Devotion, not Domination

Rights and Responsibilities

Everyone, in my view, has the right to practise their religion without fear of persecution. However, this right also comes with the responsibility to be considerate of others.

On public transport, we already suffer the nuisance of people playing music through the loudspeakers of their mobile phones. 

This is usually not because they have forgotten the headphones that would afford them the private enjoyment of the music of their choice; rather than inflicting their tastes on others without permission, they are simply being antisocial. The same goes for loud phone calls, and I have found myself speaking up on occasion, dismayed at the breach of the peace.

A Step Too Far

It is on another level entirely when a fellow passenger decides to play the call to prayer. Even if that person were the imam, their presence in any setting, and especially on a vehicle, does not confer the authority to claim the whole space as a mosque.

This is how devotion slips easily into fanaticism, where common sense deserts faith and public concern follows. The devotee immediately attracts suspicion and dread, not so much for the act of worship itself, but because others begin to wonder about their intentions. When the practice of the religion of peace serves only to heighten unease, the wider perception of the freedom being exercised becomes a lightning rod for prohibition.

Where Freedom Ends

Anyone who dared to challenge that passenger would have found others ready to support them. It takes only one person to report the incident to the police, and before calmer heads could dismiss the matter as a question of civility, the spectre of radicalisation would justly have placed the individual under scrutiny and questioning.

Being a believer does not preclude you from behaving as a good citizen; the extent of a right reaches only to the point before it infringes on the freedoms of another. Whether it be music, a phone call, or a call to prayer, if you do not have your headphones, you should accept that you have deprived yourself of the opportunity to listen to your device when in a public place.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Twelve Years a Resident, Fourteen Years Away

Memory and the Reason for Writing

Fourteen years begin to tell you how dull the memory really is. I suppose that is why we write things down, and probably why this blog exists as a journal of stories and experiences.

My visit to Amsterdam, both impromptu and incognito, was for the single purpose of maintaining the status of a loyalty scheme; one that gives benefits and privileges money might buy, but at a higher cost.

My preference was Paris, but Brian adamantly withstood me, fully expressing his concern for my safety, and only he could know why.

Returning After Many Years

I was tempted to let people I knew through my Holland odyssey, which began in May 2000 and ran for the twelve years I called the Netherlands home, in on the visit. To think I found a hotel in Hoofddorp, where I started my first job with AUCS Infonet 26 years ago, is quite something. I was charged city tax; Hoofddorp is over 10 miles as the crow flies from Amsterdam.

Back then, I lived in Amsterdam and commuted out to Hoofddorp by train each morning; now, all these years later, I was sleeping in the very town I once travelled out to. So much has changed, and yet other things remain the same.

Arriving in Amsterdam yesterday, I made for the public library that opened on the 7th of July 2007, intending to have a meal at Vapiano, not knowing they had closed their business in the Netherlands the year before.

Then I thought to walk up to my old apartment block in the Oostelijke Havengebied, the eastern docklands. The flat, which I bought in November 2001 and sold on the 1st of May 2012 when I handed the keys over to the new owner, was on the 7th floor and overlooked two stretches of water: IJhaven and Eersthaven.

These harbours separated my building from Java-eiland and KNSM-eiland, the two long, narrow islands that, together with my side, make up the regenerated docklands.

The Lessons Wasted on Youth

The funny thing is, for all the ten and a half years I lived there, I never once walked from the city centre. I took the tram, the bus, or rode my bicycle. If only I had known the benefits of walking back then, but this kind of knowledge is wasted on youth.

I did not have a flood of memories when I got there, but soon enough, a resident from way back then wheeled out from the garage. We both had a moment of recognition and greeted each other.

That was enough; my plan to attend my old church on Sunday was now under review, as I wondered whether I could handle the emotional overload of so many reunions. I honestly was not prepared for that.

A City Subtly Changed

Tram numbers had changed. What was once Tram 10, which had not yet been built when I first moved there, is now Tram 1. Tram 25 to IJburg is now Tram 26, with the terminus moved to the back of the central station, on the IJ River side.

Then another face I recognised, still looking good, not weathered by time and deserving of a compliment, which I gave liberally. The things you think you remember, only to realise that your memory is a bit jaded.

Even so, all these encounters encourage the recollections of people, events, and ideas that made those times significant in their different ways. For instance, I sent a message to an old friend whom I had once helped pick out gilets and outfits for his wedding, drawing on my familiarity with the outfitters around Amsterdam and my comfort with formal wear.

We had gone shopping together on Nieuwendijk, one of the city's oldest shopping streets, running north from Dam Square towards the Central Station.

Walking the Singel

Today, I went looking for a restaurant on the Singel, thinking it was further down the canal. I had walked all the way in the opposite direction before retracing my steps, only to find it was nearer the central station after all, and that I needn't have taken the tram in the first place.

After my breakfast, which had Danish bacon as it should be, but hash browns as something else entirely, I set out on a small adventure into the past. My first residence had been in the Jordaan, where I rented from June 2000 until November 2001, when I moved to the apartment I had bought in the eastern docklands.

The Jordaan place was a large garage converted into a one-bedroom apartment with two separate toilets, on Palmstraat. It was all unrecognisable now; even the old had been seriously gentrified.

The Indignities of Travel

You could easily be housebound in Amsterdam, as I saw no disabled toilets. The public toilets at the central station charged a hefty €1.10, which is just unforgivable, and there were no staff on hand to help out with failed automation. But that was yesterday.

