Sunday, October 30, 2011

One-Man Gui-tar

Our motel in Naivasha, Kenya, modest by American standards, was transformed into something of a nightclub on weekends. We had been forewarned that there would be loud music on the weekends. What wasn’t revealed was that the music played well into the morning hours.
It’s rare that I hear music, any music that I enjoy listening to. There are just not that many places that play songs by Bill and Gloria Gaither. I like a little music in my life, but like preaching, it doesn’t take a lot to do me. But, stick me in an automobile where I can’t control the radio, set me down in a church pew and play and/or sing a contemporary-style song or two, or bed me in a motel with loud music playing while I’m trying to drift off to sleep and I’m miserable. Here, I associate the word misery with Chinese water torture.
So, I’m an odd sort of bird, who has very limited likes when it comes to music. However, I do enjoy really good music, just not the sort that appeals to the masses, certainly not much of what shows up on shows like American Idol.
I wouldn’t have enjoyed the music at the motel any better had it been sung in my native tongue and not Swahili. I don’t listen to the words unless it’s a ballad or a gospel song, and as far as I could tell, the singer was singing American country music, but not the Patsy Cline or Hank Williams songs that are dear to my heart. Fortunately, I was so tired both Friday and Saturday nights that the music didn’t keep me awake all night.
Our group wanted a change from the typical evening meals served at the motel, so we let staff know we’d be ordering pizza. They provided us a dining room adjacent to the band area. Our driver, known only as Ben to me, was invited to dine with us. Our meal coincided with the start time for the band. I could hear guitar music, a singer, and drums. When I asked Ben about the band, he told me it was a one-man gui-tar. I don’t think I can break down guitar as he pronounced it, but he accented both syllables equally.
It sounded like a small group of musicians to me, so shortly afterwards, I slipped away to check out this one-man gui-tar. Just as I thought, there was a drummer pounding away on a set of drum, you know, a big bass drum a couple of snare drums and cymbals. I returned to share my discovery with Ben.
“Yes,” he smiled obligingly, “It’s a one-man gui-tar.”
“But he’s got a drummer.
“It’s a one-man gui-tar,” Ben insisted.
Still curious, I pressed him for additional information.
“What do you call one guitar player, one drummer, and a second vocalist?”
“It’s a one-man gui-tar.”
By this time other team members had started listening to our conversation.
“What if there are three singers?
“It’s a one-man gui-tar.”
I continued to add an extra singer until the count reach five and each time Ben’s answer to my question was, “It’s a one-man gui-tar.”
“Okay, I see the pattern here, Ben. What do you call one man playing a guitar with a choir of singers?”
Are you ready for this one?
“A choir.”
“Dang,” I silently mused, then asked the obvious, “At what point between five vocalists and a choir does the definition of a one-man guitar change?”
Ben laughed and explained any band with one guitar player and one or more vocalists is simply called a one-man gui-tar. It’s only when a second guitar player is added the terminology changes and the group playing/performing is called a band.
See, if I hadn’t gone to Kenya, I’d have never known what a one-man gui-tar is.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Ask For Neal

Packing enough clothes for a 15-day trip oversees into two checked bags is enough of a challenge, but as we were carrying tools to use on a worksite, keeping the weight of the bags under fifty pounds became something of a problem. Barbara and I decided to purchase a large duffle bag to hold mostly my things and some tools. We also bought a small duffle bag for me to use for a short stay at a safari lodge as well as to accommodate the luggage restrictions of the small aircraft that flew us to the game conservancy.
Suffice it to say, the large duffle bag was a mistake. With its bulkiness, and at just under fifty pounds, it taxed both my strength and my pleasant disposition every time I had to move it. Why I didn’t buy one with wheels is a question I’m still asking. Let’s just say the unwieldy device was enough to make a preacher cuss.
Clothes tend to shift around inside a duffle bag that’s not bursting at the seams. We did a lot of motel hopping in Kenya, so what was in the middle of the bag one night might be at the end of the bag the next night or a night or two later. Organization was a nightmare, but adding to the nightmare was the fact that our motels, by and large, lacked spaces allocated for baggage. There were none of those nice little folding racks found in cheap American motels. Conditions for living out of a suitcase were less than ideal.
I swore I would buy a large suitcase with wheels before lugging the duffle bag back to Pontotoc, but with the dollar’s weakness against the schilling, a bargain was not to be found. And, going through check-in at the airport in Nairobi on the night of our departure, I was still lugging the cumbersome, loathsome duffle bag.
I had left some clothes for the disadvantaged in Kenya and all the tools were donated to Habitat for Humanity, but part of the weight of these was offset by the souvenirs we had bought. It was a few pounds lighter than before, but not by a noticeable amount.
Check-in went fairly normal. I handed over my passport for scanning, a boarding pass was issued, and my bag was checked and strapped with a luggage tag, and a luggage stub was affixed to the back of my boarding pass.
Three hours later, around midnight, we filed, orderly, aboard the airplane that would take us to London. I had hardly gotten comfortable in my window seat when an airline representative boarded and asked if I were Mr. Carter.
I assured her I was, and she handed me another luggage stub, stating simply, “This has your baggage claim number.”
I pocketed it, all the while wondering why I had two stubs and only one bag.
After deplaning in London, a couple of our team members, including me, had to pick up a boarding pass at the American Airlines counter, as there had been a printer problem back in Nairobi. The very nice lady, who issued my pass, informed me there was no bag on our flight that matched the claim number assigned to me. I then retrieved the stub given me after boarding in Nairobi. It matched a bag on the flight, but she said I would have to go to the gate and identify the bag before it could be stowed aboard my flight to Chicago.
An agent adjacent to her had been tuned in to what we were discussing, and he said, “That’s my flight,” which I supposed to mean he would be assisting at the gate.
“Don’t worry, Sir,” he stated, “I’ll meet you at the gate and take you down to identify your bag. Just ask for Neal.”
But, as you might suppose at airports such as London’s, the gate assignment for my flight was not immediately forthcoming, especially since I was looking at a more than four-hour-layover. Fortunately, when traveling with a group, time passes more quickly than when traveling alone.
When we finally were in line to access the gate (lots of security in London) there was no Neal. I spoke to an agent at the gate desk and explained I was to meet Neal about a matter of luggage. Shortly afterwards, Neal arrived, found me and told me the baggage was not yet at the gate but should be shortly.
“I’ll find you as soon as the baggage is here,” he assured me.
“I’m easy to spot,” I replied, “in my red jacket with Ole Miss on the front.”
About ten minutes passed and Neal motioned for me to follow him. He was wearing a lime-green security vest, so I wondered what other passengers thought as I followed him from the waiting area. He led me into a room where another security guard met us and from there we went through security doors accessible by badges and passcodes.
At some point, Neal asked about Ole Miss, “Isn’t that the college in the movie Sandra Bullock was in?”
Knowing he was talking about the Michael Oher story and the movie “Blind Side,” I respondeded affirmatively, somewhat surprised by his memory. The other guard accompanied us at all times. An exterior door was raised and there sat my duffle bag on the pavement.
“Is this your bag?” Neal inquired.
I could see my name tag on the handles as well as the red/white/blue ribbon tied onto one end, and I responded, “Yes, it is. My name is on the name tag.”
Neal didn’t take my word of it he bent down to flip over the name tag, read it, right himself, and quiz, “The Bodock Post?” even, pronouncing bodock correctly.
“Yeah, that’s my newsletter,” I replied.
We chatted briefly about my hobby as we made our way to the waiting area of the gate via a different route of security doors. I looked inside my billfold to find my last Bodock Post business card and gave it to him. He gave me his, as well.
I thanked him for his helpfulness and was generally impressed with his politeness and professional manner, to say nothing of London Heathrow’s security measures. Fly American, I say, and if you do get to London Heathrow Airport sometime ask for Neal.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Kenya Motel ~ Heritage Club Resort

