Is Trump like Hitler or just like America?

American President Trump has already signed some Executive Orders, in an effort to roll back ex-President Obama's accomplishments and legacies: climate change and environment, supporting NGOs who are pro-abortion, block on visas from Muslims countries (the same countries the great America has directly invaded or indirectly interfered in), and to build a wall along the US-Mexico border (to name a few). The social media newsfeed are abuzz with alarming and distressed opinion articles, Lamentations and Editorials, and American friends' gung ho updates about marches and how to get organised. Even before Trump got elected and during his campaign trail, he was constantly likened to Hitler. Why Hitler? Why not just ordinary white original European settlers who invaded North America, pillaged the land, massacred the original inhabitants and stole their land and made them prisoners on the same piece of earth? Why is he like Hitler?! 

Trump bellows, brags, boasts, threatens, and performs chest-thumping antics the likes of which are, sirs and madams, really his own. Western journalism and fine culture, cinema and writers, for GOD's SAKE, can we please stop comparing any atrocity to Hitler, World War 2 and the Holocaust. Please compare atrocities and crises to slavery, colonialism and primitive accumulation. 

There is such a vehement and self righteous rebellion against the idea of Trump by liberal Americans that they can't stand this misogynist and racist caricature of a man, of a leader but isn't the real America merely floating to the top again? Didn't America's nascent democracy limit the participation of women and, was perfectly fine with slavery? Didn't American suffragists themselves claim they would rather cut of their limbs than allow black folks to vote? 

Watching United States' politics has made me realise that America's story is really the story of the Native Americans, Black folks and rest of the brown people who have made that country and, the suffering they have had to endure, still.

Good evening

Beautiful Islamabad

I fell into a dirty swamp in Monrovia during a HASH walk and self righteously blogged about it at the time. My blog post is entitled: "The muck and mire of expat lives." If you have a few idle minutes at hand, feel free to read my rant. It goes on and on. 

During my visit to Islamabad, I make it a point to take Kavita to my beloved Japanese Park, a park where I played as child. She of course loves it too. But depressingly, I notice that it's often trashed. Throngs of the public visit the park for its beautiful greens, nestled close to the Margalla Hills. Children and even slicked adolescent boys like to sit on the swings and see saws. I always feel like shooing them away. Hardly a year ago, the swings and slides were replaced by the Japan Government, and, it made me so angry to see men and boys sitting on them. These swings and slides for Kavita, dammit. 

Worse, of course, is how folks trash the park and, just drop plastic bags, juice containers and chips packets on to the ground. They just discard garbage here and there. 

The Park didn't have any entrance fees this time around. Even if they do, they're hardly 10 or 20 rupees. And, Park authorities are not there to make admonish anyone, either, for misusing the children's swings or against littering. 

Trash is always on my mind and, I keep wondering what the CDA of Beautiful Islamabad is doing to make sure Islamabad is not only superficially beautiful but has a green and sustainable approach to keeping our environment clean. Is plastic going to be banned any time soon? Are there any fines against littering? Where does the city's waste go to? How are our public parks being maintained and preserved? And, do adolescent boys have to come to a children's park to strut around? I somehow don't feel Kavita is safe around single men and boys loitering in a public space.

I went to visit a family in Saidpur Village. We crossed some narrow lanes over a stream which was completely trashed. I asked my hosts why everyone throws the garbage there. My host told me there is no dumpster. I felt so angry. Saidpur is advertised as a tourist attraction and, what is the city administration doing for the community around the restaurants which are doing roaring business in this spot? Can we not even keep this beautiful corner of the city clean? 

I felt quite embarrassed at how the middle and lower middle classes have to live right next to filth. 

This made me remember my own experience in Monrovia and, I wondered in case its the "poor areas" which suffer from garbage and lack of hygiene. But then I remembered that the Mamba Point beach suffers the same bad luck. It's surrounded by the most important offices and residences of the elite NGO and UN staff but the beach under their noses is a poster image for Green Peace. 

During a neighbourhood walk in my beloved F-11/4, I stopped to glare at an overflowing dumpster and billowing plastic bags in the green belt. This is a well-to-do neighbourhood where people live in 'khotis ' and, yet, I wonder how many of the people who live here are bothered to pollution in the very spot where they go for their evening strolls.

One can tell it's a well-to-do neighbourhood because not only are the sahibs and memsahibs out and about in their walks but, also by the guard and pet dogs that chaukidaars and naukars are taking out for exercise.

It makes you wonder. Do higher-class people automatically have a higher sense of environmental responsibility because they have the education, money, resources, time and, concerns? Or, do structures and laws have to be put in place so we have a cleaner city? A city that has in-built mechanisms to prevent littering, responsibly dispose garbage and, even recycle it? How do you create such a society? We often label folks as jahil for bad behaviour. We literally blame crime, bad parenting, lack of sophistication, sexism, and even racism on lack of education. But what could be more unsophisticated than calling oneself an educated, higher class and, still tolerating garbage and littering of our natural environment in this day and age? It really makes one wonder what it would take to turn things around.