There was a time when wearing glasses was considered a grave disability, so much so that once laser surgery for corrective eyesight became widespread, the Dutch were beating a path to every practitioner offering the service.

On toilet anxiety, today was worse, as I was far from any known facilities, and the accident happened. By the time I eventually found a toilet, my underwear had to be binned. We suffer in silence, hiding the shame that cannot be avoided because of nature or affliction. Yet we must live life as best we can, for that is the better story.

The Living Existence of a Life Story

I can boldly say Amsterdam is not about the lost, but the living existence of a life story; visited by adversity and failure, but blessed by the gift of life, the promise of a bright future, and undying hope that makes every travail transient.

Beyond my expectations, there was even an ocean liner at the passenger terminal. So much for reducing seafaring tourism; the reality bites harder than ideas in a council meeting with harebrained resolutions.

The old lady of green politics in the Netherlands of the days of yore is the mayor of Amsterdam. Femke Halsema, I doff my hat. Respect!

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Love, Distance, and a City Called Home

A Month On

Today marks a calendar month since I boarded the flight for the 13-hour, 25-minute journey back from Cape Town to Manchester, and yet the scenes from that visit still run through my mind as though the credits have not quite rolled. Already, I am planning the next one.

Cape Town represents more than a destination; the story began barely seven years ago, when Brian and I had our second rendezvous in South Africa. Soon after we met in Johannesburg in December 2018, I resolved to spend the next Easter with him.

It was a stroke of good fortune that in late February 2019, work dried up and, rather than loiter aimlessly waiting for a new posting, I took a next-day flight to Johannesburg. It was entirely unscripted, and yet it became the scene that changed everything. Brian joined me for ten days, which became the consummation of our relationship.

From Joburg to Cape Town

I did not cancel the planned Easter meeting. Some scenes, it seems, are written regardless of what comes before them. We were going to meet up in Johannesburg, fly together to Cape Town, and then return to Joburg for the end slice of our holiday.

Now, we just meet up in Cape Town and make home in apartments around the city and suburbs. It is the kind of story you return to willingly, knowing the setting well but always finding something in it you had not quite seen before. Each stay brings unforgettable memories as we work towards being together a lot more than being apart.

What Love Brings

What Brian brings into my life is immeasurable: love, care, companionship, laughter, shared experiences, and stories that make our uniquely special bond everything that matters to both of us. These are not trivial things. They are the substance of a story worth telling, and more importantly, worth living.

My heart is full, and I am blessed with such unconditional love that I pray daily to be worthy of the affection that someone expresses so wholly, freely, sincerely, and unashamedly.

Never a Dull Moment

There is never a dull moment. The way we seek out adventure, revisiting old haunts or discovering new places, gives the story its texture, the kind of detail that stops a narrative from flattening into something predictable.

So, Cape Town is a place transforming into a reality what is the stuff of impossible dreams coming true. Love transcends distance, endures difficulty, ekes out the best, and writes the stories we could never have imagined.

Cape Town, Our Home

Our minds walk through places we have registered so well that each recollection feels like more than words. It is like a film playing back, slowing just enough for us to keep up with everything, with no need to rewind or fast-forward; it is always at the right pace. Perhaps that is what love does to memory. It becomes the editor, keeping only what matters.

That is why we know Cape Town will be our home, our sanctuary, our nest, and our place. The story is far from over. We cannot wait to be together again in the Mother City; even time folds for the purpose of real love.

A Google NotebookLM AI Podcast on this blog

Essential Snobbery 101: An Event of Masticating Disturbance

The Democracy of Discomfort

What air travel does for you, especially when you travel in the majority classes where affordability trumps convenience and comfort, is select companions of interest as your neighbours.

At times when means provided the exclusive choice of turning left and the courtesy of being addressed by name, a single window seat in a cabin configuration of 1x2x1, or four abreast, offered isolation, comfort, and luxuriant full reclination in the bargain of the deal.

Here, with ten abreast in a 3x4x3 configuration, all senses are stressed in the accommodation of noise, discomfort, and literal invisibility. However, even in this, one must be thankful.

The Silence of Economy

It is strange how people keep to themselves here more than in the other place, where conversation and networking suggest they are enjoying the flight. It must be in the accoutrements of first calling at the lounge before boarding, and knowing that comfort seems to eliminate self-absorption.

On my outbound flight, it was a lady slamming her tray back that I had to remonstrate. Just beyond belief. Whatever finishing school she attended did not bother to start, as there was nothing there to groom.

Now, on my return flight, a relative of the same has, by the good fortune of random seat selection, ended up behind me.

The Rustling Rodent

The peculiar noise is one of rustling, a wrapper perhaps of biscuits, but louder and incessant to the point of utter distraction. Whatever it was, the fidgety so-and-so was a nuisance. To top it up, she began eating, and each crunch of her mandibles was a cacophonous clatter that made me imagine a rodent gnawing at some discarded waste. If only I had a mousetrap to put an end to my misery.

Indeed, the imponderable seating arrangement does juxtapose you with surprises in the most polite assessment of things.

Brief Respite, Then Resume

Once the food trolley had laid out the food with wooden cutlery that delivered an osmotic extraction of the remnant taste in aircraft food, the rustling stopped. The rodent, with a bellyful of contentment and just the hum of the aircraft engines, signified peace at last.

