make sad songs a refuge for a season.

Lost for good?

What the boy has not suffered too badly is nostalgia, he can be removed and be placed in another place and another time to adapt. He has learnt to bargain for the best deal than challenge for the indifference of a rotten deal.

His people are growing older, his links are growing weaker; weighted down at times in seething resentfulness left unaddressed by conflicts that go back decades, all fondness suffering a contemn.

Sometimes, he really cannot be that bothered anymore, they have parted ways for so long that technology is just a tenuous link leveraged for convenience.

The boy is lost and not looking to be found.

Except exempted expectations

Arriving late for late work

Today was going to be different at work, we finally have the authority to make changes that have been held up by power-plays, anxiety and unmentionable attitudes – the day was going to be long.

So, a leisurely start of the day would be for 11:00AM, there is no point working all hours even though contractors might want to maximise their charges, one has to temper the needs for work with those of rest, recuperation and commonsense.

Vast changes on scales

I am constantly reminded by my body that it would not always respond in ways my mind expects though my weight seems to be going North at speeds that could become a cause for worry – in 6 weeks I have gained 5 kilograms and I can assure you it is not from food.

Somehow, the things the chemotherapy held in abeyance have begun to break free which also means my body should gain more of the ability to fight off opportunistic infection and amongst other things my taste is returning, I tried yoghurt the other day and it tasted better than I have known for 6 months – now, we have to try Greek yoghurt with honey.

My pain patch has now been quartered and it lasts a week from a full dose that began to wear off within 72 hours, in two weeks I see my specialist and hopefully there would be good news all round about health, a possible change in drug regimes and much more.

Stretching the time in minutes

Anyway, the inspiration for this blog goes back to the beginning where I had planned to get to work by 11:00 and arrived 30 minutes later. Having taken a tram to save myself the 5-minute walk to the connection that goes to the Central Station or “Centraal” Station, the Dutch stretch their vowels as a “generaal” thing; the indicator informed that the tram should arrive in 2 minutes.

For a while, it seemed the minute had been recalibrated to mean 240 seconds, then the countdown to zero left us expecting the tram but it still did not arrive, by which time a few had run out of patience and sought alternatives.

We waited in hope and expectation as the indicator teased us with another 2 minute wait and lasted for another indeterminate number of seconds per minute, one look at my watch showed that I had been standing for about 25 minutes and then the tram arrived.

Back at an ache I want not

If only the indicator had said 25 minutes when I first got to the tram stop I would have sought other means of getting to the Central Station and not wasted my time pining, hoping, getting irritated and suffering from unnecessary backache.

You can imagine, this is supposed to be the least obstructed tram line in Amsterdam, hardly any jostling with traffic except at crossings where trams have priority and it all consists of no more than 10 stops – however, it is easily one of the most inefficient at times with little information about problems when they occur.

After all that, the tram was so overcrowded maybe only half of those waiting got on, there is a possibility that there would be so many more so soon after the one I boarded but few would chance that expectation as a lady gave me her seat on seeing I had a cane – I stood all the while waiting, when I should have sat down and a pain I had not felt in my back for ages seemed to be making an unwelcome visitation – not for me again, no, not that pain.