Unless littering is not going to be a punishable offence, our society has no hope of becoming green. Unless we don't ban plastic and have some long term plans for recycling, alternative solutions to plastic bags and create opportunities for recycling and green policies, we are not thinking ahead. Unless we don't teach our children how to respect and cherish trees, birds, animals, the sky, the rivers, the soil, we can't call ourselves a responsible generation. Unless we cannot ensure that the poorer communities live in dignified and clean areas, we can't call ourselves the Beautiful Islamabad. 

Puraney ganey

At the one and only Radio City, which by the way has started stocking too many few music CDs. In fact, they have even given up the pretension and, have badly printed, illegible labels. I noticed one lady scanning the whole shop, and going through many many CDs until she found one jazz album she was going to purchase. She remarked the same thing: how come you have so many few music CDs?

Most people think I'm weird for still buying DVDs and CDs when streaming and downloading has been the rage for years now. I suppose I still like the whole activity of picking out a DVD from my shelf, popping into my DVD player, changing the cables accordingly, and, settling myself onto the sofa. And, ever since my iTunes library crashed, I like picking out a CD to listen to it.

I've lived "abroad" all my life and, love stocking up on movies, Pakistani TV dramas, and puraney ganey to enjoy in Monrovia.

And, I also like going to the Post Office to send cards and gifts.

I learn to drive

“You know, somebody actually complimented me on my driving today. They left a little note on the windscreen, it said 'Parking Fine.” 

I decided to finally get driving lessons during my current visit to Islamabad. I'm 37 and, don't know how to drive. 

I could come up with a range of excuses to say that I have never had the need to drive, especially since I started working. My first few jobs were in the NGO/UN sector in Islamabad where a pick up was provided by the office. When I went abroad, I was driven everywhere in a white UN vehicle, either picked up from the house or for meetings. After I started running a business, I didn't own a vehicle and, for a long time we were relying on taxis to get around. When we finally got a car, there was Haresh or the driver to drive me around. 

I suppose, it's pure laziness.

Well, I got a burst of inspiration when I got back from Dubai and, decided to enrol myself in a driving lesson. I contacted the first driving school that came up in a Google search: Iqra Driving School. The course was going to cost 16,000 rupees for about 8 1.5-hour lessons. 

My first lesson was, of course, not so easy and slightly awkward. My instructor was a burqa-clad girl whose face was also covered. I didn't know exactly how to interact with an instructor whose face I couldn't see. Also, she jumped right into it, without making small talk. The first moment was dull and rather unpleasant. Her instructions were also not "clear" to me and, I, as a nervous student, kept saying she's assuming too much and she needs to slow down. She took me right to Margalla Road, quite a busy 4-lane highway.

I didn't really enjoy the first half of the course until I mentally talked myself into being more patient, try to understand my instructor's style and, enjoy the experience of learning from a burqa-clad girl. I expressed my anxieties to her and, of course, she was reception to my feedback.

From then on, I started to really enjoy the lessons and, even looked forward to them. They were at 12 PM every day. I often left a sleepy Kavita watching cartoons or came home to see her watching cartoons on my mother's iPad. 

My instructor, Samina, was only 23 and was with the Iqra Driving School for 5 years already. Her salary was 20,000 rupees and, she worked from 9 to 5 and, came to and from Pindi six days a week. She worked hard. In fact, she toiled the whole week for $ 200.00. 

During the last few lessons, another  burqa-clad instructor was in the back seat and, she seemed to be sitting listlessly, with her head lying against the window, aimlessly scrolling through her phone. I got quite irritated with this: "But if this girl is under training, shouldn't she look a little more alive? Isn't it unprofessional for her to be half-lying on the back seat?" My instructor argued with me and said I shouldn't be bothered about it. During the next lesson, the instructor-in-training shifted to the seat behind me so I couldn't catch her sight out of the corner of my eye.

I really enjoyed my lessons otherwise, driving in beautiful Islamabad. We even drove as far as Saidpur to learn parking in the Des Pardes parking lot. We also drove up to Faisal Mosque where Samina took my photograph. Too bad I couldn't take a photo with my teacher.

It's quite something to learn driving at this stage of life. At first I couldn't believe how many things one had to be keep an eye on: speed, left and right mirror, rear-mirror, gears, 3 pedals, signs, traffic, motorcycles, etc. My instructor kept telling me that you have to watch for your left side as everyone overtakes you from the left, they aren't supposed to, because this is Pakistan. 

At first my feet were slightly exhausted trying to keep balanced on the pedals. If I let my foot go, the accelerator would go crazy. I just light touched the clutch, the car would go off. Eventually I found the balance. 

If I learned how to control the steering wheel, I would forget I needed to put the car into 1st gear when the car was stationary. 

It was exhilarating to go into 3rd gear finally during the last few lessons. Because all this time before, I was driving in 2nd gear at 20 km/h and, it got quite tedious. 

I really enjoyed my lessons and, felt very grateful to my teacher for being patient. I gave her some chocolates and a red convertible toy car as a parting gift.

