Nothing But Good Intentions

It is time for this blogger to come to terms with the concept of charity, that thing that is so good and innocent. Time, for a reality check and to take away its air of unassuming benevolence. And by tricky charity this blogger mostly means money donations, especially those going to places beyond one's control and understanding.

Yes, on bad days, the cynic in me will play down just about any big story of an apparently good deed, by identifying some underlying personal issues -whether real or imagined- that would explain such a willingness to part with one's own money or otherwise removing the halo around that doer of said apparent good. But no, this is not about the man who became rich from dubious business activities and wants to clear his conscience, or the celebrity who does it for the PR - it's not about that. It's not entirely about that.

It should be said that the dodgy rich man and well-advised celebrity are the least of our worries. When selfless actions are actually the result of selfish motives, the world wins. In fact, their behavior is arguably the most rational of all donors'.

This is because they know what they're getting from charity: It's money well spent on publicity and, more importantly, the acquisition of respect and of self-respect. We average fools, however, don't readily admit any of that even to ourselves, because we imagine ourselves to be true to our cause. Those of us who are indeed guided by ideals alone and genuinely want nothing but the best for others are truly the most honorable of all. But that's also where we find some of the biggest fools.

The truth is, unless our donations go directly to a certain recipient or a very concrete project, we don't know a thing about where our money ends up. If we were half the rational actors that the rich man and well-advised celebrity are and cared about others in need, we would care about the effectiveness of our donation in helping them. Then we'd get smart and, instead of thinking about just the amount of money that's donated, we would all focus on the results relative to it. And learn that much of it goes to waste, if it isn't being outright manipulated and counterproductive.

There are the simple scenarios, with the homeless person who is hungry not only for food, in which case buying him a sandwich is probably a better idea then letting him prioritize and spend your money on drugs; or with the kids who follow you around, begging for money, only to return it to those women who exploit them and who are just idling about nearby, eating snacks. And there are the not-so-simple scenarios, where our donation is intended to feed that particular malnourished and crying African child on the well-placed poster designed for that aid agency with the catchy logo and slogan found on every dancing beneficiary's T-shirt, which aid agency's activity in a disaster zone, however, like all such agencies', is coordinated by the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, which is where more politicking, more hypocrisy, and more conflicting interests enter the mix, before the majority of our money is spent on negotiating with corrupt officials, paying armed fighters for protection money to reach only some of the displaced persons, whose very movement may be subject to manipulation by certain actors just to influence market forces and maximize profits, some of which parties clearly wouldn't mind if things simply stayed this way.

That is to say, we must be wary that sometimes it's very difficult for anyone to understand what's going on, not to mention figure out what can be done about it, and that includes aid workers as much as politicians and news reporters. Unless the connection to the beneficiary is more straightforward, as is the case with funding an individual's education or concrete projects such as providing mosquito nets or installing solar powered lights and water pumps, a good alternative would be to focus on more tangible situations that are closer to home. Venture philanthropy is the new art of giving, and transparently operated private foundations such as the Gates foundation with a budget of many billions of dollars offer an interesting approach. But how prudent and impartial and effective they are at tackling extreme poverty remains to be seen.

Still, that air of unassuming benevolence didn't just come out of nowhere. My colleague's cousin once found 10,000 Euro in the pocket of some second-hand clothes at a time when he was still making a very modest living trading in them. Needless to say, that money allowed him to move on to bigger things and he now lives more comfortably. It's quite likely the benefactor left the money in the pocket on purpose. Because rarely, but surely, they would hear stories of Euro bills being found randomly in these second-hand clothes coming in from Europe - usually in the 10s and up to around a 100 Euro, and many times not at all appearing like loose change that had been forgotten.

