Welcome to Nairobi.... rarrr!

It was a successful afternoon here in Nairobi, Kenya:  I got dressed, ate lunch, and got a marriage proposal from a taxi driver.  Believe me, these are wins. Lofty wins at that. You see, it's been a bit of a rough week so far for me in good old Nairobi, some might say a bit hellish in fact.  Let me recap my week for you.

SATURDAY morning:

• Previously scheduled 4:45am airport taxi doesn't show.  Luckily 5am isn't a busy time for them.
• At the airport, I proceed to the Lufthansa counter which is completely empty except for a sign directing me to the Continental desk.  
• At the Continental desk, I wait in line for 45 mins.  When I finally reach the counter, the agent prints out my baggage tags and says "NBO? Where is that?"  Nairobi... as in Kenya.  "Oh, well these tags look different than ours.  We're merging with United; things are still getting worked out.  I'll check your bags in through to Nairobi, but you have to go all the way down to the United counter to get your boarding pass."  Are you kidding me?   
• Another 45-minute line later, I am standing in front of a very grumpy United ticket agent who looks at me and says (no joke), "What do you want? Do you need something?" Yeah I need something. I need for United/Continental/Lufthansa to get their shit together, I need to get to my gate, I need about 6 more hours of sleep, and I need you to be nice to me, bitch. She proceeds to scold me and 2 other passengers on how we should know to get to the airport extra early on holiday weekends.  I politely inform her I've been her since just after 5am. 
• I get to the gate just in time to see my travel companion and colleague, Mark, looking oh-so-calm, cool, and collected. Made it! Whew, it all worked out. I'm sure everything will go smoothly from here....

SUNDAY evening:

• After 24 hours of travel time (about 16 of which I was in a drug-induced coma - thank you, Benadryl), we arrive in Nairobi.  An easy pass through immigration and I am waiting patiently for my bag at baggage claim.  One by one, our travel companions collect their bags and one by one I am left there without my bag.  Damn it.  Really?   
• So I make a little visit to the baggage counter.  When I give them my claim number issued to me by United just 24 hours earlier, they look at me and say something about San Francisco on August 5th.  Uh, what? It seems my baggage number was previously assigned to a passenger who lost his/her bags in San Francisco a month ago and they have no record of my bag.  Great. 
• They give me a phone number to call the next day at this time to see if my bag arrives on the next flight.
• On my taxi ride from the airport to the hotel, my driver informs me of two things: 1) God is great.  And, with Him, my life will be great.  2) His (that is, the taxi driver's, not God's) wife tells him he is like a lion.  Why? Because after he eats, all he wants is one thing... sex.  Uhh, raaarrrr. 

MONDAY:

• I spend 2 hours talking to numerous people from United Airlines and Swiss Air (they operated the flight from Zurich to Nairobi), to learn that the bag never got on the flight in Seattle.  Shocking.  
• United issues me a new bag number and says they put it on the next flight and that it got to Zurich.  They expect it in Nairobi in the evening but I need to check with Swiss Air (they too are partners but they can't see each others baggage claim files).  
• Swiss Air then tells me they have no record of my bag, ever, but that they will start looking for it and suggest I be in touch with the airport baggage desk; they can't help until the bag has been missing for more than 5 days.  Perfect, I'll be on my way home then. 
• Not having too much faith in my baggage investigative team, Mark and I head out to go shopping for some necessities in the event that the bag doesn't show up that night. Apparently, Woolworth's is the Nordstrom of Africa. My bill for 2 meeting-appropriate outfits: $230.  Hello!  I'm a Target-OldNavy-Ross girl! I don't spend that kinda money on clothes.... damn it.
• In the evening, I call the number the baggage desk gave me only to receive a "This number has been switched off."    
• Suddenly I'm not feeling so good.  Not good at all.  Fever and chills, horrible stomach pain.  Nooooo!  Who knows if it was food or water related, or something I contracted on the plane, but I am sick.  Really sick.  
• The only energy I have is expended over the next 24 hours on moving from my bed to the bathroom to violently throw up every hour.  Somebody kill me please.

TUESDAY:

• Violent retching continues.
• Attempt to call the baggage desk again, same message. Aaaaahhhhh!
• Finally, in the evening, I make it downstairs to meet up with Mark to hear how the meetings I was supposed to be in went. Mark has now met Travel Sara and Sick Sara.  He is surely gaining appreciation for Work Sara. The hour long "outing" to the hotel lobby bar takes everything out of me, and I pass out immediately upon returning to my sickroom. 