Got the visa

I finally managed to get Kavita's visa extended. I went to pick up her approval letter from the Ministry of Interior on 15 December.

I went to then proceeded to the Immigration and Passports office in G-8. I submitted the whole application. I was instructed to proceed to the State Bank in G-9 Markaz (or also known as Karachi Company) to deposit the fees which were 17,200 rupees. There was a whole line of fellows, including some very old men, who offered to fill up deposit slips for me for a mere 50 rupees. I was in a mad rush otherwise would have indulged one of them. I ran into the Bank and was shown the queue full of men (which started outside the building) and, then a separate counter for women where women were being served by the same men. I took this advantage and paid my fees. I rushed back to G-8 and submitted my application.

When I went back to collect the passport, some clerk explained that I needed to go back to the Bank to re-verify the deposit slip. This made no sense at all. It was a chaotic scene with many applicants crowding around the office. I saw some Europeans, some UN passports, some Somali applicants and so on. Somehow, I didn't make my usual noise and went back to the Bank to re-verify the deposit slip. 

I lost a day in doing so. The folks at the Bank told me the Passport office's request was complete rubbish. 

But anyway, I went back to the Passport office with the stamped slip and finally managed to get Kavita's passport with the renewed visa. 

Zia ul Haq won't approve Kavita's Pakistan visa application

It's worthwhile sharing the experience of getting Kavita's Pakistan visa extended because it's a real lesson in nation states, borders, colonial hang overs, and, identity. 

Kavita has visited Pakistan 4 times now. Her first visa was issued by the Pakistan Embassy in Morocco under whose jurisdiction Liberia lies. I had earlier traveled to Sénégal where my father had served as Pakistan Ambassador in the mid 90s and, confidently thought I'd combine a holiday with a visa errand. I was wrong and, they informed me that I would have to apply visa Morocco. So, I talked to my father on the telephone who put me in touch with his former colleague from our days in Dakar who told me I should write to the Ambassador in Morocco. Of course, I followed all the protocol and, sure enough, after sending off the application, Kavita's shiny American passport via DHL, the visa was issued without any hassle in a couple of weeks. Kavita received a 6-month visa. 

We came to Pakistan in 2014 and, stayed for about 8 months because ebola had caused such a crisis back in Liberia that everyone advised me to stay away. During this time, my father accompanied me to the Ministry of Interior to meet with some desk officer who helped us to get an approval letter. My father was quite nervous during this time and, tried to hush up the whole thing that Kavita's father is an Indian. We extended Kavita's visa easily. 

Then I briefly came back to Pakistan in 2015 to get my own passport renewed. I suppose I could have sent it to Morocco to get it renewed but I wanted to combine the renewal with a visit home. Kavita of course accompanied me on a valid visa.

Earlier this year, I came to Pakistan for a month and a half and, had renewed Kavita's visa by sending her passport to Morocco. 

This year, I rushed back to Islamabad on hearing about another break in at our home and, Kavita's visa would expire in a week's time. I thought I would just renew her visa while I was in Islamabad. 

The experience of renewing her visa on my own this time was an interesting one. 

When one's on holiday back home, getting up early enough and then rushing out in a mad, crazed chaos is itself an accomplishment. I hadn't bothered to refresh myself on the process. I went first to the Immigration and Passport Office in G-8. The office was actually closed but because it's Pakistan, the folks in the office itself decided to advise me. They first inspected Kavita's passport and her Pakistan visa and declared her visa was still valid. Then, they advised me to see the desk officer who also agreed but said it was better to extend her visa. He explained what to do at the Ministry of Interior: make copies of the passport, bring along passport size photos, etc, etc. He said I should go there next morning at 9 AM. 

I spent a good amount of time in F-10 Markaz making 2 sets of photocopies of any relevant documents I could find, including a copy of her ID card at Maroof Hospital. 

When I did go to the Ministry finally, I had a very hectic and frustrated morning. I specially booked an unmarked Metro Cab car because taxis aren't allowed in the complex. Did Metro Cab send me a marked taxi or a private-looking car? A taxi! So, the taxi remained parked outside while Kavita walked into the complex and made several trips up and down, sent by one desk to another. I suppose we got some good exercise but because we had left on empty stomachs (I can never accomplish breakfast, getting up on time and getting out the door on time in one go) and, I felt terrible at dragging Kavita up and down. 

The main hall at the Ministry of Interior where applicants submit and receive applications is a small one. It's packed and, there is really no sense of order. There is a desk specifically for Afghans and, then another one. When the officers arrive, they are perfectly willing to let the applicants crowd around them and then haphazardly deal with everyone. It's perfectly fine to push your way through and demand your application be looked at. So, when I presented Kavita's application, the fellow there got very intrigued that Kavita's father was Indian. He didn't look at any other part of her application and, told me to go to a fellow named Zia ul Haq who was at the India desk. Can you imagine a more apt name? 