These second-hand clothes are thrown together and traded in such large quantities that they are rarely given a second glance until they're with the retailers - tiny shops and night stands, or boys who walk around carrying about 5 pieces, trying to find customers on the streets. It may be this blogger's romanticized version of events, but his current humble opinion is that the former owners of these clothes made an informed guess on the logistics of transferring used clothing to Africans, and specifically gave their money left in the pockets a fair chance of reaching a random individual who would make good use of it. A creative, anonymous approach that's informed and aware of its limitations and in this case helps a random someone in need a great deal when that someone least expects it - that's the most romantic way of giving that this blogger can think of right now.


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WOZA 2010

If you’re not a constant dreamer and your focus is on something like human rights, global health, or complex emergencies, then from time to time, you’ll need something that cheers you up or at least keeps you sane. After months of trying to make sense of complex emergencies but really only seeing seemingly insolvable problems of the world and the evil in the human heart winning over the good in the crucial cases, world cup fever did it for me.

WOZA 2010 (WHOA-zah; Zulu imperative:= 'come on/here')

What are the odds that the Netherlands are joined by Cameroon, Japan, and Denmark to form Group E? Really, Cameroon! Sadly, I left my orange girly wig in Europe. I can picture people here laughing their asses off as I put that on and join them to watch Netherlands versus Cameroon, the two teams’ last and maybe decisive match in the group stages. Japan’s Nakamura and Morimoto will be interesting to watch, but unfortunately, that’ll be early June, so I won’t arrive in Asia in time to comfort our Japanese friends, should the other teams shatter them completely. And last but not least, Denmark, with former Ajax coach Morten Olsen knowing my Netherlands inside out, the memory of the Laudrup brothers, and my anxiously following the news on the climate conference in Copenhagen these couple of days all somehow lending it some extra relevance.

Well, for the sake of being nerdy, the odds were 1:(8x8x8-1) = 1 : 255
Or.. 1:(256x7-1) = 1 : 1791, if you include 'Group E', with Group A having been reserved for hosts South Africa.

Trivia:
- South Africans also eat chicken feet.* What Wikipedia says we spectacularly call 'phoenix talons', they call “walkie talkie” or “chicken dust”. Explains how funny image search engines can be, if you find a picture of chicken feet when searching for walkie talkies.
- Fan favourite Matthew Booth, defender of the Bafana Bafana (nickname of the South Africa national football team), is cheered by the entire stadium of fans with a booing voice whenever he makes a clearance or touches the ball. They go, 'Boooooooooooooth...'


More football and World Cup related posts these upcoming months, one of which will be decisively anti-American but ends in a conciliation. Hopefully.


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* West 3 - 4 East

Mbororo For Life

The Wodaabe of Western and Central Africa are nomadic cattle-herders and traders who, with their Zebu ("cows"), cover hundreds of kilometers in and around the harsh environment of the Sahel Belt every year on their way to wherever grass grows next. Wodaabe literally means "people of the taboo". Taboo, perhaps, because the Wodaabe are wildly polygamous and permit sex before marriage, even if Islam was introduced to them some 500 years ago.¹ Wodaabe religion is considered Islamic in essence, but it be would wrong not to call it unorthodox, too.

It appears that stigmatisation of sexual liberalism has not occured in this part of the world. In this sense, the Wodaabe way of life has, in the various countries that they cross, largely avoided the influence of colonial powers for almost a hundred years, and that of Islam for even longer. And they have done so, perhaps, by simply wandering off every time.

The Wodaabe are known for their colorful dresses and eccentric dances, and they are famous for what is sometimes described as an unparalleled appreciation for beauty. Michael Palin, one of the Monthy Python guys, had an encounter with the Wodaabe in his BBC travel documentary Sahara. In what is essentially an annual beauty contest, Wodaabe men put on their elaborate outfits and very heavy make-up to dance for hours if not days and, by doing so, prove their worth and vie for the attention of the women who come over one by one to take a close look and, after careful consideration, give their verdict.