Halfway into our 12h20 flight, the rustling began again with the accompaniment reminiscent of feeding time at the zoo. The munching of Capuchin monkeys picking at a snack brought the sudden recall of 'The Vulture' by Hilaire Belloc that I could have passed to the lady in smart calligraphy on card, a lesson to us all, changing the pronouns for effect.

The Vulture eats between her meals,
And that's the reason why
She very, very, rarely feels
As well as you and I.

Her eye is dull, her head is bald,
Her neck is growing thinner.
Oh! what a lesson for us all
To only eat at dinner!

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Cape Town Apartment Chronicles

Making Do in Cape Town

As a writer of blogs, I could write a review and start a travelogue of all the apartments we have stayed in, the restaurants we have visited, and other venues, whether for tourists or not. However, I suspect you are more interested in your holiday than in a commentary, especially about things not going right.

We checked out early from a place in Rugby to take another apartment in Pinelands. This is something we usually do: splitting our living arrangements in two and having an overlapping day to move from one location to another. Only once have we not done this, because the new place was just 200 metres away and the host had agreed to an early check-in.

The Rugby Apartment

The place in Rugby was one we liked after a few adjustments, including a visit from the host to try to make amends. However, the critical issue, as Brian noted, was that the place lacked a feminine touch. Broadly, it offered just the practical things for essential apartment living. For days, this niggled until the microwave played up and I had to use a mug to scoop food into another pot.

So, I wrote to the host to highlight the issues rather than complain, and this reflects some of what we have experienced with apartments in Cape Town.

Hello, I'm staying at your apartment with my partner. At first, I thought we could manage, but I need to inform you of a few things before I write a very honest review of our experience. It is a lovely place; we are comfortable and feel safe. However, you cannot manage a property from a lock box.

We are very domesticated people and are usually in Cape Town twice a year, sometimes for more than a month, staying in places as varied as Camps Bay, Sea Point, Foreshore, Muizenberg, and Bloubergstrand since 2019. We have a good idea about apartments, service, and the quality of accommodation.

First, we asked for a spare set of keys, which, as I informed you, we have always had with other places. Then, the size of the apartment is about half the over 600 square feet advertised on Booking.com.

Basic stuff: not enough hangers in the bedroom, many crooked. That's manageable. You have a kitchen but no kitchen knife; we bought one yesterday, just as there are no kitchen scissors. The Power Defrost and Power Level buttons are not working on the microwave. This was the last straw for me, because the prawns for our stir-fry ended up cooked, or we would have had to wait hours for a proper thaw.

The clothes rack should have been replaced; it is full of rust, and we can't hang clothes on it. We could use the clothesline, but we are strangers here. There is a litany of things I could list about the homeliness of your place, but we can manage. As I have said, you will need to visit your apartment to see that things work or are right. Having a lock box is not a substitute for that responsibility. Thank you.

We ended up buying a proper kitchen knife, and this is the third time we have had to do this. It could have happened many more times if Brian had forgotten to bring the typical kitchen utensils we had acquired over time: spatulas, a sauce ladle, and some deep bowls.

When the host came to visit, some 30 minutes behind schedule, he brought a set of ten hangers and a bottle of plonk that might have passed for cooking wine, if Brian's taste for alcohol had not got the better of him.

Moving to Pinelands

After church yesterday, we packed up for this new place in Pinelands, which backs onto a Jewish cemetery just about 150 metres away and is clearly visible from the seventh-floor window. You can bet my vivid imagination is under serious curtailment, and I hope the rational will overwhelm the irrational, as I do not intend to lose my mind in the process.

We encountered the usual issues again. People do not cook, hence the kitchen setup is lacking. Once, we had to buy a pot, and this place has just one pot for cooking. There is no kitchen knife, but we already have one. Surprise: there is a pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer.

There is a thriving takeaway and fast-food culture in South Africa, where ingredients for food can be organic, fresh, and healthy, but people are not cooking, except when they have a braai.

Two bedrooms, not really the size that was advertised, but that is a minor point. There is a worktable from where I am typing, but no centre table in the living room, as if we should eat off our laps. In the fire escape, we found two stools and a floor mat that matched the one in the apartment. I think we can consider ourselves resourceful.

Making the Space Work

We had to change the orientation of the bed, as it was just wrong. When our hostess returned that afternoon, she agreed that the realignment was better. However, what I cannot understand is the dearth of sockets in these apartments. We had to get extension leads with dual sockets to have somewhere to plug in our devices.

She cannot remember the Wi-Fi password, as the two she provided did not work. Meanwhile, I found a way around the issue. The Google TV box connected to the television has a Wi-Fi hotspot feature, but when switched on, it disables the Wi-Fi connection. Usually, the WPS (Wi-Fi Protected Setup) button on the router should work, but we failed to get a link.

I connected the Google TV box to the router with an Ethernet cable and set up the Wi-Fi hotspot. That way, we have Internet connectivity without the fuss, or we would have had to wait until Tuesday to get that sorted.

Meeting Miranda Priestly

We joined her in the lift and, whilst she understandably refused entry to another resident with a shopping trolley (though there was enough space for all of us), it was the mother holding a baby that she barred, which left us stunned. Her explanation: "I am the Miranda Priestly of this apartment block." The funny thing is, on my first visit to South Africa in May 2015, I did watch The Devil Wears Prada on my outward flight. I did not expect to meet her in real life.