I was a bit puzzled because I didn't remember being at any India desk when my father had brought me to the Ministry back in 2014. Anyway, I found Zia ul Haq who dismissively but politely explained to me that Kavita had a US passport which didn't mention the nationality of her father and she would need to go through a normal desk.

I went back to the main desk where of course, the fellows were no longer there and were on lunch break. It was a Friday so lunch break was an extended one and, Jumma Namaz would naturally lengthen the break. 

During this time, I decided to take a lunch break myself. Our Metro Cab was dutifully waiting outside. We rang up the driver and, he pulled up. We went to Super Market for lunch. We had some sandwiches at Cafe Rouge. I always forget that everything at Pakistani restaurants is full of mirchain and, didn't enjoy the sandwiches much. I got a couple of snacks from United Bakery for Kavita and then headed back to the Ministry. 

I went back to the main hall where of course I couldn't find the officers and the security guard advised me to go back to Zia ul Haq and, let him write on the paper that he wouldn't approve Kavita's application. This didn't help. During this walking up and down, I telephoned my father who told me he would find the relevant desk officer and, sort things out. 

The reception staff noticed me going up and down and, finally told me to go up to the 6th floor and find a certain Mushtaq Ahmed (the person who first sent me to the India desk). By this time, my father had managed to contact him through some friends at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I went up and of course Mr Ahmed met me kindly and, received my application. 

I was so relieved. 

Of course, it was a bit of a stressful and tiring process. I cursed all the names I could think of including Jinnah and Gandhi and Nehru and other figures who dreamt of modern nation states and enlisting themselves in history books. Who said Partition is over? Kaun kambakht kehta hai?

During this whole process, did anyone even notice that Kavita is hardly 4 years old, a loved child, innocent of the concepts of borders (which are invisible to begin with), and, only wants to watch cartoons? 

Traveling home

I flew back to Islamabad on Friday and arrived in the early hours of Sunday, 4 December, flying along the most familiar route from Monrovia to Islamabad via Accra with Emirates. 

Waiting to check in for the Arik Air flight to Accra at RIA.

I was pretty excited about my trip because it's so familiar and, Kavita is a good traveling companion. As long as you explain to her what's going on, she cooperates, wakes up to walk out of the plane and along the miles-long corridors of the Dubai Airport, and patiently waits when we have to wait. Also, she's a cartoon fanatic and, Emirates and other airlines have an impressive selection of entertainment on board which keeps her very, very busy.

Kavita and I woke up extra early to start getting ready to catch the 1140 AM Arik Air Flight to Accra from Roberts International Airport (RIA). We had to give ourself at least an hour to be able to get to the Airport from Randall Street. I had enough time and, even stopped at the handicraft shops across Mamba Point Hotel to make a last-minute purchase for gifts.

We reached the Airport on time thanks to Morris Duo, NATC's driver.  Haresh accompanied us and, we bid him farewell at the Airport. As always, it's always hard to say good bye. In fact, I get traveling blues at least a week before I have to get on a plane, especially when one knows when one is flying across continents, time zones away.

Kavita and I easily checked in with time to spare. I met a lady from whom I had purchased a high table with stools for use for a staff corner for our office  via the Expats Google Group (a very, very useful and entertaining forum where so-called expats, "re-pats" and, Liberians exchange information, post vacancies, sell items when they leave town, post complaints about restaurants and, vent frustration) and, we made some small talk.

Before I knew it, we were on board the plane. I find going through RIA very, very easy. It's like being home. It's small and, if you're friendly and polite, you'll breeze through. It's better than Islamabad Airport for international departures and arrivals for sure. 

On the bus taking us to the Arik Air plane.

The 2-hour Arik Air flight was pleasant and, I enjoyed reading the in-flight magazines that featured countries worth visiting in Africa. The service was pleasant.

We landed at Kotoka Airport in no time and, I walked into the terminal and, wondered how many times I had taken this journey back home. It was already the second time in 2016. I was mentally ready for the 4-5 hour transit in the Airport until the 1830 hrs Emirates flight to Dubai. There were a few other transit passengers who were waiting to be herded to their onward flights. I met a French-American lady who had been in Monrovia for 2 weeks for a consultancy with the World bank. She said she enjoyed her work in Monrovia. She complained that her office had booked her to Monrovia via a very long route via Addis and, now she was pleased she was going back via Dubai. She lives in Delhi and works with an accounting firm. She and I chatted and, I gave her my business card as she was going to be back. I explained to her we would collect our luggage, exit the Airport, walk through the Arrivals, through the car park and, then re-enter the Airport through the Departures gate. She couldn't believe that's what we had to do and, said but when she had arrived last time, they didn't have to exit the Airport.

I just politely nodded saying I had taken this journey so many times and, was used to it.

Aboard the Arik Air flight from Monrovia to Accra

Kavita looking down at the world. A very amusing incident happened on board. I was alerted by neighbouring passengers that Kavita was hurt. I looked next to me to see Kavita was dabbing a bleeding finger with some tissue papers. She became upset when I saw it and, then got angry at the neighbours. She only showed me on the condition I wouldn't touch her finger. It turned out to be a minor thing but it seems she has a habit of not telling anyone when she's hurt. 

