Flunky's Taxi Ride in the Ghanaian Twilight

I still remember that taxi ride in Ghana clearly. It was around 8-9pm at night. We had dismissed our driver for the day when my boss got a call from a business contact to meet for drinks at a hip new club across town. So we hopped into a local taxi that looked like it had seen better days in the last century. 

It was my first time stepping out of the safe confines of my hotel at night, and I was amazed at how the taxi navigated around the multiple potholes (some bigger than the length of the car) of the quiet unlit roads. 

I noticed our taxi slow down and through the darkness, I could make out a small shack among the tress by the side of the road. And a man with a large gun strapped across his body walked out towards our taxi as we came to a stop. 

I had watched enough movies and TV shows to have my blood turn cold with fear in that instant. Keenly aware that as a small young Chinese girl, I would be the weakest, easiest prey if anything went awry. 

Saying a prayer, I looked anxiously over at my boss, who was seated calmly as if we were just going through a car wash. 

The taxi driver wound his window down and exchanged some quick words which I did not understand with the man with the gun. The man with the gun then proceeded to peer through the rear windows at my boss and I. I wasn't sure where to look- keep looking ahead, or turn to him and smile? How could I hide my fear and not look suspicious? I was pretty sure he could hear my pounding heart.

After too many seconds of his eyes piercing through my soul, he stood up and waved my driver off. 

I heaved a sigh of relief as my heart rate began to stabilize. And my boss turned to me to say something about this being a police roadblock which was routine in this part of the world. 

I was glad that was the first and last such "routine" roadblock I had to experience. My little flunky heart wouldn't have been able to bear it. 

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at 10:43 PM

Flunky Ponders Contrasts

After a bewildering few days in Angola which you can read about here and here, I sat at the airport lounge in exhaustion, thinking about my Angolan adventure. 

My little flunky brain could not comprehend how the 2nd largest oil producer in the continent, had multiple power cuts in their capital city everyday; how public roads with massive potholes led to sprawling mansions; how 40% of the population could live below the poverty line when it was consistently one of the top 10 diamond producers in the world; how public infrastructure in the city floundered while Chinese construction companies could be undertaking massive projects in the outskirts; how people still washed their clothes in the brown river, while a little way down the river, expats and top businessmen crowded into expensive waterfront modern restaurants. 

Expensive waterfront dining

Doing laundry in the brown river water

Beautiful buildings in the city

Homes of the locals just outside the capital

Traditional markets

Floundering public infrastructure

My thoughts didn't venture far before I noticed that the buses that were bringing people to board the plane were turning back and we were told to stay in the lounge. 

In uncertain Africa, a range of scenarios ran through my mind- terrorists, fire, riot, coup.

Thankfully, it was none of the above. Someone had pulled open the emergency door latch during boarding and the emergency slide had inflated. 

Over an hour later, we were on the plane, all hoping that the clown who opened the emergency door was offloaded. So we ventured onward to South Africa for our next adventure. 

  




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at 10:51 AM

Flunky and the Fishbone

After my grueling first full day in Angola with missing luggage, fly swamped lunch and a broken down vehicle, I thought the next few days would be uneventful with boring meetings in safe office buildings. This flunky clearly had no gift of foresight.

At one of the business lunches, we were seated at a massive table and multiple plates of appetizers were laid before us. I looked at the menu for the day and the sheer excess of the meal amazed me. While the appetisers alone could have fed a village for a day, there were still 2 starters, 2 main courses (1 steak and 1 seafood dish), 1 pasta and a whole array of desserts, that were still in store for everyone. Just as I was happily chomping on a potato croquette which came by the basket full, I felt something in my throat. 

A fishbone was stuck. 

After trying in vain to wash down the bone with water and more croquettes, as well as having my boss peer down my throat, we finally had to interrupt the meeting and inform everyone that this flunky had a fishbone stuck in her throat. An Angolan flunky was immediately ordered to send me to the doctor. I was terrified. The car soon pulled up at a little bungalow. And I was thrust into a narrow corridor which served as a waiting room. Surrounded by sickly Angolan children spewing all manner of bodily fluids, I was convinced I would catch a exotic African virus for every minute that I sat there. So I tried my best not to breathe or touch anything. When it came to my turn, the doctor found my throat scratched, but there was no fishbone. So I was sent away with some some pills which were supposed to be some sort of antisceptic. And USD$100 was collected from me.

When we got back to the restaurant, the lunch was over, but the Angolan flunky was left with the task of settling the bill. As he counted out his stack of US dollar notes, I caught a glimpse of the bill. It cost a whopping USD$300 per person. My eyes widened in shock. And they had charged for the meals of Angolan flunky and I which we didn't consume beyond the booby-trap fishbone filled croquets. I could not believe they didn't even pack our lunch for us.