We have different panoramic views of Table Mountain, and just a glimpse of the sea, even though it is almost seven miles away. For that alone, I am not so forlorn this far inland in Cape Town.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

Long After The Sahara Was Green

Crossing Africa: An Unexpected Route

This passage over Africa was different, as the plane veered east, deviating from the typical western route over France and Spain. We headed towards Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, leaving Genoa to the east to cross the Ligurian Sea, with the islands of Corsica, France and Sardinia (Sardegna), Italy, also to the east, before making landfall over Africa at Skikda, Algeria, a coastal city whose port has been a gateway between Europe and Africa for centuries. Constantine, the dramatic "City of Bridges" perched on a limestone plateau, shows prominently on my map, but it lies much further west of our route.

Pretensions to slumber never came, and one feature of the in-flight maps was missing: the detailed "Flying over..." section that leaves me mesmerised for hours on end. It offers snippets about places up to 250 kilometres away that I may never visit, yet I remain intrigued by their histories, geography, culture, and the people who have made those places their homes.

Above the Sahara

Soon, about four hours into the flight, we were already over the Sahara Desert. I expected to see an ocean of sand without form, stretching into the horizon, but I was in for a surprise.

This place looked as if it were once verdant, the land carved through as rivers sculpt landscapes, as if Eden decided to relocate to the Amazon, took its goods, but left the house bare. I have since learnt that this intuition was remarkably accurate: the Sahara was indeed a green, fertile landscape during the African Humid Period (approximately 11,000 to 5,000 years ago), supporting rivers, lakes, forests, and diverse wildlife before orbital shifts and climate feedback mechanisms transformed it into the desert we see today.

Yet a barren landscape it is not. The circles that resembled cylindrical containers, arranged in patterns clearly indicating human intervention, were in fact irrigation systems in the desert, humanity's ingenious attempt to recreate what nature once provided across the entire region.

I did not spot an oasis from above anywhere from Algeria into Niger. This is a harsh place, where daytime temperatures can soar to totally uninhabitable levels.

Settlements and Landforms

My map showed named settlements within 50 kilometres of our flight path: Djanet, known for its proximity to the UNESCO-listed Tassili n'Ajjer plateau with its ancient rock art; Ghat, a Tuareg town near the Libyan border that has served as a trans-Saharan trade post for centuries; and Tamanrasset, the largest city in southern Algeria, as we flew towards Agadez in Niger, once a crucial caravan centre and sultanate on the trans-Saharan trade routes.

I see alpine landforms, but not of ice. These are gullies eroded by winds rather than water, dunes drawn by the hand of nature, moving as if alive, and they surely are.

A Desert Redefined

A desert is more than its definition. It offers another perspective: the presence of hardy species of flora, fauna, and animal life that thrive in what we might consider impossible conditions.

As we continued south, the landscape gradually shifted. Flying over Nigeria, I caught sight of place names that stirred something deep within me: Jos, the highland city built by tin miners; Bukuru, where I attended primary school; Rayfield, where we lived; and Vom, the veterinary centre where we took a school trip. These are places emblematic of my childhood, each one a marker of memory suspended between earth and sky.

Now, flying past Douala, Cameroon, to catch a sight of the Gulf of Guinea, I realised something striking: from over 30,000 feet, some nine kilometres in the sky, there had been no clouds above the Sahara. Not a single wisp dipping its toes in that vast expanse. I suspect I need a deeper understanding of the ecology of that extraordinary place.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

When Schedules Don't Matter: Between Flight Times and Body Times

Journey Times and Assumptions

Now that I think of it, these things should not be left to guesswork. The assumption I had, and the reality were different things, even when traversing time zones. How I could have missed that timing escapes me, especially for a journey I have made so many times. This time, I saw it plainly: the flight information stated 11h25, not the 10h30 I always had in my mind and when talking to people about it.

I am looking forward to a long journey watching Africa displayed before me as my kind of long-haul flight entertainment. As aeroplanes do not get given speeding tickets in the air, we did Amsterdam to Cape Town in 10h28. The scheduled duration and actual flight time rarely align, yet I still find myself calculating based on what I think I know rather than what the timetable actually says.

The More Immediate Concern

Before settling into my seat, though, there was a more pressing matter to address. Using the customer assistance service meant I was one of the first to board the aircraft, and I went to the toilets first before returning to my seat to check the journey duration. It was then that I noticed the discrepancy in flight times.

The flow is low and feels constricted. Whilst the urgency is pressing, the initiation starts late and the duration is long, much longer than usual. However, there are times when it suddenly seems to unclog with the greatest ease and relief. I have noticed this in the past couple of days, and it elevates concern.

The trouble with bladder plumbing, a consequence of prostate cancer and radiotherapy treatment, is one I cannot ignore, even if I seem to manage it well. Though on Saturday, as I walked back home, I found neither refuge nor respite, no place to flash my "Just Can't Wait " card. Consequently, I wet myself. The incontinence underwear was no match for the torrential release.

A Saving Grace

The cover of darkness and the length of my winter overcoat became my saving grace, concealing the wet patch on my bright red chinos and sparing me the shame and embarrassment. What a relief when I eventually got home.

The usual dearth of facilities for people with conditions like mine is something I navigate daily, but Saturday reminded me how fragile that management can be. We make assumptions about many things: flight times, the availability of toilets, our own bodies. Sometimes reality has other ideas.