So, we collected our luggage, walked down the ramp, left the Airport, walked through the crowd of folks waiting for their loved ones, past the Chinese fast food outlet on our right, and walked through the Car Park and up a slope. We re-entered the Airport through the Departures Gate. Recently, the Airport has installed a baggage screening right at the Entrance which wasn't there before.

Landing in Accra.

Kavita and I checked into Emirates and, there was no anxiety because our suitcases were quite empty and, there was no chance of being excess.

We went upstairs into the Departure Halls and, zipped past all the booths although I did get a little annoyed at how many times we had to produce our passports and yellow fever cards for checking over and over again. I lifted Kavita to let the thermographic capture her lack of fever and, then took off my glasses to get myself checked too. I explained to Kavita why we had to remove our shoes and things for the baggage screening once more. She was quite intrigued and so were the Airport Security staff when I explained to her that these guys wanted to make sure we weren't bringing anything "bad" on board.

At the fantastic Sanbra Lounge at Kotoka Airport, Accra.

At the fantastic Sanbra Lounge at Kotoka Airport, Accra.

I went straight up to the trusty Sanbra Lounge and, where I learned that they had reduced the pass price from $ 25.00 to $ 20.00 for women. Kavita was of course free. We excitedly entered the lounge, parked our carry on luggage in a comfortable corner and then headed for the snacks and drinks corner. We gobbled up samosas, pies, tiny-size humus and bread, fresh fruit and some baked goods. Kavita drank a fizzy drink while I asked for a hot coffee. The pass includes free WiFi and, we spoke to Haresh via a WhatsApp and Facebook Messenger video call, whichever one worked best.

I met the Chief Financial Officer (CFO) of Arcelor Mittal Liberia and, excitedly told him about our IT company. I was quite surprised to meet a staff of Arcelor Mittal and, to learn that after a new discovery of additional deposits, the company was going to scale up.  I told the CFO that we had been trying to get Arcelor Mittal as a client, and once upon a time, NATC had bagged all the major mining companies like Putu Iron Ore Mining Inc. and BHP Billiton. He explained some problems he was facing with procurement and, was surprised at the exorbitant high prices that local vendors were quoting. I proudly told him not to worry and, he should give us a chance. We exchanged contacts and I immediately sent him an e-mail introducing our company to him. What a great moment!

Kavita and I proceed to take our shower in the Lounge's bathrooms and, then, I bought some gifts from the Duty Free. It's always good to keep extra gifts with one, never knowing when you need to impress someone or for when you feel extremely obliged when someone invites you over. I packed everything in our carry-on luggage and then proceeded to the Departure Gate. A fellow asked for our passports (again!) and, when he saw Kavita's US passport, all he said with a smirk was "Trump!"

How are you supposed to respond to this, especially because we had Kavita in the US so we could escape the bitter relations between India and Pakistan? Did he not realise the geopolitical situation in which Kavita was born in the US, the country that continues to bomb Pakistan through drone attacks and, uses its most vile military dictators for its own imperial interests?

We are waiting for the bus to take us to the hotel.

I just grunted and, kept walking to the Gate where they started boarding. Apparently we were in section E which was being boarded first. Still, there was a bit of a stampede and, as usual the Airport and Airline staff watched it without really helping anyone or organising manic passengers who wanted to race to their seats, probably to make sure there was enough space in the overhead compartments to stash their carry on bags.

Well anyway, we soon boarded and, excitedly took our place in our seats. We were seated to a very nice Canadian lady (originally from Zimbabwe) who was en route to Dhaka for business. She was working in the pharmaceutical industry. She was extremely sweet and, didn't mind when Kavita put her feet on her lap when she was sleeping and, would help Kavita with  her headphones or passing the food tray.

I managed to watch quite a few movies: Ghostbusters, Lights Out, Tale of Tales, and only 1/4 of Equals. That's pretty good for movie watching, no? I absolutely loved the new Ghostbusters and, the feminist interpretation is brilliant. The women were hilarious. I was also blown away by the fascinating Tale of Tales and, its brutal intertwined stories. It was unlike anything I've seen in a long time.

Kavita was busy of course with her cartoons. Emirates definitely has an impressive selection of films and TV shows.

It was soon time to land in Dubai and, I was greatly looking forward to my day-long stop-over in Dubai.

Lobby of the Al Bustan Hotel, the hotel given to us for our stop over by Emirates. See photographs of the rulers of the UAE.

Lobby of the Al Bustan Hotel where we waited to be checked in.

Instead of landing in Dubai, the pilot informed us that due to heavy fog, the flight would be diverted to Sharjah. So, there we were - landing in Sharjah instead of Dubai in the early hours of the morning. No worries, I thought to myself. This can't cut too much time out of my day-long stop-over. No need to panic. I would still have time to shop, enjoy Dubai and meet Haresh's sister.