Thankfully kiasu Singaporean flunky had brought along muesli bars so Angolan flunky and I gobbled them down sullenly on the silent car ride to join the rest of the delegation at the next meeting.

Till today, I have not figured out why a fishbone was in a potato croquette. But this episode secured me a special mention in the retirement speech of the leader of the delegation. And I lived to tell the tale of my African Adventures. 

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at 11:58 PM

Flunky in the African Land of Black Gold

My flunky African adventure continued as we landed in Luanda, the capital of Angola. (We had just flown from Rwanda to Luanda, you can imagine the confusion with the travel agents and bosses' personal assistants during the preparation for the trip, especially with Singapore pronunciation being not quite perfect) The multiple transits to get there had resulted in our luggage being damaged and looted of all gifts that we had brought along- everything from letter openers to brooches to electronics that had been in the check-in bags and boxes were taken. I was beginning to understand the extent of petty crime of the region.

Angolan leg of the journey would soon reveal itself as one of my most eventful ever. So much so that even at the retirement speech of the person leading the delegation several years later, I had a special mention because of this Angolan Adventure.  To make matters worse, by this leg of our journey, either my strong malaria pills had kicked in, or some African virus had taken a hold of me and my memories of the country are coloured by nausea.   

View of the congested capital city

Angola was the second largest producer of oil on the African continent after Nigeria and all the major oil companies had set up shop there. The country was enjoying immense economic growth from the oil industry since the long civil war ended in 2002, but looking around, one could hardly tell how much wealth there was coming from this country's resources. Having been engaged in internal conflict since independence from Portugal in 1975, Angola's infrastructure was crippled, population poorly educated and bureaucracy inefficient. But the large oil companies seemed to be able to work around these limitations, as they always do, and extract whatever they needed, while leaving most of the rest of the country unchanged. 

Street in front of our hotel

As the flunky of the delegation, I was sent to pick up the luggage from the conveyor belt while the rest waited at the lounge. I checked each piece of the delegations luggage off my list, but alas, my luggage was nowhere to be found even as the last piece from the plane tumbled out. I was sent to get my statement taken along with the 20 or so other angry Angolans who had luggage missing as well. How they manage to miss out that many pieces is beyond me. So with me speaking only English and everyone else crammed into that little office speaking only in Portuguese, I somehow managed to be interviewed by an airport staff barking at me, and get a Portuguese form filled in about my lost luggage. The rest of my delegation had been taken to the hotel for a little rest, and thankfully they sent a car back to the airport for me. That night, I understood why torch lights were common issue in every hotel we stayed in Africa as I experienced multiple electricity cuts, which I was told, was the norm in the country. 

The next day, there was still no news about my luggage. While my boss had told me to always bring an extra change of clothes on my carry-on, my suits were all packed away in my check-in bag. So this little flunky showed up for the official programme for that day in a tank top and pencil skirt (lightest items to hand carry). Brilliant first impression I was making. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise as the day was filled with site visits, and in the African heat, I was glad I was not in a suit.

Flunky at the broken dam in a tank top looking rather malnourished

We were taken to visit a dam which was so damaged by the civil war that it could no longer produce hydroelectricity. Neither the government nor the private sector was willing to pump in the upfront costs to repair the dam so it sat there in decay and disrepair. It was hard to witness such unfulfilled potential. It was harder to think that in a land which produced so much fossil fuel and had so much renewable power potential, much of the population still relied on candles and firewood, and power cuts were a daily occurrence. This was my first run into the incongruence of this country, which also characterised much of the region.

The glassy swiftly running river

I also remember the river there as one of the most amazing things I had seen. At first glance, the water seemed to be still. Almost like a sheet of glass covered the water, yet at each drop, we could see the ferocity at which the river ran, and the raging rapids almost instantly disappeared into another glassy mass. I have never seen anything quite like it again. 

River meets rapids

Our next stop was a little chapel at the coast. The tiny white unassuming building did not betray its dark history as the place where thousands of Africans from Angola and its neighboring countries were "baptized" before being shipped off to Europe and America as slaves. Most never made it to the other side of their arduous journey. I thought of the thousands who where marched for hundreds of miles to the point where I stood, with the knowledge that only death, torture or immense hardship lay head. It was the place where "saving souls" and taking lives stood hand in hand. In the thick, warm coastal breeze, I could almost hear their cries of anguish.

Where the ships filled with slaves set off to the "developed" world

We were next told that we would be heading to a nearby township for a traditional lunch. I have come to learn never to trust anyone when they use the term "nearby". It turned out to be a 3 hour drive outside of the capital city, on majorly potholed and unpaved roads to a building in the middle of nowhere. 