In any case, it would be rather strange if they seriously thought of themselves as "people of the taboo"; and they probably don't, because the Wodaabe people refer to themselves as Mbororo. When they say "Hello", they say djam bandu-naa. So next time, on your way to the supermarket, if you bump into one of these nomadic tribesmen from West/Central Africa, you will know how to greet him in his native tongue. He will be delighted.

Then again, it need not be a nomadic tribesman. Fulfulde is the language spoken by the Fulbe, of whom the Wodaabe are technically a small subgroup but who mostly don't live as nomads anymore. Fulfulde is, in fact, the lingua franca in Northern Cameroon, a region that the Fulbe have long dominated, first militarily, then commercially. The former president of Cameroon, for instance, was a Fulbe. Their cellphones and chase after prosperity are in stark contrast to the Wodaabe's centuries-old, unchanging way of life.²

The Wodaabe don't manipulate land but live off their cattle, their activity and cyclic movement presumably forming an equilibrium with their environment. Isn't that living in perfect harmony with nature? Surely, if our ancestors hadn't settled down at some point in history to give farming a try, humanity wouldn't have come quite this far and could by no means support such a large population. However, imagine, for just a second, the upsides of living the life of a Wodaabe. They are completely comfortable in their own skin and they adhere to a code of behavior³ that leaves little room for such things as cynicism or sarcasm. Also, their diet consists of 100% organic foods.

Everywhere they go, they are different from the strangers they meet. However, that is not something they gnaw at. It is simply so. But when the Fulbe in Cameroon refer to them as Mbororo, it is in a derogatory manner.⁴ This I have learnt from my Cameroon pocket guide and was confirmed by an acquaintance, a Fulbe who, upon hearing what I had just read, laughed out loud and joked about himself being a Mbororo. Basically, they are made fun of for being constantly on the move and not having a permanent home. And so it would have been insensitive from me to choose this title or URL if it wasn't actually out of self-irony.. :)



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¹ According to Amanda, unmarried Wodaabe girls may have sex whenever and with whomever they wish. And although everyone has to suffer through an arranged (first) marriage at a young age, a married woman can leave her husband for a new "love marriage" with another man, if she manages to leave him [the husband] without getting caught in the process.
² Ideas worth sharing: It was a first time to hear that our modern, equal-opportunity, success-driven society had such a side effect. Well worth a look, this video. Good insight into the nature of modern men's envy towards one another, and what Greek tragedies can do for us.
³ (with emphasis on reserve and modesty (semteende); patience and fortitude (munyal); care and forethought (hakkilo); and loyalty (amana))
⁴ It is comparable, for example, with the British use of the term "pikey"; watch the movie Snatch again, if necessary.

It Is The Source Of Life

Day 3 without running water.

It turns out that not only do those folks at UNICEF drive very new, luxurious cars. They also enjoy special privileges. An ancient but big, red Renault fire engine was parking outside UNICEF, pumping what is obviously a load of water into what can only be a water tank, causing me to gasp in envy as I passed by their Yaounde headquarters on my way back from the British Council.

I had just sat an examination in the British Council. British Council staff are very friendly, and they look professional enough to reject and be offended by bribes. Yes, you never know about the latter but they can be given the benefit of the doubt, and as it is the only nearby place I can retreat to, I refuse to believe it is tainted; however, that doesn't mean I haven't wondered how useful it would be to bring in all the textbooks and notes, and to be given 5 instead of just 3 hours. Never trust a Chinese guy.*

That aside, a serious question that comes to mind is: What if there was a blackout as happens so often recently, and it became pitch-dark? Or: I haven't showered in 3 days, will I be able to shower some time in the next 3 days? These are the kind of questions I asked myself as I was preparing to get a zero in an exam in a subject for which the textbooks I was unable to get hold of until much too late.