While we were lodged in Kenya, Barbara and I found our accommodations adequate for our needs, though nothing of the sort we expect from motels in America, the lone exception being the Serena Lodge at the Masai Mara wildlife preserve. We spent more nights at the Club Heritage Resort (motel) in Naivasha than anywhere else. For protection from malaria carrying mosquitoes, we slept under netting to prevent mosquito bites. Apparently it worked for as far as I can tell, I received no mosquito bites during the two weeks we were in Kenya.
Because Kenya is situated on the equator and the climate in Naivasha was mild, we did not need air-conditioning or heating systems to remain comfortable at night. Personal hygiene by the Kenyans we met seemed adequate, but for whatever reason, washcloths and hand towels were not provided by the motels. Barbara and I each had one bath towel, but that was all.
We had closet spaces but no dressers in our rooms, thus living out of a suitcase was more difficult than normal. The bathrooms consisted of a wall-mounted lavatory with a mirror, a commode, and a shower, all in a space roughly four feet by seven feet, with no vanity, no shower curtain, and virtually no hot water.
The shower head contained an electric water heater, but it did not function very well. Most everyone in our group, including me, reported taking cold to lukewarm baths. I would complain, except having seen the makeshift shower stalls the more than 335 families living in one of the IDP (Internally Displaced People) camps, I’m grateful the motel had an indoor facility, and I didn’t have to bathe out of a plastic container.
We enjoyed private dining for breakfast and dinner, which was a nice treat. The same members of the motel staff served us daily. There was plenty of food to choose from, but very little that appealed to me. I almost converted to vegetarianism while in Kenya, because I found very little meat that I could chew and swallow.
For my first few days in Kenya, I ate the pale-yolk eggs that were served. I tried them scrambled and the eggs looked white. I tried them fried and they looked white. I tried an omelet with peppers and cheese and it too looked white. I don’t think I tried them again.
The sausages served for breakfast looked awful and tasted like cheap bologna. Twice we were served bacon, and twice I tried to figure out what part of the pig it came from. It didn’t have enough fat to come from the belly and wasn’t lean enough to be Canadian bacon.
A few mornings I tried the fresh fruit selections, but generally I shied away from fruit. I don’t trust the handling fruit procedures in America, and I surely don’t in a third-world country. So, I ate a lot of toast and jam or toast and peanut butter for my breakfasts.
Our evening meals at the motel offered some variety from our noon meals eaten thirty miles away, but by the end of the week, I had given up chewing anything they called beef. As an old meat man, I’ve cut just about every part of a steer from the head back and down, but I’ve never seen meat that had gristle throughout it.
Early on in my Kenya trip, I learned that most any of the vegetable combinations or stews could be combined with the ever-plentiful rice. I also learned to put enough hot sauce on the food to make it go down easier. I never went hungry, but after two weeks in Kenya I came home ten pounds lighter.
While I may have grumbled and complained about my life in Kenya, it should not be construed that I didn’t have a good experience. As I told a teammate, "I wouldn't take anything for experiencing Kenya for two weeks, but I can't think of anything that would merit my returning."