By the time we got there, it was 3pm in the afternoon. The buffet spread was clearly laid out since normal people's lunch hour and the flies had taken over. I managed to shovel some potatoes and chicken into my mouth while praying the flies didn't carry some exotic African virus. Meanwhile, tribal dances and music was performed in all their glory for our enjoyment, but with my tummy churning, I could hardly enjoy anything.

It was soon time to take the long drive back. But of course, even the drive back could not be smooth sailing and we got a flat tire an hour into the journey.

That evening, I got back to my hotel room to find that my lugguage had been delivered. Seeing my stuff again brought an inordinate amount of comfort after the tough day. I embraced my stuff and slept like a baby that night through the sound of the dripping plumbing and the multiple electricity cuts that my colleagues complained about the next day, as our adventure continued...

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at 4:26 PM

Flunky In The Broken Heart Of Africa

They say that just like your first romance, you never really get over your first job. My first job was on the African desk. And for some reason, Africa has been on my mind a lot of late. So I've decided to write some of my memories down, before my goldfish brain forgets.

In early 2008, a few months into the job, I was told that I would be staffing a whirlwind 10 day 3 country tour of Africa- South Africa, Angola and Rwanda. 

The time in Rwanda, in particular, was surreal. Up until my feet touched Rwanda's soil, my only image of Rwanda was from the movie Hotel Rwanda. It was a picture of war mongering militiamen waving machetes and breathing threats. It was a picture of a country divided by an arbitrary categorization of its people by a foreign power. It was a picture of fear and death. About a year after writing my final term communications paper on the communication strategies employed by the Interhamwe militia, I stood on where it all really happened- THE Hotel Rwanda, the Hotel Des Mille Colines. Surreal is an understatement. 

Welcome to Hotel Rwanda

A visit to the genocide museum was arranged for us. I made it only about halfway through when I could take no more heartache from what I saw and I excused myself when we reached the room where the photos of those who perished- men, women, and children, stared resolutely down at each visitor. I couldn't even take the museum. I could only imagine what it was like to live through those days and it rends my soul to know the darkness on man's hearts. Emerging from a side exit of the museum, I was told that I could wait at the verandah which overlooked one of the mass graves used during the genocide. My heart broke.

The mass grave at the genocide museum

In the sheltered world of Singapore, wars and genocides are distant facts. They are occurrences in history books or something reported clinically on the news of something in a distant land. Yet being in Rwanda just over a decade after the genocide, I was keenly aware that each person I met probably lost someone they loved or witnessed untold horrors. In a tiny country which lost an estimated 20% of its population in about 3+ months of bloodshed, those we met were the lucky ones who survived. 

View of Kigali City

But with these thoughts swimming in my mind, what I saw was a completely different reality. Far from the sweaty violence, the Rwanda that greeted me was one of peace, calm and order, with a cool "eternal spring" climate to match. Unlike most of the other African countries I have visited, I did not see a single firearm the whole time I was in the capital city Kigali. Petty crime was not a concern and nobody had any trouble strolling along the streets at any time of day. There were no road blocks, which always brought an inexplicable fear in my heart. Neither was there a visible security presence. The only reminders of the days of terror were kept in the museums. Everyone seemed to have gotten on with their lives and decided to put the past behind them. This almost clinical determination to move forward was exemplified in the leaders we met. Each one was an exceedingly bright and well educated technocrat with steely resolution to beat the odds and push their small country up the ladder of global success. 

Meeting with the President of Rwanda

On the final day, we got to the airport to find that our flight was cancelled. With the help of the government officials, we scrambled to find new flights out of the city in order to make it to the next leg of our trip-Angola, in time for our meetings there. We finally got tickets which would bring us to Nairobi, where we would wait 5 hours before a flight to Johannesburg where we would have to spend the night, before the flight to Luanda. And even then, we had to leave one of our delegation in Johannesburg as there weren't enough tickets.

Some years later, an official told me that the flight that we were originally on was cancelled as it was deemed not safe enough for us to fly on. I was ever thankful despite the trouble it put us through. If these people who have lived through a brutal civil war say a flight is not safe enough to fly on, I believe them with all my heart. 

Children clutching English textbooks walking to school

Till today, I remain a fan of this little hilly country in the heart of Africa. As I read articles of Rwanda's success, my heart is glad. In a region where corruption, inefficiencies and violence which are considered normal, I hope with all my heart that this nation can continue to withstand the temptations and its people can walk in the way of the upright. Yet I know the criticisms of the government remain. 

Rwanda will always have a special place in the heart of this flunky. Maybe because I always root for the underdog. Or maybe because I see a little bit of Singapore in this fledging nation.

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at 11:55 AM