There may be no more fitting a time to bring up the issue of colonial legacy than while I'm in a ranting mood. Even if it doesn't make perfect sense, given its context. In a way, I'm just putting blame on others for my current situation. See, the first colonists to arrive in Cameroon were the Germans, whose enthusiasm for beer and beer brewing must have been contagious; then came the French, with their unique love for (their own) wine -- and by so doing, they have turned Cameroonians into serious alcoholics and French wine importers.* One would be grateful if the variety in snacks and bread spread was half of what is available in alcoholic beverages. To be honest, a number of good traits could have rubbed off on them, too: On the one hand, punctuality and discipline from the Germans, but no; and from the French, things like..... well, I don't know. One thing they do appear to have from the French, though, is an ability to go on strikes. Good things no learn, learn bad things ah. Now, labour law may not be quite the same as in France and you can get arrested for many absurd reasons, so I don't know how often workers actually dare to go on strikes; yet I can't help it, I keep seeing the French connection as I'm eagerly awaiting the return of running water. It is an employees' strike at the water company that is making me stink. Water outage has been occuring in irregular intervals in all parts of the city without notice but, if it's any consolation, never for longer than a day. This time it's been rumoured in our neighborhood that it could last an entire week. Not having running water sucks. You prepare yourself for it when you go camping or travel to a beautiful island that is very isolated, but at home it's a no-no. I can live with a lot of things but take away the daily shower from me, and I'm out of my comfort zone.

Grumpiness has reached high levels. Someone has to lose points.. okay, UNICEF and the French it is. Needless to say, Cameroonian leadership, too, and they're top of the list -- because water outages are fatal: We are lucky enough to be able to buy sufficient quantities of bottled water and get a supply of medium-sized plastic containers worth of tap water from outer districts where it hasn't yet failed; but to meet their needs, a lot of people resort to rather dirty, potentially hazardous river water.

Practicalities of living under such circumstances: You prepare foods that require less water than others, find the most efficient way of using it when washing dishes, save as much water of reasonable cleanness as possible for toilet flushing, and you change into clean clothes while leaving worn clothes unwashed in hopes that direct supply of water would be restored before you run out of clean clothes to change into. Apropos toilets, wow, those new, fancy toilets that use little more than one liter of water for a flushing? That's quite a feat, actually.

(Update:) On Day 4, water was running again like a miracle, but the return of water was accompanied by the parting of electricity. On Day 5, realizing with a sigh of relief that 3 days of water outage would not be followed by 3 days of power outage or longer, I was able to finish writing this post.



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* West 3 - 3 East.

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI,

a.k.a. (or formerly k.a.) Joseph Alois Ratzinger

It would be a party so big that it brought together every high-level official of the country: the President and all the ministers -- party people who spend the better part of a year living the African dream in Europe and the Middle East. By attending this one, they surely thought they would be doing something more meaningful and constructive than going to the ones they host for themselves.

J.A.R., the party.. and its by-product
It's been 14 years since the last time a Pope came to Cameroon. Pope John Paul II was here in 1985 and 1995, and can be found on wall paintings at schools that he visited. Now it was time for the new airport and again for the country and its people to be blessed, and to hold a Mass for tens of thousands, and many more who would follow it on national television. Kamerun im Papstfieber! People here had waited an unusually long time for a spiritual experience of this calibre, hence the extra high level of excitement given the latest Benedict's visit. Hundreds of thousands dressed up festively and waited for hours at the airport, in the city and along the street that connects the two so they could welcome the Pope. This was to be a joy for non-Catholics, too: 3 more days off work for everyone and a big clean-up campaign prior to his arrival resulting in cleaner roads, the installation of a few more traffic lights and road signs, repainted walls and buildings, and generally, the removal of unsightly things. What's there not to like?