A Google NotebookLM AI Audio Overview Discussion of this blog

A Curmudgeon's Christmas Eve

Embracing Senior Status

You might be getting bored of the sexagenarian musings presented in my recent blogs. Well, this is about my own experience and how I am settling into this new age.

I wrote about getting the Senior Railcard yesterday, which offers a 33% discount on train fares in the UK. My plan was to find out the real-life experience of showing my ticket to a train conductor and being asked to produce the railcard that gave me the entitlement.

A Lazy Christmas Eve

However, Christmas Eve started as a rather lazy day. By the time I finally got out of bed and boarded a train to Liverpool, it was well into the afternoon. My Senior Railcard secured me a 34.29% discount on the day return ticket.

There was no ticket inspection on either my outward or return journey, though I spent about 90 minutes in Liverpool, walking through the Christmas markets to the Central Library, where I did a bit of study until the building closed early at 4:30 PM.

On the Christmas markets, like the one in Manchester, they are a poor imitation of the German ones: full of tat and gaudy overpriced goods. Whilst they might afford summery activities on a helter-skelter, a roller coaster, and a Ferris wheel, they might attract crowds, giving winter days a sense of liveliness, but they are at best eyesores. Frankly, one is not impressed.

Rail Service Disappointments

I did find that some long train journeys were cancelled, with the reason given that there was a lack of train crew. It makes you wonder who is in charge of personnel rotas and scheduling. The train conductors might already have bonked off, earning themselves a five-day Christmas weekend.

Public transport facilities will be closed for Christmas and Boxing Day in the UK. I might get on a train before the year ends, just for the pleasure of being officially recognised as a senior citizen. It feels strange, but that's the truth.

A passport adrift, the owner, a gift

Goodbye passport!

“Please, respect me.” That is what she said from the bedroom where she had sequestered herself, having been seen from the car park barely half an hour earlier by my partner as he picked up a passport that appeared to have been flung out of a window on one of the higher floors of our apartment block.

I know people can be going through a lot of things, unexplainable or inexplicable, but it is impossible to fully understand the issues people face. I say this because it was an utterly bizarre situation.

Brian, on returning to our apartment this afternoon, saw a document land in front of him. He picked it up and realised it was a South African passport. As he examined it, he scanned the façade of the apartment block to see which window it might have come from, and in the corner of one window, he saw a lady; he waved to her, and she waved back. He even waved the passport at her, and she must have been waving goodbye to the passport.

No online footprint

I saw the passport, and it became clear how important the document was; it had a recently obtained Schengen visa with a year’s validity. We thought whoever might have lost that passport would be in turmoil once they realised it was missing. We searched Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter/X, and Instagram but found no sign of the person.

If there was ever a time you needed a searchable online presence, it is now. We contacted our apartment landlord to find out how to share information with the residents of the building, and meanwhile, Brian went up to the apartment where he suspected the lady he had waved to was. No one came to the door except a young man claiming to be her brother. It was not definitive enough for us to give him the passport.

No proof of ownership

So, we went back up with him in the hope of confirming that the lady he saw earlier was the rightful owner of the passport, but she refused to come out of her room. However, while we were speaking with her brother, she made the statement quoted at the beginning.

Obviously, as gentlemen, we had no intention of invading her privacy or causing her distress; at the same time, we could not part with the document without a secure transfer to the owner or a responsible authority, such as the facilities management team of the apartment complex. In extremis, we will have to hand the document over to a police station.

The facilities management team suggested we put the passport in their letterbox, but it was insecure; we simply did not have the heart to part with the document that easily.

Consider the reasons

However, it made us question why the lady was not eager to get her passport back and whether she had deliberately thrown it out of the window out of pique or total disinterest in the visa, which had been obtained for her against her wishes.

This brings us back to the idea that people might be experiencing much more than a seemingly great opportunity suggests. Maybe she is afraid of travelling to an unfamiliar place, and I understand how daunting that can be.

Then there are instances of young women being forced into criminal activities, either as victims of human trafficking or acting as drug mules. You can never tell. Losing a passport like that might even save someone from an unimaginable fate at customs or border controls abroad.

Perhaps, the best course of action is to hand the passport over to the police so they can assist her if something suspicious is occurring. We tried to help as considerate Good Samaritans, but found ourselves in a difficult situation, and honestly, just surrendering it to the police seems the simplest solution.

Postscript

We had a torrid night, thinking the worst of the situation that the lady might be under the influence of criminal gangs who might attempt a home invasion to demand the passport, before teaching us an unforgettable lesson.

We also decided to take the passport to the nearest police station in the morning. As I called an Uber cab ride when I stepped into the elevator to see a Frenchman ask if we were in a numbered apartment.

He happened to be the husband, and he showed me the identity card of the lady on his phone. I invited him into the apartment, and as he was narrating his helplessness at the plight of his wife, he broke down.

She had thrown the passport out of the window and had some as yet undiagnosed mental health issues, which her parent attributed to some spiritual gift she has. Well, every gift is under the control of the gifted, that is scripture without equivocation. If your gift controls you, we are a different territory of personality disorder and whatever that entails.

We advised him to seek the best professional and medical help he could find, and he should approach this as a Westerner rather than trying to understand the cultural differences that might handicap him.