We landed at Sharjah Airport. It looked like a much smaller airport than the ultra-modern, glitzy, ever-expanding, and 1-landing-plane-a-minute Dubai Airport. The plane landed, taxied and, we sat in the middle of the runway for a bit. The captain informed us he was waiting for guidance to be led to the terminal. We were led away and, then were parked in the plane until further notice. By this time, we were quite tired of watching films and, it was time to sleep. Kavita was easily able to sleep but I slept in fits, turning from one side to another trying to get comfortable. In between being awake and  being  squashed in the most awkward angle in a small airplane seat, we heard the pilot announce several times that the flight was going to take off in 20 minutes or that he was still awaiting instructions from Dubai.

We managed to stay parked on the Sharjah Airport tarmac for 6 hours. My day-long stop-over in Dubai was half over. We finally took off and, landed in Dubai at around 1 or 2 PM.

The Zimbabwean lady and I exchanged some remarks over the experience. The crew were not explaining anything clearly, weren't really that friendly or even bothered to smile. She was not happy with the service and, said so much that the flights serving so-called developing countries are always full of rather unkind crew. I shared my observations too, especially  how the crew is extremely unhelpful and only 1 in 10 actually smile or offer to help.

Kavita and I stumbled out of the plane, the last passengers. I convinced Kavita to wake up and, walk out with me. The poor thing was exhausted but I was firm and, we started walking towards the Exit. She had a small tantrum when I washed her face and brushed her teeth in the bathroom. After she calmed down we continued walking but she kept weeping and, I felt terrible and tired. I simply couldn't carry her and, pull 2 wheelers and carry my back pack. My bags were full of change of clothes and gifts for our day in Dubai.

This took a good half hour or more, over moving walk ways, one after another, past bathrooms, connecting flight counters, past adverts for posh Dubai residences, into the massive elevators that coast down, gliding down against the waterfall, and into the main immigration hall. I headed for the Emirates desk which processes transit passengers who have hotel vouchers. Of course none of the Emirates staff at these desks was particularly concerned about how exhausted I was. I was sent from one desk to another across the massive marbled, gleaming hall. Kavita patiently dragged her small pink Dora wheeler while I pushed mine. I patiently waited in the queue for 20 minutes until someone cut the line and I blew my top off. I informed the lady that I was exhausted, having sat in a plane in Sharjah for 6 hours, diverted because of the fog and, I wanted to get served. The fellow who cut the line let me go ahead and, the lady at the desk told me I was at the wrong counter!

I went to the right counter, got the ticket I needed and proceeded to the immigration queues. I insisted I be let into the short Business Class line because of my child and how exhausted I was. That worked and, after a few minutes, we were out of the queue. I showed Kavita the immigration officer's hands with ornate mehndi. We then walked for another good few minutes past the baggage collection (we didn't need to collect our bags since they were booked straight through to Islamabad) and, were out. We headed to Exit 1 where Emirates transit passengers are taken by bus to the hotel.

Our lunch at the hotel.

Lining up to get on the bus to the hotel.

We were told to wait for the bus which after waiting for 30 minutes. It was already about 3:00 PM and my flight was at 9:30 PM. There was no way I would be able to do anything. I used the WiFi to connect to Haresh and then sent a message to his sister. I could have taken a taxi straight to his sister instead but I had hardly any time to do anything worthwhile. Also, I didn't hear back from her so it was better to just go to the hotel to freshen up and, catch maybe an hour of sleep at the most.

I helplessly made noise at the counter, explaining how bone tired I was. Finally, the bus arrived and, we were taken to Al Bustan Hotel. There were some French passengers behind us in the queue and some Indian ladies in the front. Kavita admired one lady's daughter's Frozen back pack. We managed to check in and, were told lunch was available until 4 PM.

It was a pleasant lobby and, Kavita and I walked straight to the restaurant through a gleaming shopping mall full of formal party dresses which Kavita kept admiring. "Ami, look, princess dress!" she called out. The shopping mall was perfumed and I was struck at this different and familiar world I was in, so different from my day to day life in Monrovia, on Randall Street.

We had a good lunch at the restaurant. It was a buffet with a good spread. Somehow, the chairs reminded me of a very sterile, generic canteen. We finished our lunch and, went up to our room which was in fact a suite! It had a living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom. How I wish I had had the whole day here: a nice hotel room provided by Emirates. We had only a couple of hours to freshen up. We took a warm bubbly bath, and took a nap for an hour.

In our suite. Too bad we didn't have the full day to enjoy it.

Walking through the Mall in which was the Hotel.

The alarm woke me up and, I couldn't understand at all where I was. I quickly dressed and, then woke Kavita woke up. We were back in the lobby downstairs at quarter to 7 PM.

We drove back to the hotel in the shuttle bus with a few more passengers. Kavita spoke loudly about everything while everyone listened to her observations and stories.

Checking back into the Airport was quite smooth. We had had our boarding passes issued back in Accra so all we needed to do was breeze through. Thankfully, the officer checking weight of the carry on luggage let us through when he weighed my bag which was 10 KG instead of 7 KG. I told him, we had been diverted because of the fog, and he let us go. I didn't have to unpack and distribute the weight in the 3 bags we had.