For starters, some of my colleague's Muslim friends, who live near the stadium where the big Mass would be held, were forced out of their homes for 4 days.. because of their faith? No one knows. No compensation, apology, or explanation necessary, of course. As part of the clean-up campaign, countless stands have had to make way permanently. Unsightly things. These are ubiquitous little stands on the streets and in markets that sell snacks, clothing, DVD players, tableware, medicine, the lot; if anything, they are what makes Yaounde a bustling city. (There aren't all that many shops here.) Policemen and anti-riot vehicles came unannounced to drive them away in some areas, most of which the Pope didn't plan to visit, I'm sure. It's very nice to have more space for pedestrians and to be able to see these shops that were previously hidden from sight, but the ill-advised handling of the situation has suddenly left a pretty large group of young people pretty angry, with nowhere else to go and nothing else to do. I, as a foreigner and being new and all, think that's alarming. Also, the majority of them are Muslims from the North, and 'tribal tensions' as a phrase alone already sounds scary.

But who would have thought that, of all things, the visit of a Pope would be detrimental to business? For two weeks, government departments had put aside daily work, pointing towards the imminent arrival of the Pope, as if these officials' time was dedicated to the preparation for it. Payments by the Ministry of Finance were also suspended/delayed by several weeks. Contractual obligation? Sure, yes. Then, if you must and if you are crazy enough, go ahead and find a lawyer -- and know that doing so is asking for trouble. Blocked roads, lazier-than-usual government workers, payment issues, no fun.

Rumor had it that the ministry was out of money, spending all that was available on the clean-up campaign and other preparations. It's also rumored that an undisclosed amount would be -what's the right word here- donated(?) to the Vatican. One day, two trucks were seen leaving the ministry filled with notes. What they were for, insider gossip provided no clues. Meanwhile, I personally see this event as a good opportunity for some of the big players to 'enhance their income'. Now, blaming everything on the Pope would clearly be irrational, but there's a correlation there -- one which reveals an inconvenient truth: that money is always an issue.

J.A.R. and Africa
The Pope was expected to press the President to curb corruption. He didn't do this very openly, because, apart from being the right thing to do, that would have been too ridiculous. The Vatican demanding more transparency? Behind closed doors, that is mere hypocrisy; in public, a confrontation would be an outright joke. Of course, the people in question wouldn't get the joke. They couldn't imagine life without corruption, either. Besides, they're not compelled to listen. How many politicians who are very public about their faith do not just take the elements that they like (votes; 'moral' high ground) and leave the ones that they don't like (inconsistency with their agendas)?

The HIV/AIDS issue was addressed by condemning condom use. Not helpful at all. But it's a relief to read that, even within the Roman Catholic Church, many do not agree with him on this one. The glory days are over, persuasion is more difficult than force. Maybe it needs repackaging. Maybe it can learn something from American Evangelicals! Oh God, what am I saying.

In vying for new members and their sanity, the Catholic Church faces tough competition from other churches and religions, and that something which many Chinese will jokingly say they worship: Money. However, membership is growing rapidly here in Africa, faster than anywhere else. To be fair, it is hard to compete with that, given Africa's population explosion; but above all, the Pope came to embrace his fellow Catholics and Africa as a whole, and possibly help to make it more popular. I remember how unspectacular it was to me even when he first returned to Germany as the new Pope in 2005. Tropical Papstfieber, in contrast: much more intense and widespread, and more interesting to observe. It looked like very effective PR, PR that came at a price and I had to pay for, as well.



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If you are offended in any way by my writing, for example, because religion is a sensitive subject.. or because you are the President of Cameroon, I apologize. Let me know, so that we can reconcile.

Me & The Nun

Evil Customs, Part 2.

In light (hint) of an upcoming event that has already been affecting everyone but won't be honored with an entry until next week, an episode that bears with it a dose of mixed emotions, which has made it difficult to write about. Earlier, I deemed Customs here in Cameroon evil; but perhaps that wasn't entirely correct. Perhaps they are more pitiful than anything else because their shortcomings, too, may just be the reflection of the state that this country is in.