Having handed him the passport, we heaved a sigh of relief. On our return home, there was an ambulance in the car park, and we saw the husband in the lift with the medics. We have no idea what might have happened; we just hoped all would turn out right.

Travelling light

A state of insignificance

Here we are, over 10 kilometres high in the air, with 5 hours and 40 minutes remaining until landing. The clouds over North Africa look well below our aircraft, and you can see the shadows cast by each cloud formation, whose names I quite easily forget.

However, as recognisable names appear on my flight map, we have begun the cruise over the Northern Nigeria states, including Katsina, Kano, Jigawa, and the many hamlets that have become states for clannish gubernatorial contests.

Before you scoff, Agadez, a province in Niger, is nine times the size of Niger State, the largest state in Nigeria, which is about one twentieth the size of Algeria's Tamanrasset Province, the largest in Africa.

Many lessons aboard

I expected a bit of turbulence as we passed through these high-altitude clouds, but they soon fell behind us. The mystery of air travel is not one of bafflement but great interest.

I rarely watch films; I am more engaged by the stories, the history, the geography, and the culture of the places we fly over. There is much to learn, even on my tenth trip to South Africa.

If you have been flying since the age of five, you realise that no matter how far you are travelling, this case being 9,800 kilometres from Amsterdam to Cape Town, the world has become a smaller place.

What you need is time; the time to travel around it, at least once, and experience what makes our world a wonderful place.

Homeward bound from South Africa

The weight of travel

Packing your bags is not an easy task, especially if you have three pieces of luggage to evenly distribute the weight, a rucksack with kit and medication, and suit bag.

The suit bag contained a set of pyjamas that for my recent modes of travel have not felt that convenient to wear, a jacket and scarf for the abrupt change in the weather I will encounter, and a spare set of incontinence underwear. If I may reiterate an established notion, I am a traveller, not a backpacker.

Intercontinental incontinence

When you are on a plane and there is a queue for the unisex toilets, besides rocking from foot to foot, you just want to be careful no spillage occurs before you gain access to the facilities.

On both my outbound and return journeys, it has not been that bad, and I have not had to wave my "Just Can't Wait" card. The moment I feel an urge, I do not second guess it, I make my way to the toilets.

I had scheduled my Uber pick up the night before, my assigned driver cancelled, the alternative was stationary just over a mile away for 20 minutes, and not responding to my communications, that by the time Uber suggested he was late, I was assigned a third driver who then arrived within 5 minutes of the scheduled time.

The ride to the airport was easy and fast, early morning bookings before the break of dawn can be a bargain too. He helped load and unload my luggage and I took tentative steps to the check-in counter close to the entrance.

Half a day air bound

Though I have lost my Platinum and Gold loyalty status, you still get some priority service on Silver Flying Blue status. My luggage was checked through to Manchester, and I was conveyed from the customer assistance lounge, taken through security checks and passport control to the boarding gate, then wheeled to the door of the flight where I was the second passenger to board.

Seating was comfortable enough, a slight seat recline, a lounge support for my legs, and a footrest, along with a blanket and a pillow. That was the beginning of the first leg of my journey of just 11h13, I guess I have done that a few times already.

A 3-hour stopover in Amsterdam before I board another flight to Manchester had me ensconced in the customer assistance lounge on comfortable seats. They should consider serving beverages rather than have people lumber off to the shops. A nearby toilet would be helpful too.

A chat with my support person

Then I was brought to boarding desk as one of the first to board. Arriving in Manchester, I stayed on the flight until everyone was almost off, my customer support wheelchair was up a flight of stairs and then I was conveyed to passport control and then to baggage reclaim.

The support assistant was from Somalia and after informing him of why I had travelled to South Africa, I explained why as a Black man he had to be conversant with his prostate health. His uncle recently had radiotherapy for throat cancer at the Christie Hospital and he had chaperoned his uncle a few times.

Between snatches of reality and humour, he got the message and point-blank refused a tip, he felt he had gained so much from our conversation and that was enough. I called an Uber for home and ended up in a luxury car, the driver from Africa had lived in Italy for two decades before coming to the UK.

You will always be understood

He was concerned about his lack of fluency in English that he felt was a handicap. My view was as long as he could put words together, he would be understood. He should always speak his mind and besides, many of those who would typically abuse him are not as successful as him driving an E-class Mercedes Benz, he should in fact celebrate his achievements.

Obviously, on some occasions, he simply got his son into the conversation with establishments or the authorities. Every likelihood was he would get whatever he intended done.

As I arrived at home, he helped unload my luggage and brought them into the foyer, all the help I received from door-to-door of about 18 hours was the preparation for rest after such a lengthy journey. I unlocked my door, my house sitter had outdone himself this time, somewhere between it having been hit by a super hurricane and a full ransack of the house, I was soon pushing a vacuum cleaner and brushing the floors. I found the energy; it was the very last straw.

Companions in travel

Assistance is quite helpful

Those chance encounters with strangers and their stories. Too often we see people on the surface, with no inkling of who they are. Dare we strike up a conversation with them that leads to deep discoveries of similarities and differences between us?

For instance, I used customer assistance services for my trip to Cape Town. Someone to cater for getting me from the check-in counter to the aircraft and back through customs to the arrival terminal by wheelchair or a motorised buggy.