We went through the baggage screening, checked our gate number and, then went up close to our Gate. We checked out a few shops on the way, including the perfume shop. All I did was browse and, Kavita chatted to the perfume ladies who were extremely charmed by  her.

We treated ourselves to Haagendas ice-cream and Burger King burgers. I had the burger packed and, walked to the Gate. Kavita somehow remembered how the last time she was upset at this very counter and, a kind lady had carried her while I struggled with all the bags I had in my hand. She even remembered the toy the lady had gifted her (this was the Chinese girlfriend of a Pakistani fellow). I was flabbergasted with her memory. We showed our boarding passes to the lady at the counter and took the lift down to the Gate.

The hall was full of passengers, mostly Pakistanis of course. Such a moment makes one feel like you're already in Pakistan.

I went to the front of the Gate and, went straight to the plane. We were one of the first passengers. We seated ourselves and, of course Kavita put on some cartoons straight away. I tried to watch something but promptly fell asleep. The flight was only 2 and a half hours long and, before we knew it, we had landed.

We were again the last passengers out of the plane. Kavita was asleep and, I gently woke her up. I asked the crew to help me take my bags to the front of the plane. The fellow was so surprised at my request. He said he wasn't allowed to leave the aircraft. Was I speaking another language? I told him, sure, I would just wait for my daughter to wake up because I couldn't carry her and my hand luggage.

Time and time again, I am shocked at how unfriendly and unhelpful the Emirates crew are. They don't smile, let alone help you. We criticise rude restaurant staff and, even stop patronising establishments and, here we have dished out several thousand dollars for an international flight only to be met with arrogant and vain crew who are at best sky waiters and waitresses who seem to be only concerned with getting the meal service done and over with.

We disembarked the plane and, I carried Kavita down the flight of stairs to the bus in my arms while ground staff eagerly helped me to put my bags in the bus. It was the early hours of Sunday morning and, surprisingly bearably cool. I was expecting freezing cold weather in December in Islamabad.

We patiently queued in the immigration lines behind British Pakistanis who I enjoyed observing, the fashion, the accents, the kids' antics and, family dynamics.

The Immigration Officer noticed that Kavita's Pakistan visa had nearly expired and I explained I would extend it.

It took about an hour to collect our bags at the conveyor belt because apparently there was a strike and, it took forever for the bags to come out. Kavita slept in my arms and, after some time, we were finally done and able to exit the Airport.

This was a long, tiring journey home. 

Shopping at Bosh Bosh on Camp Johnson Road

I don't know why people complain there's nothing to get for gifts in Monrovia for occasions in town or to buy souvenirs for friends and family back home. Whether it's artisan shops in Mamba Point to several fashion boutiques to lappa in Waterside or picking up jars and jars of Liberia Pure Honey from all major supermarkets, there's a lot of ideas for gifts and souvenirs. There's even several varieties of Liberian coffee in nice packaging and, Liberian tea. 

As I'm off to Pakistan, I went to Camp Johnson Road to look for gifts at Bosh Bosh. I also peeked into Mango Rags next door. My friend Manita accompanied Kavita and I on our shopping spree. 

Facebook

When my phone was stolen in September and, after I got it back, I realised someone had signed into the phone. It was not the thief but maybe a middle person who had bought it or is in the business of buying stolen phones and, selling them onwards. The phone was recovered from behind the South Beach prison by the police. 

A few weeks later, we had a break in and, the thief was apprehended same day and, the picture we had of the thief was not the same as the fellow who had signed into my phone. 

When I got my phone back and realised someone else had signed into Facebook on my phone, I had a lot of fun with this fellow's Facebook account. I would frequently update this person's Facebook status and, write things like "Why did God make a phone thief? Why?" while drinking beers at Royal Hotel. Or, I would compliment all the women on his Newsfeed and ask them to marry him. The funniest thing is that someone would Like it or not really catch on at all. 

Honestly, I didn't feel much guilt for going through this person's Newsfeed or by posting embarrassing updates. 

After some time, I would see the Newsfeed as a very interesting and fascinating place to see how the Liberian folks use social media. 

There are so many selfies and pictures of folks just posing. They are going to school or to the office and, stylishly pose for a series of pictures. There are selfies of folks in taxis on their way to work.

Some of the selfies are quite orchestrated and, manufactured. The auto photographers have taken time to think about light, angles and, how good they look. Sometimes the selfies are what people think selfies are supposed to be about: pouting your lips. Sometimes, you notice folks are not even smiling and taking a selfie with pouting lips. There are also selfies made in a very unflattering angle, the camera right below the chin with no regard for light. It feels like we the viewers are crouching on the ground looking up at very unsightly faces.

The captions too are interesting: thanking God Almighty or sweet Jesus for another day or affirming belief that Jesus has something good in store for them. There are captions that praise one own's beauty i.e. #PRETTY_ME_ALWAYs_CUTE#. There are photographs of folks celebrating a good Church Servie. 