One time, we drove 4 hours to the port city of Douala in order to pay import duties for some goods. In cash, which translates into many thousands of notes that were counted by hand. Not Chinese, lightning-speed hands but keep-cool, African hands. All 4 of them. Yes, 2 cashiers at a major African port to deal with the consistently long line of people bringing them bags and bags of notes to count - so, standing in line and counting took another 3 hours.

In countries like these, for every thing that you want to do, the paperwork that's required is little short of madness. Annoyingly, as a tourist, you may need to get a permit to take photos of government buildings, but it is at Customs where they, most systematically and shamelessly, squeeze money out of you.

Naturally, the Customs official sitting at her own little desk in Yaounde's main post office would not let a golden opportunity slip away when one presented itself in the form of two foreigners -me and a French, elderly nun- who came to pick up packages that had been mailed to them. I myself was endlessly happy about receiving a birthday gift (food) from the modern world, and the nun was delighted to see the box of donated second-hand glasses that were for the needy (followers of The Church). The Customs official found it only appropriate to kill some of the joy by demanding a 100% import duty on these goods, the value of which -since there were no receipts- she would determine by her own estimation plus the mailing fees(!?). She would suspiciously write the sum on a small piece of paper and slide it over the table, looking away and repulsive and arrogant and unconcerned. What followed was some arguing and negotiating, in combination with acting.

Having to pay anything was outrageous but because I saw it coming, I wasn't half as shocked as the nun was furious (understandably) about this shameless woman unjustifiably demanding money for these old glasses that were for a charitable cause. Workers of the post office, too, felt that this was a disgrace and helped us complain to the director of the post office who had for some time been unhappy with the Customs official's presence and continuing exploitation of the power that comes with her position. The nun was the first to be invited into the director's office to make her complaint and coming out, she still had her don't-mess-with-me face on and formed a fist to signal to me that it's necessary to show them some fury and let it be known that such injustice is not okay!

In the end, it was all fruitless drama because we did not hear back from the director, which was to be expected; but I found comfort in a pack of Dutch liquorice and the fact that I am more susceptible to pleasant surprises than I am to nasty ones, which is proving to be invaluable here in Africa! A rogue like this Customs official is a sorry individual who already has enough to eat but nonetheless tries to steal a fish -- as opposed to the poor person who needs to be given a fish, or the diligent person who learns to fish. TIA. This is Africa. That said, the nun will get over it. She may already have given away the glasses to people in need. Besides, she must be happy now, considering the imminent arrival of someone very special: Her 大大老板*!



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*Big big boss (word-by-word translation)

Ruse Is Not A Tropical Disease

London. I figured after last time that I would never like this city much; but I would give it a second chance this time around. That was until I stepped out of the plane and entered Heathrow Airport. I do honestly hate that place, although as of this moment, I more passionately hate the Italian guy sitting next to me in this hip Brussels hostel's internet corner, for typing on his keyboard like it is an ancient typewriter, causing the whole table to vibrate strongly but irregularly, and overall turning his typing activity into a very noisy and annoying affair for others nearby. Anyhow.

I arrived at Holborn Station during rush hour, which I now know is a Don't Do, especially for beginners. In search of my hostel and road signs that would help me find it, all I saw were cranky, very serious people in a hurry -- people who were entirely focused on getting to their destination, probably their homes, as quickly as they could. In that sea of fast-moving bodies, I noticed the occasional still-standing tourist holding a map but who was equally disoriented, which I found was a funny sight, as I told myself that I was the guy from rural African who had never been to the Western big city, overwhelmed and lost and without a map even. There must be some good explanation for this in the study of psychology, the fact that the cranky-looking people running around made me feel I needed to start moving -and fast, too- even though I had no idea which direction to take. I walked back and forth in the surrounding area and did not get any smarter, so then I asked the first normal, idly-standing person for help and, of course, she had an iPhone and in no time, she pinpointed for me our location and my hostel on Google Maps. There are nice people in this city, after all. Then came a woman who asked help; she looked desperate but not so desperate as to look suspicious. She had asked 10 people already, was pregnant, [......], needed £4 for a ride home, and if I didn't believe her, I could even have her cellular phone [...] -- to which I said I was merely a backpacker, unsure of whether or not that was cold-blooded but recalling that the very first person I exchanged words with that day, in London, was a lady at a desk in Heathrow Airport trying to trick me into buying overpriced train tickets to get to the city.