In Manchester, after the security check, I was left in a waiting area until my gate was shown. Soon, an elderly couple arrived, the husband needing a bit more help than his wife. She was amiable and friendly as he made for the gents.

Everyday interesting people

They had lived in Africa for more than 40 years, mainly in Namibia where he was an engineer, and she was in community development. They were going to Cape Town via Doha, arriving in Cape Town about 4 hours before I do.

As the conversation shifted to why we needed assistance, their son had made all the travel arrangements ensuring both his parents had the assisted service. Two years before she had open heart surgery and was put back together with 4 staples and glue.

She volunteered he had a non-cancerous enlarged prostate along with mobility issues and the onset of dementia. They were looking forward to their holidays, full of life and happiness. As we parted ways when I was picked up for the departure gate, we wistfully thought this might not be our last encounter.

I saw them later as they were being taken to their flight and we waved to each other. It might be a concert or wine estate where we'll drink a toast to good health.

The choices we make

Then sat beside me on my flight to Cape Town, I spoke to a lady, resident in Belgium but returning to South Africa to see her family. Alluding to my just completing treatment for cancer, she said she was going for surgery in a few weeks.

You would never have thought, but behind every facade is a world of stories with a touch of humanity. I used my experience to encourage her. She had made treatment choices to protect her quality of life. Every motivation is valid. I elected for radiotherapy over surgery to preserve urinary and sexual function.

With cancer, it is important to have all the useful information to make informed choices. The more pertinent thing: regardless of what people suffer, they go out and live their lives to the fullest.

To be loved in return

Nat King Cole, Nature Boy

Lifted beyond circumstances

I am like that nature boy who has wandered very far, very far, over land and sea. Whether I have acquired the wisdom of the boy, I cannot say. However, in life, I have learnt a lot about myself and about people.

The world has its issues and strangeness, much of which can affect us, the forces of nature sometimes unrelenting, the foolishness of politics with unintended consequences, and the unreasonableness of leaders bringing war, suffering, migration, and worse upon others.

Maybe we seek to isolate or insulate ourselves from these things, but there is only so much we can do with the limited resources we have to deploy in situations and circumstances we cannot control.

To the earthbound, the horizons are low. What we perceive through our senses can delude us, leaving us vulnerable to error and erroneous judgment. We must transcend these limitations for a dimension first created by imagination and brought into reality by what we speak.

Faith that assures

This is what undergirds my situation, I find inspiration in the words of the Christian God and begin a journey to places I could never have imagined possible. My story is not set in the travails of many aspects of adversity I have experienced, but in the blessings and triumphs that have put the past into the shade.

There are things I could not have planned for; grace and providence laid out paths that when I look back, I am amazed at how things have not only worked out for the good but have become testimonies of wonder because I refused to be moved by the storms that rage around to distract from purpose and determination.

As I embark on a time for rest and recuperation, I see the joy of living, the wonder of love, the beauty of peace, and the rejuvenation of spirit, soul, and body.

Beyond that, I hear the words of the nature boy:

The greatest thing,
You'll ever learn,
Is just to love,
And be loved in return.

Photons on the Prostate - VII

Whether the weather

My radiotherapy session which was planned for much later when my scheduling sheet was filled last Monday had been brought forward three hours on my Thursday visit.

This did not make it any more convenient because Manchester was under the generous sprinkling of torrential rain and rain in the UK is so alien to us, traffic literally stops and puddles become lakes with cars aquaplaning like speedboats. Well, drop the speed part, my Uber had to swerve off the road for a filling of petrol.

You may wonder why I have resorted to getting myself to and from the hospital by bus or Uber when I had the pleasure of friends chauffeuring me there for the full week of the one before the last. I appreciate everyone wants to help, we are all full of amazingly good intentions that we express with urgency and a seeming willingness to do as we ask others to make that demand on us.

Yet, we are rather busy people and much as we would bend over backwards to help, we do have other things to do that are important, urgent, ordered, scheduled, or impromptu. An apology reaches our lips suffused with concerning equanimity as we deliver disappointment with the expectation that alternatives are readily available. The truth; is there are no alternatives, and people who have relied on us are being let down gently, kindly, and sadly.

Just do your thing

It becomes a logistical nightmare for the person being helped between knowing an arrangement is firm to scurrying to make your appointment because of unforeseen circumstances, and a situation totally out of your control because of the reliance on others. You feel worse for feeling bad for their feeling sad that they cannot help. The same people who insisted they would drop everything and blue-light you to the hospital rather than see you struggle on a bus or pay a king’s ransom for a taxicab.

It's just better to make your own arrangements and anything that comes in to alleviate the situation rather than encumber it is a bonus. Decline the offers promptly rather than be beholden and reliant on the accompanying stress that comes with things not going to plan. It is hard enough doing things on your own, but you know you are setting the agenda and doing things your way.

Seeing our future in one

On arrival at the hospital, I was assigned another suite, the fifth I have attended in 13 visits. I first sat in front of a family of four, and then I needed a little powdering of my nose in the ladies’ room. It’s got a mirror, and I can adjust my day cravat, I forgot my lipstick. When I returned, my original seat was occupied, so I chose a seat at the back.

My appointment time came, but there was going to be a longer wait, two other people were called in, and then out of the family of four, the older man stood up, those accompanying him were his wife, his daughter and his son. His adult son called him and gave him a big hug and he walked in and gave the staff a box of chocolates, it was his last radiotherapy session.

