Untitled (or, my experience in a toxic work environment.)

I wrote this a couple of years ago, came across it today and felt so nostalgic for South Africa that I decided to post it.

2.30am was an earlier start than usual, but something told me it would all be worth it.

And as Monica, Caesar, Joseph and I set off from The New Vision for Entebbe Airport, the butterflies in my stomach defied the fatigue I was feeling.

5.15am: check-in time.  After making sure that the boys had their passports (Monica and I, being women, were obviously the organized outfit on this trip), and me having to lend Caesar a pen (sigh), we all checked in with no problems.  Having done The Morning After Show the previous day and not having slept the whole of Saturday, I fought sleep as we waited for our boarding call.  (Sleep won)

Before I knew it, we were on the plane and in the air.  Monica, Joseph and Caesar were across the aisle from me.  I was sat next to two rather good looking young men, but the charm soon wore off when the one right next to me kept dozing on my shoulder and drooling generously.  My beautiful green top will never be the same again.  He must have been on waragi or something equally strong the night before.

The landing in Johannesburg was smooth.  I stepped off the plane and was hit by the cool, refreshing air and the reality that I had landed in a country I have dreamed of visiting all my life.  A bit of background- my godmother, Dr. Brigalia Baam, is South African.  Her close friendship with my parents greatly influenced me as a child- I grew up listening to music by Miriam Makeba, Letta Mbulu, Caiaphus Semenya, The Soul Brothers.  My teenage years were filled with the sounds of PJ Powers, Johnny Clegg and Savuka.  To this day, I strive to play the flute as well as Sipho Mabuse.  I remember hours spent begging Auntie Brigalia to teach me how to click like Miriam Makeba in The Click Song.

So here I was, albeit for work, in the land of Lucky Dube and Madiba.  ‘Excitement’ doesn’t even cover it.  But we still had another flight to catch, so I got myself together and made my way to immigration with the others.

I must digress and ask a question that has plagued me all my life- why are immigration officials the meanest, most foul-tempered people walking on God’s green earth?  Or sitting in glass booths, for that matter?  If you are an immigration officer reading this, I mean no offense, but seriously, you guys have issues.  I was determined that the sour-faced chap behind the glass was not going to kill my high over visiting the land of Uncle Nelson, so I walked confidently up to the glass, slapped my passport (complete with visa and health card… I must digress once more- you know how it was said that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a man to enter the Kingdom of God?  Chuh.  It’s easier for a man to enter the Kingdom of God than it is for a Ugandan to renew their passport.  Trust me, I know.  But that’s another story.)… where was I?  Oh yes.  I slapped my passport on the counter and gave him my most winning smile.  My friends call it the 1000 Watt Blinder Vol. 2, to be used on immigration officers, traffic police and URA officials.

It worked!! Grumpy Immigration Guy smiled back and stamped me into the Rainbow Nation.  I was in!!

Since our connection was to Port Elizabeth, we had to reclaim our luggage, go through Customs and check in again.  Out of the four of us, I was the only one stopped by Customs- the fact that I had the largest bag might have had something to do with it.  The Customs official was very pleasant, commenting on how neatly I had packed as he rifled through my belongings (and messed up my neat packing!).  Finally I was able to rejoin my colleagues as we went to check in for our next flight. 

An hour and a half later, we were on the plane and heading to Port Elizabeth.  Our pilot was a lady- the very first time I’ve flown with a fellow woman at the controls!  She didn’t so much land as PUT the plane down on the ground, but out of sheer female solidarity, I forgave her.

The real drama began once we landed in PE.  South African Airways had left my luggage in Johannesburg!  (I later found out they had sent it to Cape Town.  Uganda doesn’t have a monopoly on monumental cock-ups, after all).  Unimpressed, I boarded our shuttle van to Grahamstown after registering with Baggage Services.

My mood lifted as we drove to Grahamstown.  Port Elizabeth is beautiful- well, what I could see from my window anyway.  The view of the sea took my breath away, and it was all I could do not to yell “STOP THE SHUTTLE!!” and run, screaming, down to the beach.  (I came scarily close).

And the roads!  Uganda could learn a thing or two about roads.  Not a pothole in sight!

Another thing that fascinated me was the cemeteries by the roadside.  They were hauntingly beautiful- intricately carved tombstones, some with stone angels watching over the departed.

Two hours later, we arrived at our destination- Bella Vita, a quaint little bed and breakfast on Grahamstown High Street.  Our host was a bubbly lady called Trish, who showed us to our rooms and made sure we were comfortable.  Monica and I were sharing a beautiful 2-bedroomed cottage, while the guys each had their own rooms.  I fell in love with my room instantly.

Once we had dropped our bags (well, those of us who had any), we went off in search of food, which proved to be easier said than done.  Monica and I eventually opted for Steers, while Joseph and Caesar chose a local deli.

We finally headed back to the guesthouse, and got ready for bed.  Excited as I was about the next day, I was out like a light the moment my head hit the pillow.

So passed my first night in South Africa.  We were up bright and early. The weather was gorgeous- hot and sunny but not unbearable.  After a hearty breakfast, the shuttle picked the four of us and our colleagues from the bed and breakfast next door and dropped us at the Sol Plaatjes Institute for Media Leadership, Rhodes University.  We were received by Monique, our course coordinator.  Without wasting any time, our first class began right away. 

During the next five days, we had seminars on media ethics, freedom of the press (or lack thereof!), budgeting (ugh. I hate figures with a passion.), and so much more.  Fascinating as the course was, my favourite part of the trip was the people I met.

There was the feisty Makwena, a young South African journalist in love with this continent and determined to change the world.  There was Sizwe, the laid-back DJ and radio presenter with a crazy sense of humour.  George, one of our lecturers, who in his soft-spoken way made me look at media ethics in a whole new light.  And not forgetting Mpho, always ready with a joke that was bound to leave you in stitches. 

I’ve always believed that travel broadens the mind- you can’t go to another country, experience another culture, and stay the same.  But this trip made that fact all the more real to me.  My new South African friends taught me so much- about their history, about how they see the rest of Africa, and their hopes and dreams for our continent as a whole.  And I, in turn, taught them a little something about how we do things in my neck of the woods.

One night, a group of us were sharing a bottle of wine (ok, truth be told, there was more than one), and we realized just how powerful our little crew was.  Here we were, representing Seychelles, Zambia, Rwanda, Uganda, all of us in the media industry.  As Makwena had so eloquently put it in class that day, ‘Your power is in your mouth and in your pen’.  We talked about the injustices in our different countries, whether it’s ludicrous laws being proposed in Uganda, or lack of media freedom elsewhere, or journalists and radio presenters abusing their power and creating turmoil, as we saw in Rwanda 16 years ago.

So as I sit in OR Tambo International Airport waiting to head back home, I can honestly, hand-on-heartfully say that this trip, despite the lost luggage and the rainy weather towards the end of our stay, has been an unforgettable one.  I don’t think I’ll ever look at things in quite the same way again.