But to sum it all up, the long weekend in London was pretty fantastic and with some surprises, as the positives, e.g.:

+ catching U2 perform, in a surprise gig, on the rooftop of the BBC
+ nostalgic bus rides
+ Picasso Illuminations at Trafalgar Square
+ great restaurants
+ meeting strangers
far outweighed the usual negatives, i.e.,:

- the sight of too many older women wearing skirts too short (not charming)

- too much binge drinking, too early in the day

- Heathrow Airport

- stupid, American tourists everywhere I went ("My brother is the biggest U2 fan! Really, he used to, like, travel to other cities to go to their concerts.")

I'd like to think that I have become more open-minded; that living in Africa has had that effect. During the coffee breaks between lectures, I ended up socializing with more blacks than people of any other race. Most white people didn't want my love, and it's the front-row, glasses-wearing Cantonese who suddenly looked the least approachable and interesting. Let me point out here that I am more sarcastic than I am an ass, as not only do I have a bit of Cantonese in me, but I wear glasses, occasionally, and choose the front row, too.. sometimes. It's weird this passage turned out like this because the overall message is supposed to be that race does not matter.

The evening before I left London, the woman was there again, approaching me with an "Excuuse me!" from afar; but in the relative darkness, she recognized me only after she was within about 5m distance and greeted with a big smile -- at which point, with a look of frustration and disappointment on her face, she let out an "Ahh Sh...!" I thought this little incident was wildly amusing, not least because I had been wondering if she was for real or not, if there I had declined to help someone in need or if she was a failed con artist. If only I had a picture of that face!

- - - - -

Epilogue: About meeting random strangers.

There's something very different about traveling alone: You take in more of your surroundings and it becomes more of a sensory experience simply because, for better or for worse, you need only to entertain yourself. Somehow, it also makes it a hundred times easier for me to get into a conversation with a perfect stranger -- if he or she is of any interest, or is at least friendly. Among the people I had the chance to get acquainted with were Remy, the Portuguese-French, soon-to-be fighter pilot; Jorge from Venezuela who insisted that Chavez is loco, and who worked for a year to save up money for his first-time trip to Europe; Holly, the hippie vegan from New York; Florin, the Romanian truck driver who was returning home, scared after being attacked and robbed of his possessions, including the truck he was driving, by another Romanian.. but who was excited to be in an airport for his first time, and to tell a stranger all about his country and people.

For the flight from London to Brussels, one had to check in using one of those machines, and so I reluctantly did and while at it, chose the seat 22C. They're my number and letter, and it proved to be the best seat on the plane. What I found when I got to it was a black little bag. In it were £185 and $145, a considerable amount (especially in Africa, I kept thinking). I knew not what to do with it, but reckoned that without a name on it, it was near-impossible to return it to the owner who must have long left. And anyone I would hand it to would just keep it for him- or herself. The clean-up team probably hadn't noticed it; Mr. 22A had, but left it untouched. I decided to split it with this Mr. 22A, a Bangkok-based, self-employed Belgian who thought I was being generous, when really it was just so I needn't feel weird about the whole thing. In Brussels, I would, among other things, pay more attention to street performers and musicians; spend €30 on a pay-as-you-wish ashtray, made by a homeless person using scissors to work the bottom of lemonade cans; and in an act of cultural exchange, buy Jorge his first Guinness and Belgian beer. Altogether Brussels was a quite a success, it appeared.

Then I missed my flight to Cameroon the next morning -- and to punish myself for such retardedness, I stayed and waited in the airport until the next flight (45 hours later).