The muck and mire of expat lives

About a week ago, I crossed a make-shift bridge which collapsed and I fell into an extremely questionable swamp. It was one of the most uncomfortable and wretched moments for me.

This happened during a Saturday HASH walk which I was already initially planning on boycotting but somehow found myself agreeing to join Haresh and my friends. 

I've not been on many HASH walks but most of them involved going through humble communities, even poor ones. The one before this last one involved going through congested slums, walking right past peoples' homes, through tight lanes, past peoples' lives which because of lack of space, extends beyond four walls. What are you supposed to do when you walk past trash, ram shackle homes, children playing near garbage, intolerable garbage rotting outside homes, and communities which are living without solid walls and roofs, without dependable electricity and water and, are probably experiencing theft and even armed robbery that we read and hear about? Should you look away? Smile unapologetically? Ignore it? Shrug it off? 

What should you do when you go across a shaky and wobbly bridge used by community members? Think it's an "African adventure" and use it for an Instagram moment? 

These past few times, I felt the walks were very intrusive, disrespectful and, I failed to see what was the purpose of going through such congested slum communities? We surely were not stopping to say hello, do any meaningful social work, so what was the point? 

I felt embarrassed that I was face to face with such poor living conditions and, I was there merely as a passer by. Sure, I would greet people on the way and but really, what was I doing there, walking past? 

Does poverty provide a scenic walk for expatriate aid, development workers who ironically live in luxury compounds in Monrovia, a far cry from how ordinary Liberians live, but in whose name billions of dollars has been poured in to help and save them? I guess it does.

I noticed a couple of other walkers seemed to think on the same lines as me but most people were happy to just get some good old exercise. 

I observed the walks and runs ended in the same jolly crude singing, joking about all the shit and mud they had been through, and thinking of the most embarrassing sexual innuendos for names for new comers to the group. 

I was simply not very comfortable in this seemingly careless and rather obnoxious walking style. Nevertheless, I found myself giving another shot to this HASH walk for Haresh's sake, our dog Bijli and Kavita who loves walking. 

This last Saturday, we walked through an especially vulnerable community spread across a very swampy area of town. There was mud everywhere and, we carefully followed a trail set across this mud and swamps. A passer by offered to help me across a single plank over a wide section of a swamp. After a couple of steps, the plank cracked in two and, we both fell into this extremely dirty swamp. The hare (the person who has set the trail and leads the walk) jumped in behind me and, the ones in the front helped me out. 

I was completely overwhelmed and, disgusted. I felt I had fallen into sewage, a gutter. The community member who was trying to help me himself fell into this filth and, I was overcome with embarrassment. I apologised over and over and, I'm sure his mobile phone was damaged.  I walked in a daze and, was met with people from the same community. A few them were extremely concerned and offered to get me new clothes. Another fellow holding his daughter in arms smiled and said "Welcome to Africa." I could only smile.

I felt angry and embarrassed and, also grateful for my friend and hare Kelly who didn't even pause for a second and jumped right into the swamp to help me out. I felt grateful to the community members who were so generous with helping me, offering to get me new clothes and, then dumped a couple of buckets of water on me, hauled from the well. 

I felt like an ignorant expatriate who I so self righteously claim I am not. I am too serious to pass through the most vulnerable societies who live in ram shackle homes in swamps that regularly get washed away in the rainy season, fending for themselves. I am too serious to pass through all this for fun unless I am actually going to do anything about it. I can't take it lightly. I am too serious. Even if I am not saving anyone, let me at least be embarrassed about inequality and injustice  in my own private corner at home. 

I was extremely angry at myself and at the situation and, felt I had doomed myself. I was so vocal about the insensitivity of these forays and, had myself fallen into a dirty swamp while trying to cross a flimsy bridge. I felt like an noisy tea kettle at best. 

After the incident, Haresh and I walked until we met the other group who Kavita happened to be with because she had been far ahead the whole time, helped by other friends in the walking group. I silently walked back to the car, with Haresh, Kavita and another friend behind me. Was it a walk of shame or what?

I lashed out at Haresh once when I realised my phone (it had been in my pocket) was full of mud and water, wanting to blame him but then quietened myself until we got home and, I scrubbed myself with Dettol and soap. I was itching  all over and, wondered what kind of filth was all over me. 

I haven't shared my thoughts with the Monrovia HASH group and, wonder whether it is useful even to do so.

This incident re-emphasised the idea in me that most folks I meet in the aid business are quite an uncritical lot. Despite being agents of change, I feel many of these folks don't challenge the status quo, don't question the impact (if any) of their work, don't see the obvious inequality, don't question the high living standards they enjoy themselves in a poor country like Liberia, why nothing is changing much,  and, don't really seem to be transformed by the place or work they do in any noticeable manner. Do folks not see the acute inequality and, feel embarrassed? Who cannot but be transformed by that realisation. One can't even have a decent, invigorating conversation! In fact, one is often confronted by racist remarks. 

The mud and filth I felt on my body was also the muck and mire of a very unjust and unequal world where, despite such advancements in science, technology and socialist ideology, people live in very abject conditions.