What a triumph over adversity as they flung wide the double doors for him to walk out to the camera phones held up by his family, it calls for a celebration. He wished the rest of the waiting room good luck as I urged him to go and ring that bell for victory. I did not hear the bell as was called into the suite.

Number thirteen done

We had a student who asked if it was okay to be present, I obliged without any fuss, we need students as much as we need professionals showing them the practicalities of what is involved, and she attends my alma mater university. One of the transparent derma patches needed changing to preserve the tattoo marking, a job I have always left to the personnel because they include markings before taping.

I took the bus back into the town centre because I needed to top up my supply of cranberry juice which eased that stinging urethra issue. Another one of those situations where you only get to tap on good intentions once before it becomes a chore for them.

Yet, people never fully understand why for times like this and during recuperation, having time with your partner and them being available to help is always a labour of love done with every desire to see you well and a joy to them that they can be doing something effective, effectual, and productive. Until you know, you never really know.

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - VIII

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - VI

Blog - Men's things

Photons on the Prostate - VI

Travelling and scheduling

Being prepared early for the hospital is one thing I have purposefully planned to give myself at least an hour for travel and this is not by bus, but by being driven there. If you arrive on time or well before time, there is a likelihood you could be leaving the hospital before your scheduled appointment time.

Talk of schedule, I met with two receptionists and between them the American pronunciation of schedule had taken a hold I could not ignore. The pervasiveness of American culture permeating every media outlet in films, on television, on the Internet and elsewhere means we might be losing out as we are the last holdout of the fight to the death to prevent the ruination of English.

Sides to the side effects

Meanwhile, finding ways to manage the fatigue is tending towards maximising my productivity when my energy levels are high, this tends to be just after midnight and having knocked a few emails and completed some pending tasks, I was tired enough to fall into bed and get a bit more sleep than usual.

My voice seems to be a wind vane of fatigue on a spectrum of strength to weakness belying something amiss, but it is still my voice, slow and soft to a whispering tone, words still properly enunciated and the mind as alert as it should be. The spirit is indeed willing, but the body is weak, daily bombarded with radioactivity meant to terminate every semblance of cancer on my prostate.

The bladder issues present a slight stinging feeling when passing urine and this I am told can be ameliorated by avoiding drinks with caffeine content and taking copious amounts of cranberry juice. I have not been that sold of still water even though I am supposed to be consuming litres of that stuff.

One other common symptom is with the bowel though I feel more constipated than diarrhoetic the glycerine suppositories seem to be more effective than the micro enemas, having got into a routine with it, doing the business at home within two hours of your appointment is better than the early day of SoD (Shit on Demand), the very least that is expected before going into the radiotherapy suite is to PoD (Piss on Demand). That is easier to do before you find yourself in need of an epidural while trying to birth cack.

Prostituted to many suites

There was cause for laughter when I was assigned to a different radiotherapy suite at the reception; which brings it to four suites I have attended at the halfway point. To which I quipped, “I am being sent around the suites like a prostitute.” Much mirth short of falling out of their seats. We can only do this with humour, positivity, and a sense of hope that this will pass.

That’s 10 hypofractionated radiotherapy sessions done and we are on the home straight Deo volente. Having a conversation with a couple where the man had already done 15 sessions and had a vast experience of prostituting in many more suites than I have, I could only point to one final thing to do when it is all done, he would soon be ringing the bell. [British Institute of Radiotherapy: Hypofractionated radiotherapy]

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - VII

Blog - Photons on the Prostate - V

Blog - Men's things

Need not bother about a hat

Travelling lighter than usual

When I stepped out of my home with 3 suitcases and many other things just a day over 3 weeks ago, I had the feeling I had forgotten something, but had no time to think of what it might be.

There was an Uber cab waiting to convey me to the airport and for the strain of trying to travel light, which I rarely do even as I worked hard at accomplishing that goal with much sleeplessly tired effort, I had for my early flight not slept overnight.

Wherever I laid that hat

On getting to the airport, I retrieved a trolley with difficulty, had my suitcases loaded on and made for the terminal when I realised what I had forgotten my hat, my straw grass hat which works well for the summer days, though it might have been useless for the winter days of Cape Town.

What I could not decide on was whether I had left my hat on the rack at home or in the Uber cab. I had the good feeling it was at home, that in my apparent rush to leave at the witching hour of just after 3:00 AM, I had left home quite unusually without a head covering.

It could have bothered me if I did forget the hat in the cab, but it was one of those instances where I felt either way, I’ll deal with it when I get back. On occasion, I had the feeling to order a replacement because I got the hat about 7 years ago and it was ordered on Amazon from Germany. A voice whispered in me, not to jump to that conclusion.

It really did not matter

Having the choice of asking my house sitter to check and confirm whether my hat was on hat rack did occur to me, but I left it at that. I had another 7 or 8 hats in my baggage for my destination, the world was not going to end because of a straw hat.

When I returned last Tuesday, it was not the first thing I checked as that was not on my mind, one of my other hats was already adorning my bald head. As I took it off to hang on the hat rack, I noticed the straw hat. It was at home, all along.

It is funny how the foregoing might have served as an introduction to a piece about how we bother ourselves about little things and overcompensate to remediate for certain failings or inadequacies. In fact, I did see a few straw hats in Cape Town, I just ignored the draw to try any of them on. I was having a good time and that is all that mattered.