WEDNESDAY morning:

• 6am: Ear screeching alarm goes off informing us that there is an emergency evacuation of the hotel. Okay, am I in a movie or something?
• Something feels funny on my face, specifically on my eye, and it kinda hurts. What's that? A mosquito bit me on the eyelid? Of course it did.
• I decide to make a trip to the airport to see for myself if my baggage arrived.  When the taxi driver pulls up to take the parking ticket at the entrance, the machine suddenly goes 'out-of-order' forcing us to make the line of cars behind us back up one by one and all transfer to the other line. He seems dumbfounded; I don't.  This is my life right now.   
• The baggage desk attendant informs me that there is "no information in your file, ma'am" meaning that my bag has not arrived in Nairobi, nor do they have any record of it in Zurich.  She doesn't know what to tell me, other than to just go back to my hotel and call tonight at 7:00. Uh-huh.

So, see... getting dressed, eating lunch, and being proposed to really are wins in this week for me. And directly after that, I made it to 2 meetings.  Progress!  Maybe it's a sign that my remaining 2 days in Nairobi are looking up. Excuse me while I go try that baggage desk again....

Chally Watson 1927 - 2011

Eight years ago, when Grandpa and Grandma came to watch me celebrate my biggest accomplishment then to date – that was, graduate from college – I was overwhelmed with gratitude. For their support over the years, their constant interest in what I was studying, the sweet notes and occasional box of zucchini-chocolate chip cookies that would unexpectedly arrive at my dorm-room doorstep, and not the least of all for simply making the 600-mile trip up to Bellingham to witness something I had worked so hard for.  

After taking the necessary photographs, I asked a favor of Grandpa.  I asked him if I could photograph his hands.  He looked at me with that twinkle in his bright blue eyes and chuckled.  “Why would you want a picture of these beat up old things?” he asked, holding out his hands, turning them over a few times.  I told him because of all the hands I had ever seen, his were my favorite.  They were the most recognizable, the ones with the most character, and most of all – they were (and continue to be) the most comforting.  Chuckling again, he succumbed to his granddaughter’s crazy request.  If she wanted a picture of his hands – whether he understood it or not – she could have it.  And so I led him to my rickety kitchen table, set him in the light just so, loaded my camera with the highest quality black and white film that I could afford on my dwindling student loan budget, and snapped 3 shots.  It was a quick act; one that some could easily forget, but one that would go on to be a moment in time that I think about on a regular basis.  

You see those hands that I photographed that day, are not just any ordinary hands.  They are the hands that we all – his brothers, his sisters, his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his friends – all recognize. 

They are big and strong; they are warm and soft; they are helpful and handy.  

They are the hands that built the foundation of a well-respected and healthy family.  

The hands that volunteered time, care, and enthusiasm in this community, serving on the city council, leading a search and rescue, gathering the posse, and even flipping pancakes at the annual Easter egg hunt.  

They are the hands that held his beautiful young wife’s hands as they started a long and admirable life together; the hands that would envelop hers as they watched their sons grow into men and later watch their grandchildren and then great-grandchildren come into this world.  

They are the hands that we as small children ran hurriedly and excitedly to and the hands that scooped us up into the big bear hug that always awaited us.  

They are the hands that snapped pictures of everything, everyone, all the time no matter the occasion, many times for no occasion.  

They are the hands that clapped and cheered on his sons and later grandsons at ballgames.  Those hands took his granddaughters fishing, put that gross worm on that hook, helped us reel in the really big fish, and helped us hold up our catch while we squealed in excitement. 

They are the hands that shook the hands of others, loved ones and strangers alike.   

And, they are the hands that held his granddaughter and grandsons in their darkest hour as they mourned the untimely and tragic passing of their father, the passing of his oldest son.  

Those are the hands that held mine last month, and gave me strength to write these words and stand up here today to honor and celebrate my grandfather’s memory.  

And, finally, those are the hands that even in the last days still squeezed ours to let us know that he was still there, still loving us, still our brother, our husband, our father, our grandfather, our great-grandfather, and most of all our friend. 

Challen John Watson 

1927 - 2011